Candy Apple Green

What To Do With The Dawn?

2008-01-16T21:18:00.000-05:00

Between the ages of 9 and 14 I attended girl scout camp every summer. The camp was large and was comprised of three groups. The general camp had over 100 girls each session and did a little of everything - arts & crafts, games, singing, canoeing, and swimming instruction. The canoeing camp had at least 30 girls, required intermediate swimming skills, and was very popular. They were the cool girls, and the general campers worked diligently all summer to improve their swimming skills so they could join their ranks the following year. Finally, there was the sailing camp - a hardcore bunch of piss and vinegar sisters who swam like fish and cussed like sailors. Never more than 13 campers at a time (partly because not many girls could pass the water qualifications and partly because the chicks were just a little intimidating), and what they lacked in grace was more than made up for in a shiny brass pair of adolescent ovaries. This was my camp. Each summer I attended, among the ranks were me, two girls who called themselves Bartles & Jaymes, a junior naturalist who shared her bed each night with a 6 foot rat snake, and a chick - formerly named Sunshine - who had her name legally changed to Cloudy after losing a leg to gangrene.

My long-held fear of snakes was put to the test each morning before dawn. We would slip out of our bunks, pull on our suits, and make our way to the docks off which our sailboats were anchored about 40 yards from shore. On the way to the lake we'd pass a tree housing a family of venomous copperheads, only to head into a dark cold lake infested with water moccasins. My first summer of camp I was terrified every day. Most nights I would barely sleep, just thinking about awaking to face the agony all over again. The snakes were concentrated under the dock that extended toward our bobbing boats, and they would swim slowly and freely around you as you made your way out. Rarely, if ever, did I feel the actual skin of one touch me - only the ribbony whip of the water as the circled my legs or waist. Even without these daily encounters, the mere knowledge of their presence was enough! By my second summer I took notes from the older girls and got smarter. The frightful journey from closed tent to open sails was inevitable, so I learned to barely wake myself from sleep - making my bed virtually blind, wrap my arms tightly around my chest, shielding myself from the morning chill as I left the campsite. I spoke to no one and made no stops as I headed quickly toward the water, and gently slipped in. I went from cold dark ground to cold dark water, and on into my boat paying little head to the dangers that lurked all around.

The collective goal was to be in our small Sunfish sailboats and at least a mile up the lake by dawn. As ridiculous as it sounds, I became so attached to my morning entry routine that by the time I hoisted my sail and set out, a subtle sense of uneasiness engulfed me. The most frightening part of my day was behind me, but I couldn't help but wonder what to do with the dawn.

Most sunrises came slow and smooth, and drenched our faces with warm sunlight. Our silence would break and we'd make jokes as we yelled at each other from boat to boat - determining our objective for the day, or teasing one another about skinny dipping the night before. (Who's gonna have big boobs? Stay flat chested? Who needs to start waxing their legs?) We'd sail up the lake and capsize our boats so we could lay across the exposed bottoms and catch some rays - the rudder jutting straight toward the sky as we lay on either side. Then we'd reach up and grab the rudder, pulling down and stepping on it to right our boats - careful to lower our heads as the boom swung across. (My tent-mate was not so careful on more than one occasion!) We'd eat lunch out of containers we brought, dock at interesting looking spots to explore the area, and always planned the occasional "run-in" with a canoe group from the boyscout camp. (Our favorite trick was to take out the catamaran and lay bare chested on the mesh netting while the boys swam underneath. We felt deliciously trampy and scandalous!) No matter what the agenda, each day was wonderful. And I still consider it to be one of the most liberating times in my life. So its odd that I remember so clearly that catch in my chest each morning as the sun prepared to breach the horizon - that fear of an unknown future, no matter how beautiful it was destined to be.

With less than 3 months until the end of classes and the end of my time in law school, I feel much the same as I did most mornings on the lake. For 3 years, I have been in that dark cold water - eyes closed tight, motions focused, swimming strong against creatures sly and eager, spinning figure-eights in my wake. I know this fear, along with my methods for keeping it at bay. Looking ahead, I do believe that joy, and peace, and success are destined for me, but whereas my fear and I are old bedfellows, that light is yet to be my own. So instead of celebrating the end of a long and arduous journey, I sit with my face toward the horizon, my eyes frantically scanning for those last shadows of night. I praise God for another safe passage through darkness, yet still feel my heart catch as I wonder, "What to do with the dawn?"

Why Is She So Angry?

2008-01-02T09:49:00.000-05:00

But then or now, decent underwear or none, wild women could never hide their innocence - a kind of pitty-kitty hopefulness that their prince was on the way. Especially the tough ones with their box cutters and dirty language, or the glossy ones with two-seated cars and a pocketbook full of dope. Even the ones who wear scars like presidential medals and stockings rolled at their ankles can't hide the sugar-child, the winsome baby girl curled up somewhere inside, between the ribs, say, or under the heart. Naturally all of them have a sad story: too much notice, not enough, or the worst kind. Some tale about dragon daddies and false-hearted men, or mean mamas and friends who did them wrong. Each story has a monster in it who made them tough instead of brave, so they open their legs instead of their hearts where that folded child is tucked.

- Toni Morrison, Love

A Subway Scene

2007-12-18T16:00:00.000-05:00

My husband and I were in New York City again recently, and the motion and the madness of the city was reminiscent of a previous trip there. We had been down in the subway station at Canal Street waiting for a train to Lincoln Center, and a young man played the bucket drums while his friend danced for dollars in front of him. They are there everyday from sunup to sundown - drumming, dancing, and fighting to survive.

It reminded me of my marriage. My husband and I had just had a long discussion about the difficulty and demands of marriage, and what a struggle it is to set boundaries and be strong in the face of the world's threats and distractions. He said it's like a battle. He said we stand back-to-back on the battlefield, holding each other up with swords drawn, fighting for the right to be beholden to one another. For the freedom to love and be loved in return. They battled, in the subway that day, as we battle for our marriage everyday. And in that we are the same. The steady pace of that bucket drum rang out like a call to war. The sweat on the brow of the dancer was evidence of his commitment to the front line. It was warrior music. In my marriage, I am that dancer, and my husband beats the drum.

He slaps his wide palms against the belly of the bucket, forcing it to ring out a cry that summons the attention of passers by. His beating is slow at first, but steady. His eyes closed, his head back, becoming lost in the work. His face bears either a slight grin or a deep strain - it's not clear. But his intention is unmistakable. He will drum to save his life. He will drum to save my life. He will drum to usher in the hope and health of our future children, as I dance.

He dips low into a frightening and hurried rhythm that sends chills up your spine. Then slows his pace to a sound that awakens the truth that breaks your heart. His heart breaks too, but he drums on. Despite heartache, despite disappointment, racism, betrayal, and waning faith, he drums on. He is not above this pain, so he will move through - FIGHT THROUGH - because he longs for happiness. And he longs to see me free.

I don't want to be free. I cling to his rhythm. Jonathan Livingston Seagull can have his flight alone. I'll stay here on earth - my feet a slave to the percussion of my husband's warrior song. My dance is a charge - a forge - a storming of the battlefield, my bayonet just and swift. We fight back to back. We fight for our marriage, our freedom, our portion of happiness, our peace.

I dance. Kick-ball-chains and arabesques. Pop-lockin' and headspinnin' on a flattened cardboard box while trains full of passengers fly by, oblivious to our fight to stay alive. I shake my hips to his African rhythm, swinging my arms backward and forward, round and round - hands to my chest then flailed back behind me. My best rendition of the steps of my ancestors. I spin out in a Donna Summers disco move, then break into the wop. I tap dance out our worries and misgivings. He drums in God's grace and countenance.

He drums because he must. I dance because I must. He drums and I dance. I dance and he drums. Can you hear him? Can you see me? We're here everyday from sunup to sundown, fighting for the freedom to love and be loved in return.

Bellissima, Amen!

2007-11-08T14:43:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm back from Italy and what can I say? There was wine, pasta, monuments, more wine, church folk, drama, more wine, bed bugs, poor ventilation, more wine, sleeper cars, countryside, more wine, ostentatious locals, public groping, more wine, awesome conversation, inspiring messages, blessed company, and more wine. If nothing else, it was definitely an EXPERIENCE! And I thank everyone who helped to make it possible. For now, I'll stick to the most impressive aspect...

I made a new friend. Have you ever met someone and immediately knew they'd be in your life forever? That was the case with a young man I met in Rome. He was not an Italian. In fact he was good ole American Black folk from north Florida, and I can't imagine the trip without him. We talked, we laughed, and praised the Lord together. And I will admit that it had been a long time since I'd had so much fun doing so.

I've come a long way in my life. Having been reared in a Christian tradition that emphasized God's grace above all else, I was always torn between that tradition and the teachings of my grandparents' church. They were full-out fundamentalist evangelicals who preached fire and brimstone for anyone who refused to convert to their take on the Christian story. Being the sadly anal and perfectionistic child that I was, I believed that there must be a way to embrace my own God and still satisfy this fire-breathing deity that always loomed at the corners of my consciousness. I would often go down the checklist of do's and don'ts that were the guideposts of my grandparents' religion and make sure I was relatively in line - coming up with a composite score that would quantify the subsequent guilt that would ensue. Feeling sufficiently guilty, I would turn to my own God for forgiveness, absolution, and comfort - begging Him to reason with the frightening one on my behalf. I imagined the conversation going something like this: My God > "Please leave my daughter alone. She struggles to do right, but she really is a sweetheart. Plus, I love her. And if you really want this to get ugly, we can go right here! Don't nobody mess with my baby!!!" Fire-breathing deity > "Fine. But I've got my eye on her!"

It has taken me years to reconcile these ideas, and to embrace the truth of my loving God. My first awakening came around the age of 12 when I finally heard the message of God's love as if I was experiencing it for the first time. Like coming out of a fog, I realized God loves me. ME! Nerdy, chubby, jheri curl wearing, anal-retentive ME! All of me! I'm his baby, pure and simple. And when he calls me, he calls all of me - not just the cute parts or the smart parts - to step forth! Child, I took the weight of the watchful eye of that fire-breathing foolishness off me like a fur coat in July! (Would have set it on fire if I wasn't afraid my jheri curl would catch and send me to Jesus earlier than I wanted!) I still have my guilt-ridden days. But there's a difference between being accountable to God for the choices you make in life, and walking around with a death veil over your head. Either way you're held accountable. But one way, you're living in gratitude. The other way, you're counting down the days.

I say all this to say that the friendship I made in Rome would have been difficult for me to embrace in years past. I would have mistaken my friend's rootedness in a more conservative church tradition for an embracement of painful and frightening religiosity. But not anymore! We sang, "Glory, glory, hallelujah, since I laid my burdens down." We sang "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," and "A Charge to Keep." We prayed prayers of thanksgiving for coming from very different places, but for arriving in the same spot. We sang to the same God. We prayed to the same God. And we received the same joy. Odd that it took a trip to Italy to help me visualize the peace I've made with my Black American Christian experience. But, odd or not, I'm grateful - to God, and to my new friend.

What you say, brother? "Meet me Lord, meet me. Meet me in the middle of the air. And if these wings should fail me, send me another pair." LOL!!! Amen to that! You got to meet me somewhere in the middle!

Will and Grace

2007-10-18T15:48:00.000-04:00

As part of my current efforts to be my healthiest self, I've gone to swimming laps in the morning. I get up at 6AM each morning and ride with my husband to the YMCA so I can get my swim on. Because I used to be a competitive swimmer this new venture may seem easy, but it's actually quite the opposite. It has been a LONG time since I was in competition shape. At least 12 years to be exact. So something that once came so easily is now nothing short of a pride swallowing siege.

When I was a kid and swimming competitively for several local teams, my father (who, himself was a former competitive swimmer) almost never came to my swim meets. Back then, I thought it was because he was not interested. Looking back, I realize that swim meets were some of the few occasions that my father had time at home by himself. I missed him at the meets because I was so proud of my athleticism. I swam hard, deliberately, and had no love for my competition. One summer, for unknown reasons, my father showed up at an outdoor meet. Because of his presence, I was even more amped than usual. I swam my event like a crazy person, and yanked myself out of the pool both anxious to receive my first place announcement, and even more anxious to join my father in celebration. To my dismay, I looked in the stands and saw that his response was full-on, red-faced, tear-jerking laughter. He laughed so hard he had to lean over! I knew my father loved me too much to mock my joy, so I was confused about his reaction. As I approached, he put his hand on my shoulder and caught his breath while exclaiming, "Good gracious! You have a real spider stroke on you girl! Your arms stay bent through each stroke. You barely get your arms out of the water before you're diving back in for another pull. No slice, no glide, just sheer and strong crawling!" I was both relieved and perplexed. He was right, and I knew it. I was fast - no doubt, but not because I worked on technique. I just swam like a tiger shark was on me! In fact, it was not uncommon for me to swim the length of a 25 meter pool without taking a breath. After that day I was inspired to work on my technique. If I could swim that fast without it, imagine my times with a strong even glide! I worked on it, but I stopped competing before I ever got my times to match my new technique.

This current campaign is not the first time I've attempted to use swimming as a means of getting back into shape. However, every time the same challenge has remained. My husband's skill and strength shames me. He does not have the lengthy competitive history I do, and he's been out of practice just as long as me, but I can't catch him. In my glory days I would have given him a run for his money, but no more. His stroke is strong, steady, and focused. He swims they way he drives, the way he hunts, the way he thinks, the way he makes love. Where my eyes are at the end of the pool, his are on each stroke. If my style demonstrates raw will and determination, his represents pure grace. So, my past attempts to swim with him have been short lived - ending in frustration over my efforts because of damage to my pride.

It's been 8 mornings now that we've woken up and headed out. The first few days were rough. I was physically weak and angry. We argued about nothing, and I cried in the pool. But we came back the next day. We started swimming 250 meters, and we're already up to 450. My goal is 1000 meters each morning. I gave myself a year to reach it, but if I continue the way I am, it will come much sooner. There's no pressure, but I'm excited. Keep me in your prayers, if you will. Every time you see a pool, think of me. I'm there every morning, 6AM, swimming slightly behind the graceful one, but swimming steady. And getting stronger every day.

Life Saver

2007-10-02T19:55:00.000-04:00

My whole family swims. My dad and his brothers were competitive swimmers. To this day, people in eastern North Carolina refer to them as the Davis Water Dogs! My mother was a life guard, and my husband and I got to know each other when we were both on our high school swim team. I don't think there was a time in my life when I didn't move as well through water as I do on land. From the time I was a little girl, my parents and I would visit the coast of North Carolina. We'd get in the water and begin swimming out into the depths. Past the breakers, past the sand bar, looking back at the end of the fishing piers and people like little dots on the beach. Once we were beyond the realm of shrieking children trying to outrun the arrival of high tide and patient surfers straddling their boards, we'd just float. We'd bob up and down - riding small waves and diving into larger ones. We'd laugh and take each other in - speaking very little, but smiling a lot. Just happy to be in a place where everything that mattered was at arm's reach, and our only encumbrances were sea and sun.

One evening, when I was about 13, we stayed out later than usual - braving the deep waters off Kure Beach and watching the sunset. My mom cautioned that it was getting late and suggested we head back. She lead the way, harnessing her powerful sidestroke. My father and I followed behind, pulling against the strong current with frantic freestyles. After about 10 minutes my mom hit the shore, tired and relieved. She looked back to find that my father and I had made little progress. We'd swum out further than usual, headed back later than my mother, and it was now dark. My mom stood on the shore yelling out instructions as fervently as she could. "Swim faster! Harder! Go with the current, not against it! Try to ride out the next wave!" It was useless. The tide was coming in strong, and bringing a storm with it. You could not ride out one wave without being swept up by the next, and with the sun down you could barely see them coming. 30 minutes later my dad caught a break. The current pulled him into a wave that pulled him under, then buoyed him up within reach of the shore. I, on the other hand, began being swept down the beach faster than he could keep up with from the water, so he was forced to join my mother on the beach running along to keep me in sight. After over 45 minutes of fighting and failing, my arms felt like jelly. They just sort of buzzed numbly, and I could not even reach them above my head to stroke. I was exhausted. And now the waves were so deep that when they slammed me toward the floor of the ocean I felt no sand. I just tumbled violently - not knowing which way was up, and having to calm myself so that I would float upward rather than scrambling in the wrong direction. After swallowing a dangerous amount of water on the last dunk, I realized I may not make it back in. My dad yelled for me to keep my head up. He screamed, and my mom cried. They'd called the coast guard, but we later learned there were several drownings and near-drownings that night. I whispered to whomever might hear, "I'm done." My dad screamed, "No!" as if he could hear me. I felt neither sad nor afraid. I felt peace. Once I stopped struggling, the pain in my arms and legs quieted and my heartbeat slowed. I could hear it beating loud, slow, and reassuringly in my head. I was grateful to my parents for loving me and challenging me. I was grateful to God for my life. I was OK.

The last wave to hit me was the largest yet. I was pulled up into an awesome swell and felt myself travel for what seemed liked a whole minute before it dove hastily toward the ocean bottom. I went down fast and hard. I felt my arms and legs spread akimbo - my fingers splayed wide. When my outstretched hands were thrust into the sand, it felt as if I'd dived into a pool of living rocks. I felt no water - only hard, sharp, moving sea. And then mind numbing pain! Pain so intense that it felt heat! Like I'd been awakened from a sweet dream with scalding water. I opened my mouth to scream and threw my arms straight up above me. First I saw light. Then I felt wind, and I looked down to see myself quickly approaching a dock a few feet below me. I landed hard - so hard I pulled splinters out of my knees and palms for days after. Dizzy and confused, I looked around and over the dock into the water below. A light on the dock illuminated the water around it where hundreds of crab laid piled in moving bunches. Somehow the current led me down toward the shore, toward a small fishing dock, and slammed my hand into the waiting claw of an angry crab. It sounds unbelievable, but it's true - I promise. God is good - and funny - right?

I don't swim at night anymore. But I still swim out past the breakers. That day did not bind me. It set me free. I don't look forward to loss in this life, but I know one thing. When it comes - and loss is bound to come - I'll live to know joy another day...in this world or the next.

Health Nut

2007-08-28T23:01:00.000-04:00

Well, my good friend and fellow blogger, Naadii, has been dedicating much of her blog to her fitness goals and regime. At first the message didn't sink in, but lately I've found the struggle inspiring.

I'm not much on weight loss. Don't get me wrong - I could stand to lose an Olsen twin or two. But I've never been inspired by weight loss as a goal. As an overweight child, I suffered constant criticism and disdain from family members about my weight. It was all cloaked in the guise of love and wellness, but in the end, my being a more presentable looking child warranted any degree of insult. This began years before I was blessed with an independent awareness of my own wealth and beauty, so I took what I heard as truth. I was ugly, embarrassing, and disappointing. This was further aggravated by the fact that I was a highly athletic kid, and I cared a lot about what people thought of me. I couldn't put the pieces together. It all seemed impossible and unfair.

My greatest hurdle in getting in shape has been wanting to avoid the satisfaction it will bring to the ones who hurt me. So sad right? They still have so much control. But, it's changing - slowly. I desperately want to be the healthiest person I can be. I've always been kind of a health nut when it comes to putting good stuff in my body and staying active, but I've almost avoided the weight loss aspect out of fear, shame, and hanging on to old s***. Well, I still plan to avoid it! Losing weight will be great, but I've decided that if I never step foot on another scale outside of a doctor's office that will be fine with me!

I want tight skin, a strong center, great muscle tone, and endurance. I want to be able to tumble again! Back bends, walkovers, standing back handsprings - all that stuff I used to do as a kid, while sucking a lolly pop and believing I'd have those moves forever. Along with Naadii and the rest of my girls, I'm ready to struggle to live my best life. Today I went on a serious walk for the first time in a long time. I took the dog, and we both drug our fat a**es home like we'd run a marathon. It was good though - mainly because I didn't want to do it, for all sorts of convincing reasons, but I got out there anyway.

It will be difficult, but I'm glad of that. I seem to not be able to do anything the easy way. And I'm sure the weight loss will come, as will the comments about how much better I look, and how they're glad I finally got it together. And it will hurt, but I won't let it deter me. The fight would be too easy without it, and easy has never been my game!

Bug Juice

2007-08-15T23:45:00.000-04:00

When I was 9, my parents gave my sister a Kool-Aid stand. The point was to put it together, set it up on the street, and sell Kool-Aid. Well, my sister never did that (not for business anyway). But I decided that this was an opportunity for me to become the true financial impresario I was meant to be. There was one problem: not enough sugar. The day I opened my stand I had a choice to make. I had 4 packs of Kool-Aid and 3 cups of sugar. If I did it the right way, I'd choose two flavors (grape and red - the people's favorite, right?), and I'd proceed with the beginning of an empire. Somehow I got lost in flights of flavorful fancy. What if I had more?! I could use half the sugar and have four flavors! It was set. I'd sacrifice sweetness for selection, and invite the public into my flavorful utopia. I set up the stand. I brought out my pitchers, and opened my cash box.

10 cents for a small!

25 cents for a medium!

50 cents for a large!

I was ready. "Come one, come all. Experience the best refreshment in town!" 10 minutes went by. 15. 1 hour went by. 2. Finally, after 3 hours in 90+ degree conditions, I got a customer! A simple and honest working man, with no air condition in his pickup truck stopped at MY kool-aid stand for a drink! His truck was bright orange, with an anonymous bug on top. It was the Terminex man - our local rid-a-bug hero in the hood. He was a great public servant, and with high waters, mullet, and all, he'd chosen ME - yes ME - to provide the libations for quenching his thirst. I asked him, "What would you like? I have a good selection!" He said, "I'll take a large tropical punch please." Without hesitation, I filled his glass. I was short on sugar, but I was big on flavor baby! And I couldn't wait to take my first customer on the taste sensation ride of his life!

He took one gulp, looked at me like I had poisoned the fountain of youth, and spit the contents of his mouth out on the ground. He dumped the entire large cup onto the grass, and screwed his face up like a toddler on a pickle. He took a $5 bill out of his pocket, threw it on the counter of my Kool-Aid stand, and told me to shut it down!

I shut it down, and cried my eyes out. I knew where my weakness lied. It was the sugar! It was the damned sugar!!!!!! Why'd I have to go with four flavors?! Why not two?! Grape and Red are ALWAYS crowd pleasers!!!

This was one of my most important life lessons. When you've made a poor choice in judgment, don't be salty. Suck it up, and take responsibility. I mean, it wasn't the bug man's fault the kool-aid was bad. Learn from your mistakes. Own your own misjudgment, and move forward with accountability.

Today, my Dad told me to call someone to inspect his house for termites. I thought about it for a minute. "No problem Dad! I got this! But I'll be damned if I'm going to call Terminex!" Those mother f*****s owe me a dream, dammit! They owe me a dream!!!

Keeping the Faith

2007-08-11T08:49:00.000-04:00

My father went to church last week and listened as the pastor preached a sermon about prayer - and more specifically - how we respond when our prayers seem to go unanswered. It reminded me of another sermon I heard once in which the minister spoke of Christ being hidden in our suffering. His words frightened me at first. I'd encountered the concept of a "hidden Christ" in the classroom, from a theological perspective, but to sit in the pews and have to ask, "Why the hell is Christ hiding at my most desperate hour?!!" left me angry and grappling. I almost dared the minister to come up with some happy revelation, like the end of the "Footprints" story that hangs from the walls of rest homes and dorm rooms. The preacher said that it is when we are most lost and vulnerable that we encounter Christ in the midst of our suffering - nothing magical or mysterious - only blessed, painful, humbling, and true. The message was so adverse to the ministry of prosperity that has padded the pockets of the new age Christian movement. It was a sermon that didn't make money. (And, apparently, all sermons should make money.) His message was that alone in our suffering, we come face to face with ourselves and our God. Muslims are cast prostrate facing Mecca, Jews mutter sage morsels of the Talmud, Hindus chant a lullaby of Oms, and Christians drop their baggage at the foot of an empty cross. We all, in our suffering, are united in taking heed to the voice of the painful and joyful paradox that beckons, "Even in your greatest suffering, you are never alone, because you are not your own."

Humorist David Sedaris once wrote about his grandmother (YaYa) moving in with his family in Raleigh, North Carolina when he was a child. She embarrassed the s*** out of them at the Greek Orthodox Church when she crawled on her hands and knees, up the center aisle of the sanctuary, wailing and eventually clinging to the pastors feet. I laughed so hard I cried! The image was comic and ridiculous. This little old Greek lady, dressed in black, displaced from her home and all she knew, causing a scene in a public place. As I thought more about it, I laughed less. YaYa did not know the pastor or the congregation, but she knew there was something there. Beyond the pews and the incense, the pastor's robes, the vaulted ceilings, and the pious churchgoers looking on in embarrassment. It was something that no contribution to a collection plate could alter or erase.

No one really cares what they look like when the answers to fervent prayers lie in waiting. No one cares whose ashamed when sadness or loss leaves us grasping for hope. In her suffering, she crawled up that aisle toward a painful, humbling, and blessed truth. She is not alone, because she is not her own. I guess, there is no comedy or tragedy in that.

Bona Fide Psycho

2007-07-30T19:51:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-25T18:40:00.000-04:00

"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

2007-07-21T10:35:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-18T09:47:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-13T18:19:00.000-04:00

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!!!

2007-07-09T22:33:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-07-05T21:30:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-03T12:07:00.000-04:00

Okay. Is anybody out there? Hahaha!!!