The Year That Was (originally from my wordpress site thejournalcollector; published Jan 26, 2015)

It has been awhile since my last post.  I can at least say I have a semi-valid excuse: I had twins.  I gave birth to two lovely babies;a boy and a girl.  Babies that came almost 5 weeks early but still managed to weigh over 6 pounds a piece and totaled 40 inches of baby removed.  These twins were the reason for 3 weeks of bed rest, almost a week in the hospital, and my loathing of a return to office work.  However, my year ended with a layoff and a renewed passion for music.  Job searches, writing songs, and prayers that all would go well meant my blog found its way to the bottom of my priorities and my feeling that I once had something important to share dissipated almost as quickly as they appeared.

Then 2015 happened.  It seemed almost instantaneous.  I was thrown from feeling like when would the year end to wondering where the year went.  2014 definitely did not go according to my plans.  My belief in God leads me to conclude that God was trying to teach me a lesson in humility, patience, and getting uncomfortable.   After all, I had grown quite complacent in how my life was going and where it was heading.  Though I constantly said I dreamed of something more, I had stopped pursuing it. I was pretty good where I was, but that was good enough. 

So here we are. I chose to make goals for this year instead of resolutions.  Resolutions almost start with the motivation to be broken, but goals;  no one ever says with joy they did not meet their goals. My goals can be summed up into three areas:  loving my family more, living in my faith daily,  and loving who God created me to be.  It's not going to be easy or simple.  Writing is integral in my goals - with both my blog and songs - and I never considered myself stellar at either.  Then there is my self image involving weight loss, purposeful living, and loving who I am.   I haven't liked my reflection or abilities since I was seven!  And even with the time constraints of the days, I still want to be able to have individual time with all the people I love; namely my daughter and husband.  If I had a time machine or didn't need to sleep, that would be the easiest task in the world.  But I am not a rocket scientist, magician, or God, so I have to make all this happen in 119 hours I'm awake during the week.

To all that I say, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.  This is a year of moving forward to become all that I'm supposed to be.  I have lived the dream of others for far too long,  and I don't need another layoff to make me regret any more than I already do.  I welcome all supporters on this journey, and if you would allow me just one more look back...

Together Alone (originally from my wordpress site thejournalcollector; published Jul 27, 2014)

The older I get, the more I see the reality that we are communal people.  More gets accomplished in a thriving community.  Children seem easier to raise – to an extent.  Work seems easier to manage with that sense of team and community.  Change is easier to adapt to, no matter how complex.  The impossible is possible with a supportive community.  That is why I look back with a sense of sadness on my childhood; as much as I heard, “It takes a village,” from my parents, we spent a great deal of energy separating ourselves from the very village we swore was essential.  

It is a reality that is making itself more and more apparent as I sit in bed rest, waiting for my twins to be born.  My immediate family is eager to be the first ones called and asked to be there for the birth and events surrounding it, but when I inform them there are others here helping me out, I am met with a cold wall of jealousy, anger, and feelings of betrayal. When I make it clear I want them there first, I am met with ambivalence and a sense that this life event I have very little control over is the biggest inconvenience to their daily lives. It is hard to feel secure that your initial “village” will be there for you when they won’t even give a definitive yes to showing up.

this has made me realize there is a core function to a thriving community – trust.  The knowledge that those in the community will be there for one another.  That when it is important, the village will show up.  Sometimes, the mere presence of others makes all the difference in the world.   The greatest gift of community is not the food made, the hands given, the money donated, or the advice conjured.  It is just showing up.  Being present and accounted for.  Because that gift alone makes one person feel more than just part of community – they are now the center of the world.  And that makes everything possible.

Just a Closer Walk With Thee (originally from my wordpress site thejournalcollector; published Jun 02, 2014)

Immediately, there was food.  And singing.  And friends and family to send a group of “pilgrims,” as we were called, on our way.  Our way to what?  I had some inkling of the type of weekend my Memorial Day weekend would be.  It would not be filled with barbeques and American flags, loud music and beer, hundreds of people clamoring for a sight of the “Rolling Thunder,” on Constitution Avenue, or an awkward meal at my in-laws house.  My weekend, I thought, would be filled with some prayer, some sermons, some Christian music, and maybe, just maybe, an insight into what my purpose was – with the hope it aligned with exactly what I wanted it to be.

Nothing in life can prepare you for how wrong you are when you’re really wrong.  I can’t share the details of everything that happened, but I was beyond humbled and amazed at the people I encountered, the stories I heard and the experiences I had.  Now, the lack of sharing has nothing to do with “you have to be a Christian to understand,” but it has everything to do with keeping the experience sacred for anyone else after me who may attend a Walk to Emmaus.  The overwhelming theme of the weekend – and a message that should be carried into every aspect of life – was LOVE.  Unconditional, unforgiving, unexpected, undeserved Love.  The focus was on how much God loved us and how we in turn can reciprocate that love by loving others.  Yes, there was the tried and true topic of John 3:16, but there was more than that: There was the Samaritan woman, God’s love for Saul (later Paul) and Peter despite their inability to accept Jesus when it was asked of them.  There was a focus on his love for Miriam and Lazarus, his dinners with those less desirable, and the healing of the women who would not stop bleeding.

Now, to those without faith in Jesus, these may just be stories to make one feel good about their lot in life.  To give hope where there may not be any.  But my question is why?  Why make up a story about someone who loved unconditionally and told us to love him by doing the same to others?  Why consistently choose less than less than perfect people to lead nations and revolutionize how we treat one another?  Why die for other people who don’t believe in you, don’t accept, and many more who will never meet you?  The better question should be – Why aren’t more people listening and practicing this kind of love?

You may be thinking, “if you’re a Christian, where is your persecution of homosexuals?  Why don’t you put down those on government aid?  Where is your scripture that teaches us to lash out as Muslims/minorities/poor?”  That’s what the media shows us, right?  That’s what the Far Right, Tea Party, and Westboro Baptist Church want you to think of when you see Christianity, correct?  Here is the issue with all of that: None of that is the teaching of Jesus, the central part of the Holy Trinity of Christianity!  In the Old Testament, Leviticus 19, verses 13 -15, the scripture states:

Do not defraud or rob your neighbor.  Do not hold back the wages of a hired worker overnight.  Do not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block in front of the blind, but fear your God. I am the Lord.  Do not pervert justice; do not show partiality to the poor or favoritism to the great, but judge your neighbor fairly.

In the New Testament Romans 14:12-14 takes it even further:

So then, each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.  Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister. I am convinced, being fully persuaded in the Lord Jesus, that nothing is unclean in itself. But if anyone regards something as unclean, then for that person it is unclean.

Even the conflicted Paul encourages in 1 Corithinians 12:

verses 12-14: Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. For we were all baptized by[c] one Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink.  Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many.

verses 27-31: Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it. And God has placed in the church first of all apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then miracles, then gifts of healing, of helping, of guidance, and of different kinds of tongues. Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Do all work miracles?  Do all have gifts of healing? Do all speak in tongues[d]? Do all interpret?  Now eagerly desire the greater gifts.  And yet I will show you the most excellent way.

Okay, sorry for the scriptural rant,  but I feel so many of those calling themselves “Christian,” who have obtained a media spotlight are sending the wrong message.  Most of what is taught in scripture, and should be the focus of Christians, is not to put others down, but lift others up; no matter their origin, orientation, or obstacles in their life.  If we focus on the beauty and amazing capacity of each and every one of us, there is so much more to embrace than degrade.  Do we really wonder why our society has stopped making meaningful progress and why the gap between classes is so huge?  We focus so much on pitting one against the other: native (or those who claim being native) vs. immigrant, rich vs. poor, hetero vs. homo, North vs. South, Christian/Catholic vs. everybody else, government vs. independent, young vs. old. . .  It is really neverending.

My weekend encouraged me to encourage others to love – EVERYONE – regardless of how different or how similar.  I feel we are all called to stop trying to be more and more divisive in gender, ethnicity, cultural, and economic class.  There is so much that makes us a similar; so much that makes us HUMAN, that the only thing that should divide us is our ability and inability to love.  And that is a challenge that can only be met with a closer walk with one another.

More Than Just a Hairstyle (originally from my wordpress site thejournalcollector; published May 20, 2014)

I will admit, as a child and teenager, I saw braids as something negative.  In fact, anything that was not natural hair - meaning grown from your follicles - was viewed as negative.  My elders saw braids as too "Afrocentric," or adapting a culture that truly wasn't our own.  I mean, for many of the Blacks I grew up with, so much focus was placed on how Indian you could claim you were, or how much you could pass for White to get the better jobs, better spouses, and better homes.  There wasn't space for anything that didn't reflect a neatly polished, assimilated look.  So, pressed hair (using a pressing comb or roller set), relaxers, and sometimes the unspoken weave and wig were acceptable means of wearing hair.  They gave you the look of straight, smooth hair everyone was taught in segregation was required to be accepted into White society.  NOTE:  Just don't go near the water.  Figures were nipped and tucked into smooth lines to reflect similar shapes of the White magazines.  The wide hips, full breasts, and curvy bottoms were smooshed into place to keep you from looking "too Black," so you could be included in highbrow events - even with other "colored" people.  And you never married (or tried to avoid marrying) someone "too dark," with "bad hair," so your children could blend in more with easy-to-manage-hair, fairer complexions, and toned figures.  If you didn't fit the assimilated look of the better off Coloreds, you received somewhat of an acceptance that came with smiles of pity, and the occasional comment that maybe you could "marry up," so you're children were not as dark as you or had coarse hair like you or even had more "athletic" figures than you.

It sounds farfetched, but it was my mother and grandmother's realities.  As my grandmother's marriage was looked down on, not because he was a philandering douche, but because he was "too dark."  Her parents would have her pray for a divorce so their may be hope she repented of her poor choice in partner and the misfortune of darker skin her children were cursed with.  My mother, on the other hand, married a man who very light-skinned.  His heritage was so mixed, he had a sister with blue eyes.  I grew up with cousins who looked like they were more from South India than African-American with their darker skin tones and wavy hair, and at the other end of the spectrum, cousins who could pass for young Aborigines with their white and olive complexions and coarse, red or blonde hair.  Throughout my childhood, I could see in many circles where these cousins and even my sister and myself were viewed as acceptable but my mother was not.  She was adamant that we retain our natural hair, only pressing, and then later agreeing to a relaxer to make hair management easier.

It wasn't until I was thinking about having my first child, that I thought about getting braids.  It was met with a lot of opposition in my family.  Braids still reminded them of the ghetto - low IQ, stereotypes, and a low socioeconomic status.  Even worse, there was a mindset that tied it in to "pickaninnies," or vaudeville, even slavery.  These were not the images they felt would secure my success in the world, much less my status at work.  I had "good hair," I was often told, so why would I want to wear a style that didn't show it?  One simple fact - ease of care.  Regardless of how "good" my hair was, washing, drying, flat ironing, and styling my hair, even with a relaxer could take hours.  The chemicals of the relaxer are also not the best thing to have on your head much less the possibilities of its effects on an unborn child.  My sway came in my younger sister who does NOT have "good" hair, and thus, my mother thought braids may be a viable option for her as well.

So, my journey with braids began.  Outside of the costs (anywhere from $140 - $240 with tip plus the cost of hair, another $30-$70) and the time to get them done (approximately 6-14 hours), braids were a blessing I wish I had discovered in college.  Gone were the $75-$120, 2-hour bimonthly appointments!  I could get my hair done every three months, so the time and financial costs evened out.  So long were my hour-long morning prep work, fighting to find a style that looked halfway decent!  Good-bye to the endless shedding caused by stress, dry follicles, and chemical wear-and-tear!  Braids were a new freedom in how to get my hair done, and I was happy I chose it.  I wasn't the only one who felt positively about it either.  To my surprise, many people liked my braids.  I got tons of compliments, which was quite shocking to me.  This was not the reaction I was raised to expect.  Where was the anti-assimilation backlash?  Where were the racial slurs muttered under the breath?  It really got me thinking about what previous generations of African-Americans are teaching their children versus what others think about African-Americans.

That wasn't the only point I started to ponder.  On my most recent return to braids, I really started to study the new shop I chose to patronize.  In all the talk about how society encourages a homogenous image of slightly tanned - but not black - skin tone, a fit physique free of excessive curves, long and slender faces, and something that passes as a little more than White but not quite ethnic enough to be Asian, Latino, Indian, or Black, I encourage all those with self-image issues to visit a braid salon.  Mine in particular is located in the heart of an historic town that used to be predominantly farmers.  Across the street is a bar that caters mainly to White people.  In the same building, on the lower level is a Black barber shop and salon as well as a Latino night club.  It is catacorner to a building that houses a nail salon owned by a Korean family and a haute couture bridal salon owned by one of the most beautiful African-American women I have ever met.

The salon itself is run by a young woman from Togo, Africa.  She is short, curvy and vivacious.  Her employees are from Cameroon, Togo, Senegal and Niger.  Their unifying factor is they all speak French.  There are differences in personality, shape and mannerisms, and they are all beautiful.  The walls are covered with posters, many with a pink background showing the different weaves, braids, twists, and cornrows (yes, they are all different things) available in the salon.  Illustrated are styles with human hair, synthetic hair, kinky hair, and heat-infused waves.  But it's not just the employees, patrons, or styles that vary.  It's the models used to represent the styles.  There are full faces, long faces, slender-figured models, full-figured models; children with "good hair," children with "nappy hair;" attire that reflect African culture, Westernized culture, and throwback looks.  There are a variety of skin tones (yes!  Even White people), and a variety of physical characteristics.

Being in that salon is a lesson in self-acceptance and self-appreciation.  My five-year-old daughter later told me how beautiful all the women were in the posters and in the shop.  She told me how beautiful my hair was and how she was excited we could now both have "Elsa braids."  My very White looking daughter, with her blue eyes and honey-colored wavy hair, did not see the braids through a negative scope.  She saw the fun and joy of looking more like her mommy.  I learned more about accepting myself in that shop than I have learned in 36 years.  My daughter told me recently she like the shop because, "it shows that God liked when people are different."  I hope this is something she carries with her for the rest of her life.  And something I hope more of society can learn AND project in images that appear other places than a braid shop or ethnic magazine.

Time Goes By (from my wordpress site; originally published May 13, 2014

There are moments when you realize life is so fleeting.  When someone close to you dies.  When you experience a “close call” in a car, plane, on the street.  When you have just left a place that will experience tragedy just moments after you leave.  So much of life is timing.  There are moments when I wonder if I will ever get that timing right.  I find myself working on projects, or jobs, or stuff only to find that years have passed.  That I am no closer to my dreams than when I first had them.  It can be daunting and downright depressing.  How do you move from that moment where everything felt possible to that inevitable moment where there is so much to do, that nothing gets done?

The only solution is to pick yourself up and move on.  Get rid of the negative thought, people and things in your life.  It will not be easy, but it is possible.  I don’t know how, but I know.  I will make.  We can make.  If we all stop focusing on the time we may or may not have left, we can move forward in what will make us the best we can be.  As it is, regardless of what we do or don’t do, time will always go by.

The Day After

Today the alarmed was screaming at me to get up.  I didn't want to leave the sanctuary of my blanket, my fantasies, or my thoughts that yesterday did not happen.  No one could blame me.  Not even knowing the previous day's events, the sound of the angry winds buffeting the trees and apartment building, were enough to let anyone know today would not be hospitable.

But I got up - my entire body aching with the sadness I didn't want to show.  I prayed selfish prayers in the shower.  Prayers for money, for escape, for anything but now and here.  I was fine until I looked in the mirror.  Until I had to face the reality that everything was real as it was.  That my baby was not to be.  That my body would start it's monthly process once again.  That everything would once again be "normal."

I hate the day after.  I will probably hate every day until my body has been emptied of what once felt like so much promise and now is just contained death.  I don't care if it's normal or that it happens all the time or that there's a statistic that shows it's common "for my age."  That doesn't make the pain go away.  That doesn't stop the tears.  That doesn't make me hate life any less.  It doesn't stop it being the day after.

Life's Misguided Tour

I think I have a blog on almost every site I signed up for that offered one.  Before blogs, I had handwritten journals.  In fact, I still keep a few, and yes, I mean a few.  I am a journal collector of sorts, and I think that summarizes my life pretty well.  I never seem to have my thoughts all in one place.  There are pieces of who I was and who I am scattered everywhere - in every nook and cranny of my house, my nanna's house, my mom's house, and the schools I've attended.  There are probably words I've written lingering in a recycled cup, paper, or toilet roll somewhere in the world right now.

This cacophony of thoughts, ideas, dreams, and disillusions, were never centered.  Many times, the ambitions that I obsessed over weren't even my own.  No matter how much I wanted to say, or how loudly I said it, my thoughts remained scattered and my point was lost in all the various words and writings I scattered everywhere.

I guess that's why I never seem to move forward very fast.  I lack focus.  Despite my best efforts and attempts to achieve something great, I am always misguided; reaching for the wrong thing, looking in the wrong direction, trying to be the person everyone wants me to be.  What would happen if I were to focus myself?  To move in one direction instead of many?  The thought alone is frightening, let alone seemingly impossible.

I think my greatest fear is taking the time to collect myself, focus myself on one goal that could be what I was put here to accomplish.  I worry that if I focus on that ONE thing, I will miss out on the opportunities that may come from the other things I happen to excel in (even if they don't make me happy).  I worry what my family and friends will think of me.  I already experience the daily battle of hanging on to a business that is all but dead.  I already look around and see the results of a string of optimistic and failed decisions in home buying, child bearing, and love.  I know the hurt that comes from seeing something you strongly believe in suddenly ripped away from you leaving you with nothing but questions.  I've invested in ONE thing before, and the results were life changingly bad.

So, what do I do?  That pull is still there.  That call to focus; to decide one direction to head in, and only one.  This is not an easy choice at any time in a life.  You top it off with being a mother, a core music ministry vocalist, a business manager, a key support employee, and a cornerstone to your family, and the choice to focus - really take time and focus - becomes an exhausting one.  I just can't help think about the times when I did what felt exactly right, even if not even the least bit logically, and smile.  There was a time when I knew where I was going.  I just need to focus - and find my way back there.