perspective

The day after I wrote my last post—after the stirred pot, the late night, the hot tears—I had to shift gears and simmer. To compartmentalize and turn my focus to a writing deadline.

This was a sunny afternoon. I sat under an umbrella on my back porch, drinking a tall glass of water with lime. I watched the grass. The walnut tree. The trampoline. In between thoughts, I watched the bounty in my baby garden dance in the breeze. So much green. A neighbor walked past and smiled. Then another. Across the street an eagle touched down in the nature preserve, then took off and soared. I soaked in the hot sun beating down on my legs, took a sip of cool water, opened up my laptop, and began to write.  

“The days are getting longer. The sun is shining brighter, and we’re beginning to see more smiling faces…”

The following day, I received feedback on my piece from someone I respect immensely. “If I got this—with everything going on in the world right now—I’d think the client was out of touch… It’s too happy.” She went on. 

In my long and detailed follow-up response, I defended my position and called her out for letting her personal biases color her professional judgment. But then again, don’t we all? I backpedaled, hit delete, and instead sent a simpler response, “OK, I’ll rework it.”

After I let go of my bruised ego, reread her perspective, and returned to the page, a different and better narrative unfolded: a pivot from happy to hopeful. Our collective final product was stronger than my initial draft. “And yet, the sun still shines,” I concluded.

But I left the project wondering how two people could see the same day so differently. And then there was that comment.

If I choose to bask in the sun—to mine for the good and the possible, even amid the terrible—does this make me out of touch? If I prefer to discriminate in decisions about what I consume and with whom I spend my time, is this such a bad thing? Am I really missing out if I’ve opted out of a system engineered to pickpocket my attention; manufactured to curate my experience; architected to tell me who I am and what to think; and rigged to keep too many so small? I’m not so sure.

I think our positions and consumption inform the world we see and experience, not necessarily the one that is. You see, the sun always shines. This is not an issue of ignorance. It’s a fact.

But from where we sit, day appears to become night before the dawn returns. And oftentimes clouds come. The lowest, darkest, and most persistent can easily consume. Even when they relent, they promise to return. They obscure perspectives and cloud judgment until there’s nothing else to see but gray and gloom. And then the wind comes. Then rain. Then lightning. Then thunder.

And then?

• We fume. We fight. We fear. 
• We deny and go to sleep. 
• We watch and wait to see.
• We take control and march. 

We can mindlessly check out, numb ourselves, refuse to engage, and give up. Or not.

Alternatively, to see clearly—to affect change and do something, as so many keep preaching about these days—we may first need to modify our consumption. To have the courage to explore how we got here. To either change our position or leverage it to come alongside those who can’t.

Then perhaps we can use the fiercest storms to reconsider, to revise, to remember, to become better...

Either way, the sun still shines.  

token black mom speaks

It’s interesting to be the only black woman many of the people in my community know. Or perhaps the only one a handful feel comfortable enough to text.

But tokenism isn’t new to me. I’ve often been the only one. Or I’ve been one of few for most of my life. But this week, this old-familiar role has taken a turn and churned. I’ve been on the receiving end of many ill-timed texts from well-meaning white mothers reaching out.

I haven’t yet responded because in each circumstance, these messages have caught me off guard. And further, what can I say? Perhaps I’ve left most of these messages unread because I’m not sure the senders will like my response.

You see, I have little sympathy for your fear. I have no words to soothe your concerns. And forgive me, but right now I have minimal interest in wiping away the tears you’ve shed because you just got the memo that racism is real.

Real racism.

Just because it’s on your radar at the moment, this violence and overt racism isn’t new. George Floyd isn’t the first, and sadly, he won’t be the last. But before you cast stones, post, or hit send once more, please first consider the insidious and very real daily assaults the media and social outlets will never spotlight.

• Consider your own side comments and averted glances.
• Consider the way you patronize with your assumptions. 
• Consider the way you hire, promote, and compensate your employees. 
• Consider the way you judge those who look or think differently than you. 
• Consider the thousands of thoughts you think before you’ve had time to filter them. 
• Consider the ways you have ignored and excluded. 
• Consider the company you keep.
• Consider the way your child’s flippant use of the n-word might affect their “friend.”
• Consider how your guest’s drunken remarks might impact the one black girl in the room. 
• Consider your biases against my son. 
• Consider why neither my husband nor daughter have received your sympathy.
• Consider why such egregious behavior is required for you to consider my feelings. 

I could go on.

A text—really?

In my opinion, mudslinging via social media is too easy. So is texting. And it’s an inappropriate medium for an actual conversation.

Although you may feel better because you’ve expressed your solidarity via text with your one black acquaintance, your courageous and carefully crafted message pokes at deep wounds and stirs fury. This may not have been your intention, but I thought you should know. You’ve also sidestepped a fucking impossible conversation with the bridge you’ve erected. This conversation you’ve averted bears the weight, pain, blood, and tears of generations.

Your text message may absolve you of your emotions in the moment, but tonight it leaves me to shoulder a lifetime of burdens. Honestly, I find this behavior both thoughtful and careless.

Black like me.

I would never assume the model on a magazine cover encompasses the depth, diversity, and complexity of white people. Yet so many have conflated a collective trauma with the assumption that all black people are having a universal experience.

You’ve based your perception of me and what I might be thinking on the sensational stories and stereotypes perpetuated in the media. You’ve incorrectly assumed—because of my skin color—that I’m following, fretting, and fuming as you are. You assume you know my politics. And you have the audacity to suggest that one dimension of my person predicates my attention, actions, feelings, beliefs, and my vote.

But black isn’t monochromatic. And contrary to what you may have assumed, I don’t represent all black people. I can hardly speak for the individual experiences of an entire race. So please, do us both a favor: unpack this box and let me out.

Yes, my skin is dark. Yes, people constantly make snap judgments about me because of it. And yes, more than once, I’ve been approached or stopped by suspicious but kind police officers on account of it.

It’s true that I must work twice as hard for less. It's true that my children must tread lightly in ways some of their lighter or darker friends may never experience. And it's true that we've each been on the receiving end of insufferable ignorance and heart-rending comments in our communities, churches, schools, workplaces, with friends, and in our own family.

But I don’t need your pity. And I certainly don’t need you to march on my behalf. 

A different narrative.

I could be angry. I could be fearful. And maybe I should be. But there’s too much to feel angry about. And there’s too much to fear. Sometimes I feel sad, but I can’t stay there long. Because the anger, violence, sadness, fear, and resentment I’m apparently entitled to don’t serve me. And if I let them, they would paralyze me. So thank you for your messages and concern, but respectfully, I will not perpetuate this bullshit. And I won’t be joining you as you march down this road.

The many lives that have been stolen deserve better. Damn straight, black lives matter. Every life does. So I choose love.

Yes, there are a handful of terrible people in the world who do shitty things. But in my experience, these are exceptions, not the rule. Most of the people I’ve encountered in this lifetime are loving and kind, and they’re doing their best. Yes, racism sucks and it’s real. But so is love. I choose love.

Since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. 

I’ll tell you that I am a black woman and so much more. I love my life. I love my family. And I encounter awe-inspiring beauty daily. I’m grateful to the mothers who loved before me. I’m grateful for the mothers who stand beside me. I’m grateful for the path that brought me here and for the compassion, empathy, ethic, and perspective it has gifted me. And I’m honored to be a black mother in America.

Finally, to you who have suggested that it must be so hard to be the mother of a black son, I say hell no. It is one of the greatest joys of my life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

fire

It's been happening more frequently. It goes something like this: "What do YOU think, Abi?" I respond then head backstage. Thinking and cleaning. Constructing and reworking.

Shortly thereafter, I watch my words lifted then regurgitated. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended when I hear them quoted back to me (but littered with malapropisms). At least he could have conjugated the verbs. Ugh. 

"Look what WE did," another says. "I'll take it from here." And he does. So I return to my place behind the scenes, calling shots and pulling strings.

Here, I sit in a back room where I can think and then think some more. I chose this place, and I like it here. I work on my time, with neither critics nor comments nor credit. Here, I clean up messes no one wants to see. I take pieces apart and put them back together. I think and then think some more. I work with discards in search of meaning. Of order. In this dingy back room, I remember what I love and why I began in the first place. Then I put my head down and do it again. And again.

But this time feels different. This feels like fire in my chest.

This is not someone else's story. No, this is my work, a voice inside screams. These are my thoughts and ideas that are being packaged up, presented, and misrepresented. This afternoon I want to hold on tight.

And yet, I know my work isn't mine only. It's not a closed fist, but rather an open palm. When I step out of the shadows and sit down to write, I'm mostly just listening. I download, play in the sun for a while, and keep coming back as long as she'll have me. So whose words are those? she asks.

From here atop this mighty high horse, it's easy to see what isn't and difficult to see what is. But when I step down and place my feet on the ground--when I close my eyes, feel the fire, and remember--a different narrative unfolds. And a burning question remains, What do YOU think, Abi?

I think there's more than enough to go around, even amid those who tear down and take so freely. I think every character plays a part and I'd love to hear from more of them. I think there are others working in back rooms, and I can't wait to see what they come up with. I think presence, patience, and love are my wheelhouse, so I will continue to give them the time they deserve and make room for them here. I think there are more important questions to ask: What can I use? How can I grow? What can I give? How can I flow? So I'll continue to ask them and listen for answers.

And when the fire comes, I'll let it burn. Then put my head down and get back to work.

on mom.

I've been socially distant, distracted, and I realized much too late that tomorrow is Mother's Day. Snap. Since I won't get my cards out and can't pull together a gift in time, here goes...

On mom.

There aren't enough words for this three-letter word. Moms are relentless and crucial; they're the original essential workers. The good ones can make a world of difference. And unfortunately, the bad ones can too. Simply put, moms matter. And I'm glad for the reminder each May to celebrate them.

Anita Diamant wrote in The Red Tent, "If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully."

Yes.

My mom WRITES ENTIRE EMAILS IN ALL CAPS and sends page-long texts with more emojis than words. She leaves long voicemails that she begins by sharing the time in our respective time zones. She remembers birthdays, anniversaries, and she continues to send care packages to my siblings and me decades after we graduated from college. Now the grandkids get them too. I can pretty much guarantee that when I go out and check the mail today, there will be a pink card with stickers and my name on it—just in time for Mother's Day.

My mom makes Jollof Rice like a boss. She smacks her gum and drives inside the lines only some of the time. She worships and prays and can spend an entire day in bible study. She walks, gardens, and loves movies. She collects magnets and mugs and still has a postcard I wrote 25 years ago. She lost her mom when she was younger than me. She's a sister to more than her sisters. She has more kids than the three she carried. She treated patients for nearly half a century, and she supports ministries and missions on a retirement income. Now in her 70s, she's learning to rest and to be.

My mom takes her time. She uses her voice, and she's unapologetically herself. I see this part of her especially in my kiddos, my siblings, and myself. She has her faults, and no, she didn't get it all right. But she nailed a lot of it. And every so often, after I cry sloppy tears over the impossible role of mother to my newborn, to my toddler, to my teenager... I get to see another side of our story.

Along the way, I've gained more moms; my kids have too. And I could fill pages with gratitude for each of these women—for the way they shine, for the things I've learned, for the way they spill over into shortcoming and gaps... It's hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. They love fervently, give generously, and they continue. As I parent my children, I look to and see glimpses of all of them.

So to my moms, my sister-moms, and my kiddos' other moms, THANK YOU. I see you, and today, I'm celebrating you. And to Abiose, the OG, you're a class act, and I love you.

Happy Mother's Day.

unmoved

I've run variations of the same loop on most days over the last five years. One mile up the big hill I live at the bottom of. Another mile across a straight away. A mile or two (or three) through the Colony and across the lagoon. Just under a mile along the street that backs the beachfront homes. Around the corner with a quick detour to the beach. Then a quarter mile back home.

This run has become second nature. It's like brushing my teeth—something I don't think much about, but come back to daily to clear my head and start my day.

Today, a lazy Saturday, I hit the road later than normal. The wind was relentless and fierce, so my pace was noticeably slow. Over and again, I wiped tears from my eyes and snot from my nose with my shirt sleeve. I had to push hard just to move and turn up the volume on my audio book in order to hear. It took a while, but eventually, I settled in and found my stride—engaged in my book, lost in thought, and pushing hard into the wind.

Three-quarters of the way down the mile-plus stretch that connects the lagoon trail to my house, I noticed a slow-moving, elderly gentleman hunched over just ahead of me. Gruffly, he picked up a large rock from the road and threw it back into a rock bed that lined the Colony entrance.

As he turned and started coming toward me, I slowed down and lifted my hand to wave (as I do with everyone I pass when I run).

"You're not supposed to be here," he barked at me and advanced with a raised fist. "This is private property."

It is.

The stretch of road, I was running on is indeed owned by a Colony I don't live in. And yet, many people who live and work in our community run, walk, and bike along both halves of this long, flat street. But now, in the days of lockdown and social isolation, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. And for reasons I can only assume, this man—my neighbor—has singled me out. Not a word in five years, but for the second time this week, he's yelled at me.

My stomach dropped, my face grew hot, and my pace quickened as I realized his fury at the rock in the road was now directed at me. Paul's words from earlier in the week came to mind and soothed me in the heat of the moment and in the split-second decision to fight or flee. "Just ignore him."

I wish I could say more about my response—that I was a beacon of light and neighborly love—but alas, no.

"Go f*ck yourself," I muttered under my breath, silently seething at this man and his audacity. Yup. Though not loud enough for the hard-of-hearing to hear, that was my neighborly response.

With boiling blood and racing thoughts, I sprinted the stretch back home. Some of the more clever retorts that came to mind as I ran included:

1. Get off your rocker and come stop me.
2. Oh yeah? Well you'll be dead soon. 
3. I hope you get Coronavirus. 

Terrible, I know.

I simmered by the time I got home. And have had a few more hours to cool down and reflect since then. So here goes:

We're all stuck at home, trying to deal and protect ourselves. Many of us feel vulnerable, unsure, lonely, sad, afraid, bored... For some these are unwelcome and uncomfortable emotions that, like that rock in the road or that trespassing neighbor, we want to push out of the way. But pushing, hiding, hoarding, fighting, blaming—these aren’t solutions.

Dear neighbor, here's the thing—

Passersby aren’t an appropriate outlet for your feelings and frustration. You don’t get to be a jerk because of how I look or because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If I stopped moving forward every time an old white dude told me I can't do something or that I don't belong, I would have shriveled into oblivion and died an unfortunate death long ago. But by the grace of God and for reasons that continue to unfold, I'm still here. For my peace, sanity, strength, presence, and joy, I run. And for my contribution to a story bigger than either of us, I will continue.

We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, and contrary to what you may believe, you don't know me. And you don't know where I live. Instead of coming to me with kindness or curiosity, you came at me in judgment and contempt. That sucks.

I apologize for my own anger and fighting words, even if you couldn’t hear them. I hope you stay safe. And I hope you find the peace you undoubtedly need.

But let's be clear: Your anger and fear are yours to keep to yourself.

Whether you like it or not, we're connected. Your house is situated along my path. But I'm OK with discomfort, and I will not be moved. There's too much life in these bones, hope in this heart, and love still to be unleashed for me to give you another thought.

So I will keep on running. And you will see me tomorrow.

big dog and a pickup truck

It was a cool morning. I think I must have been about 10.

I could see my breath and feel the cold of my hands beneath the warmth of my gloves. I was humming along my walk to school--lost, as I often am, in my thoughts.

A stray dog just ahead brought me back to the sidewalk.

He was angry and dark. He growled and barked at me. I don't recall who started running first--him or me. But in the biting cold of morning, he chased me. 

My heart pounded and my lungs stung. With hot tears streaming down my face, I ran as hard and fast as I could. I was terrified and screaming. I ran all the way back home.

My dad was there, but he didn't understand my fear. I don't recall if or how he consoled me, but he sent me back. I had to go to school. 

Reluctantly, I left my house and retraced my steps back down my street. How could he send me back?

Just then a red truck approached and pulled up beside me. I saw a friendly face inside. He handed me my backpack, which only then I realized I had dropped.

This man I didn't know drove me to school. He asked nothing in return, and I never saw him or his truck again. But in that most important moment, he mattered in a way he'll never know.

I wonder now if my dad made a mistake. I don't think so. I know he loved me like he knew how. "There's no need to cry," I'm sure he said. Then he sent me back to face the dog. He loved me like he always did--constantly reminding me that I was more than enough and I could do it. He pushed me back into the arena.

I know that's how it needs to go sometimes: I need to face my fear. And other times I need to wait a while before I get back to it. I need to run, hide, and cry hot, sloppy tears to feel OK. Even still there are times when I need help to feel safe, warm, and brave again. To feel my feelings, get back on my feet, remember who I am, and find the peace I lost along the way.

Most of the time, that's when love shows up. That day, love showed up for me in a red pickup truck.

In a random act of kindness, a perfect stranger met and cared for me. He neither rescued nor eclipsed me. But instead, he created space for me to feel safe and seen. He picked up what I dropped and returned it to me--without expectations. I don't remember what he said--he must have said something. But I certainly remember what he did and how I felt. I feel it now.

Today, love showed up for me again. In the midst of sadness and uncertainty, I came across an old, unfinished essay about a dog and a red truck. It brought me back to the page for a while, reminded me who I am and what love can do.