hanalei

onward

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, 

but a dream fulfilled is a tree of life. 1

Hatred. 

Bigotry.

Ignorance. 

Advocacy.

Exploitation.

Manipulation.

Discrimination.

Underestimation...

They've taken their toll. 

But during the last decade-plus, 

Disengagement has served me well.

 
In bowing out, I've kept my cool and fortified my heart.
I've kept my head down, my mouth shut. 

And I've listened. 

Wondered.

Waited. 

Tell me, he asks. 2

Why should it be my loneliness,

Why should it be my song, 

Why should it be my dream 

deferred 

overlong?

On the pulse of a cool morning, draped in a long black coat, she responds. 3 

History, despite its wrenching pain, 

Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, 

Need not be lived again. 

 

Lift up your eyes upon

The day breaking for you.

 

Give birth again

To the dream. 

Twenty-eight years later, a young woman in bright yellow climbs the same stage and commands the world's attention. 4 

The new dawn blooms as we free it

For there is always light,

if only we're brave enough to see it

If only we're brave enough to be it 

Bated breath. Purple coat. 

A dream fulfilled, she takes an oath. 

An application. A resignation. 

Light remains. Exhalation. 

As one life ends, a second begins. 

A new hope dawns,

Love wins. 

And I’m done 

keeping 

quiet. 

---

1. King Solomon. Proverbs 13:12. ~950 BC.

2. Hughes, Langston. "Tell me." 1951.

3. Angelou, Maya. "On the pulse of morning." 1993.

4. Gorman, Amanda. "The hill we climb." 2021.

twenty

Cheers, Love. And thank you. 

Here's to 40 more.

 

sustainability

Recently, I received an email from an organization in my community asking local “white allies” who qualified for $600 Covid-relief checks to contribute these funds to BIPOC community members in need. Apparently, this was the second time this call to action has been raised in my community. After the first, 30+ white people contributed nearly $17,000 of government funds to 20+ BIPOC families. Members of the organization were “humbled,” “touched,” and “inspired” by the local response.

I too had a reaction—a strong one, actually—to the message I received in this call for the “equitable reallocation” of government-manufactured resources from white to black. However, “inspired” is not the word I would have used to describe it. 

I’ve been thinking about sustainability lately. To me, that which is sustainable is enduring and productive. Its net consumption does not exceed its creative capacity. That which is sustainable neither takes more than it gives, nor depletes resources in order to survive. Rather, it is self-supportive and self-regulating. It prioritizes long-term impact over short-term gains. To endure, it tips the scale of homeostasis to regeneration. To me, sustainability is inspiring. 

At the height of Covid-19 restrictions, my 15-year old son was furloughed from his part-time restaurant job. He was advised by his employer to seek unemployment benefits. Instead, he went and got another job. A 17-year old family friend received the same counsel. She collected far more money on unemployment than she ever made at work, so rather than seeking alternatives, she shopped. 

I was rewarded for losing work in 2020. Nevertheless, in response to the Covid curveball, I re-upped my freelance pursuits. Curiously, when we sought to refinance our house, the lender had a real problem with me—a black woman trying to do for herself—creating my own opportunities to earn income vs. relying on an employer to pay my way. As I researched “merit-based” scholarships to support my own efforts to pivot, invest in my personal development, and continue my education, I was informed that I didn’t qualify because my 2019 income was “too high.”   

“Why would I ever want to go back to work?” I’ve heard one-too-many teenagers ask of late. And I agree, why would anyone?

I wonder about the effectiveness of programs and policies designed to penalize progress and diminish differentiation. I feel frustrated by “allies” who preach at me about diversity, equity, and inclusion then stifle opportunities for me to help myself. I’m suspect of the assumption that enslavement to an employer is the better way or that colorless old-guard institutions know what’s better for me than I for myself.

Although I too am moved by radical acts of generosity, reciprocity, and kindness, I wonder about the sustainability of reparations that might cover a fraction of a family’s monthly expenses at best, and then what? I’m curious—how many more “inspiring” community initiatives are we going to create that reinforce subconscious beliefs of white superiority and perpetuate misassumptions of black inferiority and dependency? 

The disproportionate effects of Covid-19 on people of color in this country are alarming and undeniable. Generations of light Americans have benifited, and continue to, from the exploitation and subjugation of darker ones. The residual trauma from old scars and fresh wounds is palpable and thick. And the economic, psychological, and systemic implications are profound and must be acknowledged and addressed. These issues are complex; they’re not black and white, so of course neither are their solutions.

Yes, there are real advantages that come with a 400-year head start. And yes, there are real disadvantages that come over generations of suppression and diminishment. But far more dangerous, in my opinion, is the insidious plague that pins select people down by reinforcing lies of insufficiency. Perilous is the program that gives more “white allies” another reason to preach and pat themselves on the back. I’m tired of hearing the narrative that black people need white relief in order to survive. It’s patronizing, harmful, and simply untrue. 

Such reparations are a band-aid solution that offer temporary relief but sidestep lasting progress and transformation. They’re another convenient distraction that misdirect attention from fabric-level issues that require deep work, discomfort, and thread-level change. And a program, policy, or initiative that promotes such destruction—making people just comfortable enough not to think critically or to do the hard work that growth, change, and progress require—is a threat.  

We cannot continue to hide behind smoke and mirrors as we deplete resources until they're gone. We cannot continue to eschew responsibility and bolster our egos and bank accounts with federal funny money. We cannot continue to penalize excellence, reinforce dependency, and celebrate mediocrity. No. 

We must create. We must innovate. We must regenerate to reverse the damage of the past and to flourish in the future. We must be willing to brave the inconvenience and discomfort that evolution requires. We—BIPOC brothers and sisters especially—must stop looking backward and turn our gaze forward. We must care for ourselves and one another. We must inhabit and promulgate the TRUTH about ourselves—an exceptional people of resilience and strength. And in our “radical” efforts to “rebalance” the scales, I believe we must continually ask ourselves, “Is this sustainable?” 

unanswered questions

Several brown chickens and a few white geese have been my neighbors for years. They live together in harmony at a house up the hill from my home. They’re up early and spend the better part of most days outside. The geese sun and float in a baby pool, and the chickens peck about the yard. We greet one another in the mornings when I run by. “Hello chickens, hello geese,” I think to myself and sometimes say aloud.

Their owners—my other neighbors—tend to their garden, work on their boat, and play in the yard with their grandkids. They mostly keep to themselves but they’re friendly. They pass by my window in the evenings from time to time with their big dog, Benny. And many mornings when I pass by their house, they’re outside too. We exchange pleasantries and brief hellos across chicken wire. Benny barks. The chickens peck. The geese float by. 

***

I don’t recall the finest details of the first time we met. But 25 years later, the broad strokes are clear. He was tall and warm—a mountain of a man. His home was dimly lit with an amber glow. He had light eyes, a broad nose, thinning hair, a crooked smile, and a tuft of facial hair beneath his bottom lip. I’m certain he hugged me—a big-ole bear hug—then welcomed me inside. 

I was astounded by the things I saw. Logos. Pictures. Relics. A guitar. And so much of his own artwork. He showed us around with a hint of pride and spoke freely and easily. His home was a pop culture museum but better. I wanted the tour to go on forever. Every detailed mattered. Every corner held a wonder to behold. 

I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve seen him since, yet his mark was indelible. He was always so kind. In the years that followed, he became we. One, then two. Three, then four, then five. Still his home—their home—inspired. It was warm and thick with love.  

***

Fall sports began in winter, seeped into spring, and three young girls—two of 14 and one of 16—earned starting spots on the JV volleyball team. I never met them, but when I consider my own kids, I can imagine what life looked like before and after practice. Perhaps the youngest slept until the online school day began, then she attended class from bed. Perhaps the oldest woke up early, made breakfast, and showered before she sat down at her computer. And maybe the middle Snapped the others on breaks and after school. They probably stayed up late. Maybe they were out of shape after a year away from the volleyball court. But even though they complained—as most teenage girls do—I suspect they were thrilled to be back. 

***

She did her shopping at roughly the same time each week—on Monday afternoons. After the weekend she spent the morning cleaning, dropped off recycling, picked up flowers, then donned her mask and entered the store. She always started in produce and grabbed a bunch of bananas first. Then she weaved in and out of aisles, lingering and grateful for the excuse to escape. Her town was small enough that invariably she ran into a familiar face—in produce, in the deli, in the parking lot. Groceries always cost more and took longer than expected. 

***

The day before her shopping trip—Sunday—was overcast. The clouds were full and hung low. The morning was damp and cool, perfect for a long run.

My legs felt heavy and slow as I heaved up the hill. A little slower than normal, I felt far from my body. But as I approached the gentle bend in the road, I came to. I noticed commotion, flying feathers and flapping wings. The chickens were squabbling, the cars were gone, and Benny was nowhere in sight. 

“What the hell is going on?” I wondered as I climbed the hill. I turned my head, double-tapped my earbud, and slowed to see what the fuss was about. And then, just beyond the chicken wire, I saw. 

***

In the space between two Mondays, the cancer in his throat that had spread to his liver stole him and took him away. The three girls did what young girls do, but then they lost control. They rounded a corner, tore through trees, and died on the scene. A white goose covered in blood lay just outside the baby pool. A second with a broken neck floated inside. A dead chicken lay near a plant bed, and another labored to breathe just beside it. A slithering mink wrestled a screaming goose as the loud crowd of chickens backed into a corner. And a young man walked into a grocery store and opened fire. 

Why? How does one deal with a predator who trespasses and plays by a different set of rules? Who steals, kills, destroys, and connives in the most cowardly of ways. Who overtakes the unarmed and unsuspecting, then refuses to relent once he’s won. What does one do when terrible things happen to wonderful people for no good reason? Then what? When there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and no way to escape. When “there’s nothing we can do,” and prayers are insufficient to keep the most precious from slipping away. What then? 

I’ve been staring at these unanswered questions for an hour. Looking for resolution that I can’t find. My head hurts. My heart hurts. And there’s nothing more to say. There’s no way to reason with the unreasonable. 

It’s unreasonable.

So I put my head back. Take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Rest here a while. And let the tears fall.

good reads | 2020

Yahoo, it's a new year, which for me means it's that time again: Good reads day!!  Today, I get to revisit the books I read and listened to last year. I had some time in 2020 (smile) so there were lots.

1. Attachments | R. Rowell (1/4) 
2. Maybe you should talk to someone | L. Gottlieb (1/9) 
3. Million-dollar book formula | Fenton/Waltz (1/23)
4. Professional ghostwriter's handbook | J. Menefee (1/23) 
5. Goodbye byline | K. James-Enger (2/3) 
6. Just mercy* | B. Stevenson (2/6)
7. Quiet | S. Cain (2/26) 
8. Building a story brand | D. Miller (3/3)
9. The nightingale | K. Hannah (3/14) 
10. The misadventures of awkward black girl | I. Rae (3/22) 
11. The war of art | S. Pressfield | 4/6 
12. Red, white, and royal blue | C. McQuiston (4/12) 
13. Digital minimalism* | C. Newport (4/25)
14. In five years | R. Serle (4/26) 
15. Big magic* | E. Gilbert (5/5)
16. Then she was gone | L. Jewell (5/6) 
17. Deep work | C. Newport (5/26) 
18. Finding ultra | R. Roll (6/1) 
19. Ten percent happier | D. Harris (6/14) 
20. Talking to strangers* | M. Gladwell (6/20)
21. On writing* | S. King (7/15)
22. The giver of stars* | J. Moyes (7/16)
23. This is how it always is | L. Frankel (8/4) 
24. Atlas shrugged* | A. Rand (8/10)
25. So you want to talk about race | I. Oluo (8/18) 
26. That's BS | R. Grant (8/23) 
27. The PMA effect | J. Joseph (8/27) 
28. The lies that bind | E. Giffin (8/27) 
29. Rest | A. Soojung-Kim Pang (9/7) 
30. The four agreements | M. Ruiz (9/10) 
31. Marketing made simple | D. Miller (9/12) 
32. This is marketing | S. Godin (9/23) 
33. The mothers* | B. Bennett (10/2)
34. Life is in the transitions | B. Felier (10/14) 
35. Goodbye things | F. Sasaki (10/19) 
36. Flourish | M. Seligman (11/4) 
37. Grit* | A. Duckworth (11/22)
38. The vanishing half* | B. Bennett (12/31)

And my favorite book—oh, and there were so many good ones—of 2020 was:

Thank you, Bryan Stevenson. And friends, happy reading!