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!

glass house

A beautiful house stands on a hill. 

It's light and bright inside, with tall beams, gorgeous fixtures, and all kinds of charm. It's both haven and home to a precious few, though a handful of visitors have passed through its doors. 

The road to this house is clear, and its view is breathtaking and unobstructed. All eyes are on this house because it's commanding and impossible to miss. It has inhabited this hill for generations. 

Though it's filled with both promise and possibility, nearly everyone around resides in its shadow. The house seems solid, secure, and destined to endure. Except it's not. Bit by bit, its foundation is crumbling. 

He hung a mirror in this house a while back. He found the stud, hammered in a nail, and placed the mirror high on the wall just above eye level. Perfect, he thought as he stood back and admired his refection. Then he turned off the light without another thought. 

She'd always seen the house on the hill but never ventured inside or beyond. Until the day she climbed the hill. It took longer than expected, and when she finally reached the house, she struggled to steady and catch her breath. Even on the inside, she struggled to see. 

Until the day she found a stool. 

To see the horizon and herself, she pulled out the stool then put it away so he wouldn't trip. Over and again, she pulled out then put away the stool. Until she spoke up. 

"Might we lower this mirror a bit," she asked, "so we may both enjoy the view and see ourselves more clearly?"

"But this is how it goes," he explained. 

So she pulled out her stool, put it away, and the mirror remained. Until years later when she tried again. 

"What if we—" 

"No," he interrupted. "This is how it's always been."

So little changed and the mirror remained. Until the day she forgot to tuck away her stool and he stumbled over it. 

His indifference shifted to irritation. He resented the inconvenience and her high maintenance. So each of their voices grew louder in the precarious house atop the hill. And the mirror remained. 

Until the day she lowered it herself. 

Her reflection was radiant, like nothing she'd seen before. And he was incredulous. "I can barely see above my belly button!" 

She spoke of collaboration and compromise. "If you'll just look from my perspective," she pleaded. But he refused. Accused. He felt undermined by her overcorrection, and he told her so. 

"This is my house, and I am its humble servant," he shouted. "This is where a mirror belongs," he continued then moved the mirror just beyond her reach—back where it began. 

But she could never unsee what she had seen. 

And he—no longer needing to flex or to bend—held his head high and his shoulders back. Perfect, he thought. Then looked into his own eyes before he turned off the light. 

belonging

Almost daily, I hear about how human beings are social creatures wired for connection. That team and tribe are in our DNA. That community is essential to survival. That relationships are critical for well-being. 

We ache for meaning and want to belong to something bigger than ourselves. Many would argue that we need to. I know I need to. 

But I’ve been thinking a lot about something someone said to me. It went like this:

“This is who we are. And if you’re not this, then I’m not sure you belong here.” 

Wait, what about community, connection, teamwork, well-being, survival…? I want to belong, but I’m not that. I’m not that at all, actually. So I have no place here?

Is belonging conditional?

I think the Colony and country club down the street would say so. I know intimately that many of my neighbors believe so. I also know of political parties, social clubs, sports teams, workplaces, churches, synagogues, colleges, universities… that agree. Of course. They all have requirements for who’s in and who’s out. 

I’m not sure if I can count the number of times in my life I’ve heard that I might be better suited elsewhere because of how I look, believe, or behave. “If you’re not this, that, and the other,” they say, “you don’t belong.” 

OK, so what are the alternatives? Isolation? Conformity?

How many years did I stuff, starve, straighten, and silence myself in order to fit in? How much energy have I expended trying to be someone that I’m not? How much heartache have I endured trying NOT to be seen or heard for who I am? How much time have I wasted trying to cultivate other people’s strengths in myself? 

But what about community, connection, teamwork, well-being, survival…? 

“Isolation or conformity? I’ll take neither for $500, Bob.” 

In the name of belonging, we’ve erected walls and signs and turned so many brothers into enemies—or worse, into ourselves. 

“If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” we say. So our clubs, communities, workplaces, teams, social networks, systems, churches, schools, families, and news outlets are vanilla. The people on the inside all look and sound the same. 

But the universe is crying out. The trees are weeping; the walls are crumbling; the people are revolting. And Mother Nature has put her foot down. 

Although so many contemporary signposts proclaim otherwise, we’re connected. And whether we choose to accept it or not, everything belongs. We’re neither designed nor optimized to look, believe, and behave the same. And contrary to what some may believe, the people around us weren’t put here solely as mirrors to reflect ourselves.   

I’m certain there’s another way. It’s marked by a sign that proudly declares that you are welcome. “Please come as you are,” it says, “because you belong.” 

Everyone belongs somewhere.

blocked

“What would happen if you let yourself feel angry?” A dear friend asked as we walked the beach late last Spring. 

I left off with Privilege then left for vacation. Next up: Supremacy. 

I started taking notes and outlining nearly two months ago. But since then even the whispers have diminished, and this all-consuming piece has grown stubborn and still. 

I’ve had many more conversations, made my case, and found ample evidence to support it. But each time I’ve sat down to write—nothing. 

The more I’ve researched and recalled, the angrier I’ve become. For too much of this summer, I’ve been pissed. 

I’ve been mad about an injustice—about the scars of condescension and exploitation, then the sting of self-congratulations. About systemic racism and unseen biases. About microaggressions, entitlement, and privilege. About food deserts, indifference, and inequity. About destructive words spoken over me and too many others. About two terrible choices and a grumpy old man in a red baseball cap who yells at me each time he sees me run by…

I’ve been stuck in the past—choking on negativity and resentment. And they’ve been insidious, creeping into my thoughts, actions, speech, visions, and dreams. I’ve lost sleep, gotten madder still—and accomplished absolutely nothing along the way.  

“We white people have work to do,” someone explained to me recently. 

Perhaps. But I think we all do.

Some of us must stand up and fight. Others must sit down and protest. Still others must find courage to walk away and may need to get mad as hell first.

But my anger is no longer serving me nor anyone else. I’m pissed that I bought in and believed. But I still have work to do, so I can’t stew here any longer. 

Thank you but it’s time for me to move on.  

privilege

I heard them before I saw them.

His once-clean-cut sandy hair had grown shaggy over his ears. But his winning smile still looked the same. He wore a light-weight jacket zipped up all the way. We exchanged hellos then embraced.

“Show them your thing!” His partner exclaimed after a few minutes of pleasantries. He didn’t appear to share her enthusiasm. Instead he blushed, backed away, and cowered.

“Come on, babe. Show’em your thing!” She encouraged. He giggled but seemed uncomfortable. Obviously, our curiosity was piqued.

“Yeah, babe, show us your thing!!” We joined in and volleyed friendly banter.

“I’m going to come find it,” I laughed. “I’m going to cry,” I teased. “Please, I want to see,” I pleaded.

Our hunger to uncover this thing he was withholding mounted. And he grew ruddy and cryptic. “You definitely don’t want to see it,” he tried.

Nevertheless, we persisted. And eventually, he relented.

He unzipped his jacket to disclose a brand-new holster cradling an empty pistol. Taken aback, I too relented. This definitely was not the thing I was expecting.

Why? I wondered then asked aloud.

He shared his excitement about the new purchase and said something about self-defense. He spoke about the threat of cougars on state trails. Then said something else about our open-carry state.

What the hell? I wondered but kept that to myself as he continued.

It certainly wasn’t lost on me that while the world was on edge over unarmed American men and women murdered while standing up for their 1st, 4th, and 8th amendment rights—this charming, blue-eyed, sandy-haired man was exercising his 2nd amendment right just because.

He traveled by car and ferry with ease, interacted with a cop on the way, and hugged my entire family with a gun strapped to his body.

~

Last month, a young coach sent an apology email to a community of parents and players for careless Facebook posts he wrote in the heat of the moment during the climax of nearby riots.

“Just shoot them,” he posted and punctuated with expletives. From the comfort of his living room, he exercised his 1st amendment right.

“I apologize…” he relented that Sunday afternoon. “This doesn’t reflect…” he continued, then went back to work Monday morning.

~

He smirked as he shared stories from his reckless youth. Not once but twice he was pulled over for driving 40+ miles over the speed limit. Each time he drove away with a warning.

He followed these incredible tales with another about the complications that come with breaking traffic laws across state lines. Once he was held responsible. So he leveraged his position and his family’s resources to hire an attorney.

They had to pay a fine.

~

Seated beside my partner, best friend, lover, and lifetime companion, I was undone by Dave Chapelle’s 8:46. I sat speechless and sobbed into the quiet of the family room when it was over.

In the gravity of the aftermath, I turned and looked into the steady eyes I’ve looked into on most days for the last 25 years.

“We have so much to talk about,” I began.

• I talked about police training and greater accountability. In true form, he weighed both sides and explained how little I know about police training.
• He questioned if it would still have been considered racism if the cop had been Asian or black. I was incredulous that we’d strayed so far from the point.
• I affirmed everything I knew to be true from the piece we just watched. He was moved but also smelled hints of “bullshit.”
• He looked spent, clearly exhausted by our late-night conversation. I returned to tears over how much work we have left to do. 
• I bristled as my thoughts turned to our kids. He wondered if I might be overreacting…

Although we tried, neither of us could find much common ground to stand on. I searched his eyes for the light of understanding but found just a flicker of empathy. With the lights and TV off, the family room looked dark.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t feel the way you feel because I’ve never been through what you’ve been through.”

~

What a privilege.

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.

three years. sixty stories.

Man, I guess I haven't written in a while.

It's a new day, new year, new decade, new font. And just a bit ago, I got cozy with my laptop and a blanket and sat down to publish my 2019 good reads list--only to discover that I failed to publish my list from 2018... or 2017. The horror! First intention for 2020: I plan to get back here more often. But for now, here's my better-late-than-never list of reads from the last third of the last decade.

Twenty Seventeen 

1. Emotionally Healthy Spirituality | P. Schizarro (2/17)
2. Alexander Hamilton | R. Chernow (8/4)
3. The Storyteller | J. Picoult (8/28) 
4. I Love You More | J. Murphy (8/29) 
5. Fates and Furies | L. Groff (9/5) *
6. Parenting with Love and Logic | F. Cline + J. Fay (10/5) 
7. The 5 Love Languages of Teenagers | G. Chapman (10/20) 
8. Growth Hacker Marketing | R. Holiday (10/24)
9. Born a Crime | T. Noah (11/19) *
10. The Couple Next Door | S. Lapena (11/23) 
11. Hunger | R. Gay (12/16)
12. Little Fires Everywhere | C. Ng (12/28)

My favorite book of 2017 was:

Twenty Eighteen 

1. Everything I Never Told You | C. Ng (1/7)***
2. The Power of Moments | C. Heath + D. Heath (1/22)
3. Daring Greatly | B. Brown (2/17)
4. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings | M. Angelou (3/11)***
5. The Alchemist | P. Coehlo (3/13)
6. Still Me | J. Moyes (4/8) 
7. The Happiness Advantage | S. Achor (5/20) 
8. The Four Tendencies | G. Rubin (6/11) 
9. The Power of Habit | C. Duhigg (4/27) 
10. Marketing Multiplied | Moore + Thomas (6/19)
11. The One Thing | J. Papasan (7/6)
12. Mom and Me and Mom | M. Angelou (7/21)***
13. Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine | G. Honeyman (8/15) 
14. The Hate U Give | A Thomas (8/21)
15. When | D. Pink (8/21)
16. Love Does | B. Goff (8/27)
17. The House on Mango Street | S. Cisneros (8/28)*
18. Man's Search for Meaning | V. Frankl (9/17)
19. The Conscious Parent | S. Tsabary (9/25)
20. The 1-Page Marketing Plan | A. Dib (10/7)*
21. I Can't Make This Up | K. Hart (10/20)*
22. Talking as Fast as I Can | L. Graham (10/15)
23. Why Not Me | M. Kaling (10/27) 
24. Crazy Rich Asians | K. Kwan (11/15) 
25. Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me | M. Kaling (11/19)
26. China Rich Girlfriend | K. Kwan (12/4) 
27. To Shake the Sleeping Self | J. Jenkins (12/19) *

My favorite book of 2018 was:

Twenty Nineteen 

1. Rich People Problems | K. Kwan (1/10) 
2. The Awakened Family | S. Tsabary (2/2) 
3. Just This | R. Rohr (2/16) 
4. Love Wins | R. Bell (2/23) 
5. Becoming | M. Obama (4/13)*
6. A People's History of the United States | H. Zinn (4/24)*
7. You Can't Touch My Hair | P. Robinson (4/29)*
8. The Dance of the Dissident Daughter | S. Kidd (5/12) 
9. Atomic Habits | J. Clear (5/14) 
10. A New Earth | E. Tolle (6/16)**
11. Normal People | S. Rooney (6/28) 
12. Marriageology | B. Luscombe (7/1) 
13. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks | R. Skloot (7/30)* 
14. The Untethered Soul | M. Singer (7/31)* 
15. The Enneagram | R. Rohr + A Ebert (8/5) 
16. Dare to Lead | B. Brown (8/11) 
17. Untangled | L. Damour (8/17)*
18. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl | M. Awad (10/31) 
19. Give and Take | A. Grant (11/23) 
20. Where the Crawdads Sing | D. Owen (11/29)*
21. Tell Me More | K. Corrigan (12/28)*

And my favorite book of 2019 was:

And you? Surely you've read a handful of good books in the last couple years too. Recommendations? I'd love to hear them. In any case, Happy New Year. Happy reading!

enough

Not poised enough

Not polished enough

Not posting enough

Not smallish enough

Not smart enough

Not witty enough

Not woke enough

Not pretty enough

Not thin enough

Not stacked enough

Not Island enough

Not black enough

Not patient enough

Not kind enough

Not righteous enough

Not refined enough

Not silent enough

Not psyched enough

Not social enough

Not liked enough

Not seasoned enough

Not paid enough

Not compelling enough

Not portrayed enough

Not swank enough

Not thanked enough

Not fall-in-rank enough

Not fill-in-the-blank enough

Not soft enough

Not tough enough

Not enough enough

Not…

Enough.

sayulita | part II

chelan | solo