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.