We’re In the Process of Relocating Here

Please forgive the mess!  We’re in the process of relocating here…and figuring out how to to do it.

Now Accepting Emails: Mom, the MMRF and My Inbox

Today marks my mother’s fifth deathiversary. I know, not funny, but it’s true. As I’ve written before, the period from right before Thanksgiving through Christmas tends to be one filled with

emotional adventures for me. One minute, things are fine, and another, she’s all over me, assaulting me with memories of the last two weeks of her life or amusing me with visions of the
other thirty 34 years plus I shared with her. I’ve reached the tipping point where the visions outweigh the assaults. But, that’s not what I intended to write about.

Honestly, I didn’t intend to write at all, but my fingers somehow clicked out of Twitter and ended up here…typing. Well, after they checked email and found an email thanking me for supporting the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation Race for Research. I
didn’t even open the email, only read the portion of the subject line that was
visible before I felt anger welling up inside me. See, since she died, I haven’t supported the MMRF or any other of the multiple myeloma-focused organizations or efforts that used to be
welcome to visit my inbox. And, I swear, I unsubscribed from them all shortly after she died in protest of their failure to keep her here longer…and then to bring her back after she’d gone.

I remember the last two weeks pretty vividly, a mixture of holiday cheer, watching her chest wondering if this breath would be the last, loving and even festive visits from friends and family, and pre-passing funeral preparations. I remember being on the floor of my dining room on December 2 and hearing my youngest sister who lay next to our mother say, “I don’t think she’s breathing!” And, that was it. I was prepared. A few tears and then all of my planning became action. I knew who to call, what to do, what to say. I had planned almost everything—which nurse to call to confirm the time of death, the number of the local funeral home that would remove and transfer her body from here to Cleveland. I had developed my phone tree and drafted a beautiful email to share the difficult news with the people who loved her.

What I hadn’t prepared for was the site of her empty bed echoing throughout my home making her transition more real than even the site of her lifeless body wearing the disguise of peaceful sleep. I wasn’t ready for the emptiness. But, my handle-it instincts kicked in, and I quickly solved the problem with the only response I could—more emptiness. I pleadingly ordered my
uncles to dismantle the bed. Take. It. Down. Remove every suggestion that she ever slept here. Immediately.

And, then, I did the same with all things multiple myeloma, the disease that took her life. Although I have participated in Relay for Life every year since then, I have always been resistant, adamantly opposed even, to having anything to do with anything to do with that disease specifically. But still, I want it gone.

We were blessed. When my mother was diagnosed at 45, the best prognosis for most people
was 24 months…maybe. And, although it was considered a terminal disease, my mother was able to borrow another decade plus a little and to spend several years of it with no signs of the disease. That gift was the result of her young age and good health at diagnosis, divine grace coupled with clinical trials, new medications and even old, previously banned ones that have now made multiple myeloma a treatable, manageable disease. So, I know the power of research. I know that if my mother had relapsed even one year earlier, we wouldn’t have gotten the plus. The first treatment she received after her relapse had been banned in this country and had just been approved for treatment of this disease. The second, which, as these things go may have also impaired her health further, was new and had just been made available due to the great success in trials.

So, both my grieving and my healing continue with this post, as I opt not to delete and re-unsubscribe from the MMRF mailing list and instead become a Facebook fan. Eradicating all things multiple myeloma from my inbox did not have the desired effect of changing the facts of my mother’s illness and death. I, however, am now in a place where I can change my story about those facts and create a space in both my email account, my heart and my budget to embrace the work that the foundation is doing to give other families some plus-time with their loved ones and to ultimately find a cure.

To learn more about the MMRF and the work they’re doing and/or to donate and support this research, visit: www.themmrf.org.

Postscript:

I actually wrote this post on Tuesday morning. The first words were originally, “This Thursday marks…” That night, my son’s father called to tell me that a dear friend, several years younger than me, is presenting with multiple myeloma. That was affirmation that my healing was right on schedule.

The Quest

Woman_meditating

It feels good to be back!  Thank you to Denene at MyBrownBaby for her brilliant new monthly Beautiful Mind Writing Contest which finally inspired me to come back "home".  Check MyBrownBaby on Tuesday, November 24th to see the entire list of entries.  So, here's my variation on this month's theme…Peace


My name means seeker of truth.  All my life, I have been seeking, constantly in search of
everything:  my soulmate, a deeper
connection with spirit, my purpose…that “it” that would have me finally certain
about something, would end the search. 
My journey has carried me through all types of adventures, beliefs,
careers, concepts and relationships. 
And, every time, along every single journey, I do reach a point at which
I am almost certain that I have
reached “it”.  But inevitably some
clue emerges that this isn’t quite “it”, and my search continues. 

There have been loves, otherworldly loves, that seemed
without question to fill that space that sometimes tricks me into believing
that I am not already complete. 
The kind of love that seems like it has always existed and reassures you
that if for no other reason, you are here to be loved by this man.  Those kind of loves; pregnant with
excruciating passion in the beginning filling me with the confidence to meet
destiny head on, because in that space, there is nothing but love and
possibility.  But like many of the
partners I chose, I would find myself unable to stay for long, unwilling to be
completely certain.  So, we move
on. 

I have had political convictions that have driven me to
organize, fight, and even to jail. 
The world has always been mine to save; but if I couldn’t save it all,
surely I could save Black people. 
And, so, almost positive that I could stay on the course of “Hell no!  We won’t go!” I jumped in fiery and red
and hard as hell, willing to do anything for the struggle; willing to restrict
myself to only Black-owned restaurants; willing to skip final exams for
protests; willing to fight cops, enter prisons, willing to die…until I started
business school. 

And, then, there was the moment I held my baby against my
chest for the first time.  There
was no other purpose then.  My
every thought, action and body part was devoted to keeping him safe, healthy
and happy.  Motherhood, I knew,
could be enough to hold me still, keep me steady, maintain my focus
forever.  There was nothing I
wanted to do, nothing else existed; my child, me and that incredible high I got
from nursing.  Now, he drinks Silk,
and though he is my motiviation, my teacher, the absolute love of my life, the
one thing I know with certainty I would die for, even he is not the “it” that
keeps me on this quest. 

I know this, because it will not allow me to bite my nails
while I anxiously remind myself of all the reasons I actually am smart enough
to speak to a room full of educated folks about my passion about
co-parenting.  It would not have me
silently questioning my competence as a mother when my child ends up on red
light for his behavior at school that day.  It would not tell me to offer up all of my shortcomings,
albeit wittily, as a way to manage expectations and mitigate the risk of having
anyone expect me to play as big and as hard as I know I can.  That ain’t it. 

It is that certain sense of being enough, of being full even
when your bed, your pockets and your belly are empty.  That willingness to show yourself compassion…and empathy,
because, of course you have been there before, so you understand exactly what
you must be going through right now. 
That courage to love yourself exactly as you are, right now, whatever
that looks like, feels like and can’t seem to get right.  It is the unwavering belief that even
though I have been searching continually, uncontrollably, even haphazardly for
my entire life to date, that even that is alright.   It is the faith that somewhere, even if where is right
here, somewhere peace exists and the certainty in knowing that I will find it.

Celibacy Blues

I like sex.  I
like it a lot.  Over a year ago,
though, I decided to take a pass…indefinitely.

There was no moral or religious code driving my
decision.  I’m perfectly
comfortable with having premarital sex. 
For me the decision was all about ending the senseless cycle of choosing
what I don’t want.  It was about
getting honest with myself and standing in what I truly wanted.  It was about getting that the vajayjay
vote is a powerful way of signalling to the Universe that you want more of what
you’re voting for.

See, I had become really comfortable being that chic who was
cool with whatever, you know, the gray area.  As long as the gray area was defined explicitly, I knew how
to be there.  I knew how to love a
man deeply, passionately even and at the same time respect his honesty.  I had evolved into a woman who was so
deep she could flow in the “what is” of a relationship that in actuality
wasn’t.  I was a master at acting
girlfriend-ish.  I could do it
graciously, generously and without drama. 
I was cool like that.

But, the truth was, I wanted a partner, even while I was
practicing the art of not pushing… of letting him be where he be, I wanted to build a life with a man who
wanted to build a life with me.  I
wanted monogamy, exclusivity, commitment. 
I wanted a husband, a life partner.

But, the even deeper truth, is that despite the words that
were coming out of my mouth, I didn’t truly believe I could have all that that
meant to me.  I felt unworthy; not
unworthy of any particular man.  It
was a general all-purpose unworthiness. 
Just unworthy.  Period. 

And, so, I voted with my vajayjay for what I didn’t want in
a subconscious effort to avoid the pain of voting for what I really wanted and
not getting it, because I didn’t deserve it. 

It was that simple. 
And, because it was, the antidote was just as simple.  Stop choosing what I don’t want.  Become the partner with whom I want to
share my life.  Step into that life
and fill it with nothing but wonderful. 
Leave enough space for him to step in, too.

And, when he does, wield that vajayjay vote over and over
and over again.

Pillow Talk: Episode 3–I Think I Caught This Curveball

Boy_sleeping

I sprinted downstairs to share this one.  My poor son is suffering from some sort of allergy-cold nastiness that doesn't seem to be responding to any of the drugs I hate giving him.  Therein lies the inspiration for this one…at least until the curveball:

Son:  Where does snot come from?

Me:  *completely and genuinely excited*  That's a great question!  I've always wondered that, too.  How is it that no matter how much you blow your nose, there's always more snot left in your head?  You know what?  If you wake up a little early tomorrow, we'll Google it!  Great question, son!

Son:   Hey!  Let's look up where mucus comes from, too! *beaming proudly*

Me:  Uh…snot is mucus…I think there must be some organ in our body that only makes snot.

Son:  Uh…what's an organ?

Me:  An organ is a part of your body that keeps it working, like your heart.  (Best I could do.)

Son:  Oh.  I wish I was a doctor.  Doctors know all the parts of your body…I think that you just have a lot of boogers, and somehow your nose turns it into snot.  That's where it comes from…Where do boogers come from?

Me:  Exactly!  Exactly!  I just don't know.

Son:  Um…Mama?

Me:  Yes?

Son:  Why did that lady think she was really a boy and get her body changed?

Me:  *reaching for the curveball and cursing the pregnant man's ubiquity*  Er…uh…Everybody's different.  And, some people in their minds and hearts feel like they're in the wrong body.  Now, go to sleep.

Son:  Mama?

Me:  Yeah?

Son:  I love you.


So…did I catch it?  Or, did I strike out?

Pillow Talk: Episode 2–It’s the Law…Isn’t It?

Boy_sleeping

Since my mother passed away years ago, my sisters and I (The Syndicate) have made it a point to keep her memory alive for my son through picutres and stories about the time the two of them spent together.  When he was three months old, I was blessed to be able to convince my mother to quit her job at a daycare center and come care for her grandson full-time with me replacing her income (which was criminally low) and doing extra when I was able.
I've often wondered if my son really remembers my mother, or if his memories are just of the tales we've fed him over the past four years.  I got my answer last week during a bedtime discussion about our participation in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life.
Me:  You know tomorrow is Relay for Life!

Son:  I know!  I can't wait!

Me:  And, you know that Relay for Life is one of the ways we live our family's values, right?  Remember?  "We use our gifts to make the world a better place."

Son:  I miss Grandma.  She used to play with me and feed me and take care of me.

Me:  Really?  For real?  Do you really remember Grandma, or are you just thinking about what your aunties and I tell you?

Son:  No, Mama.  I remember her.  I remember the last time I saw her.

Me:  Is that right? *incredulous*

Son:  I was wearing a red and white shirt.  It was when the TV used to be in the dinner room (which we had converted into a bedroom for her.)  We were watching Rudolph.  You were sitting by the kitchen, and Daddy was sitting on the other side by the two doors.  Grandma was laughing.  I can still picture it in my mind.

Me:  *sniffling*

Son:  Mama?  I'm going to take care of you when you get old.

Me:  You are?

Son:  Yeah!  It's against the law not to!

Me:  Um…no…it's not.

Son:   Wha?!   *incredulous*

Me:  Yeah.  You don't have to take care of your parents when they get old.  Some people don't.

Son:  Well, it should be against the law!

Please Vote for AllAboutSchools.com

Tomorrow I attend my first Ladies Who Launch incubator workshop session in my quest to better align my livelihood with my passion.  This entrepreneurship game is serious, but already, although I've only put my first size 10 through the threshold, I know I'll step all the way through to the other side.  

One of my inspirations for edging closer and closer to the cliff is my good friend/fam, Charles Wright, founder of AllAboutMySchool.com.  Since I've known him, this father, husband, advocate for improving our children's education has been tinkering, strategizing, plotting, creating…and now competing to help us get more involved in improving the performance of our schools.

AAMS

AllAboutMySchool.com is competing in a business launch competition offering just enough in prizes to make sure this valuable tool for parents, educators, administrators and other concerned community goes live sooner rather than later.  So, please swing by the TAG business launch competition site and vote for Video #2 to support this great venture!

Pillow Talk: Episode 1–Mrs. S’s Hustle

Boy_sleeping

I'm going to pretend like I haven't been gone for a while, so we can get right to catching up.  These next jump right into my sharing the first of several bedtime vignettes:

Me:  Look.  If you want me to lay here with you for a few minutes, you need to at least act like you're trying to fall asleep.

Son:  OK.  But, can we just talk about our day first?

Me:  No!

Son:  Mama?  You know Mrs. S., the other first grade teacher across from my class?

Me:  Go to sleep!

Son:  She's like the Tooth Fairy!

Me:  Really?  How's that?

Son:  When she pulls kids' teeth out, she doesn't even hurt them!  I think she gets paid extra for that!

Me:  Is that right?

Son:  D. (his 13-year-old cousin) says that the Tooth Fairy isn't real; that really your parents gently sneak under your pillow and put the money there.  *Pause*

Me:  Um…well…what do you think?  *eyes shifting guiltily from side to side*

Son:  I think she's wrong, because I don't think parents have enough money to pay for all those teeth!

Me:  That's a good point!

Son:  Besides, if it was parents, they would just tell you…If they were honest…

And, thus began my agonizing over when to confess what I really know.  Ultimately, I decided on "never"…taking this one to my grave.  Tonight, he sleeps anxiously, waiting for a bunny to bring him candy and Pokemon cards in a pastel basket.

Meet My New Baby!

That's right!  For months now, I have been pregnant and keeping it a secret.  "Pregnant!?" you say (while trying not to judge me.)  Yes!  Pregnant!  Pregnant with possibilities!  Pregnant with purpose!  And, today, I can barely contain myself as I introduce you to my baby…WeParent.com!

WeParent_screenshot
Several months ago, I decided to start blogging as a way to build up a writing routine that would eventually lead to my authoring a book about African-American parents and co-parenting.  My first blog, as some of you know, was actually called WeParent and was going to be about my co-parenting experience.  It lasted two posts, one about my pissedoffedness with my son's father over the booster seat and the other about why I feel so passionate about co-parenting.  
Then, I started The Mama Spot…and fell in love.  I discovered a gift, a new way of connecting, a community…an entire new universe.  And, somewhere along the way, I also discovered a calling.  When you weren't watching, I was becoming convinced that by sharing my rocky journey through self-growth honestly and humbly, I could help people find a path to change in their own lives and eventually find a way there, myself.  
As that new consciousness was converging with this role called "co-parent", I committed myself, perhaps for the first time fully, to one of my "brilliant ideas" (You would be shocked to know how many others are sitting dusty in drawers, closets and long lost notebooks.)  I stepped into that awesome space of allowing my faith to be stronger than my fear; of truly believing that my "..playing small does not serve the World."  And, that one step propelled me into a mission to create a space where  mothers and fathers like my son's Daddy and I can find information, healing, encouragement, advice and perhaps even joy as we parent together even though we now live apart.
Sleep and meals have become distractions as I find myself getting high off this thing!  It truly has become my baby.  And, as far back as its conception, it has been surrounded by the love of an unwavering village for which I feel endless gratitude.  As I stand here before the Academy…oh…my bad…wrong speech!  But, really, there a are a few people who I need to big-up for their role in this birthing process…and a whole lot more who I'll thank outside of the blogosphere.  So, here goes:  (pulling list out of lapel pocket)  Shout out to Ronald, my technology guru and unfailing cheerleader; my son's father, who shall remain nameless, but who made all this possible by being my Baby Daddy (and who has been supportive even when it means that his business gets shared with all of you); my own Daddy who is a constant voice of encouragement; and to John of Sozo's Design who brought the vision to life and who has truly offered this as a labor of love…a website Baby Daddy of sorts.  Renee of CutieBootyCakes, my cyber-inspiration among many other great things; and Tish who provided the creative vision for the site.  And, of course, to so many others whom I count among the miracles that guided me to and have joined me in this exciting new adventure.
So, now, finally, here's what you'll find on WeParent.com:
  • Blogs like MamaSpeak and Fatherhood Freestyle where a team of blogging Mamas and Daddy's tell what's on their minds
  • Columns like Real Families, which features co-parents making it work and Words from the Wise, our advice column
  • WeParent Connect our online community where members write their own blogs, engage in discussion forums and share cute pics of their kids
  • And lots more…
I hope that each of you will visit the site, and share it with someone you think might benefit from the support of a community of parents and parent advisers focused on strengthening our families.  And, don't fret, now that we've launched, I'll be back posting weekly on The Mama Spot.
I can't wait to hear what you think about WeParent!  Please spread the word!

Shades of Blackness

Shades_of_blackness

It's been a while, I know.  I'll confess that I was a little peeved with President Obama who was still President-Elect Obama when my grudge began.  But, with the whole Inauguration/Leader of the Free World thing coming up, I didn't want to make waves for the man, so, you know, I played the background for a minute.  But, I'm back.

Here's the deal.  I was going to write an open letter to my son on his birthday, January 10th, but Mr. Obama bet me to the punch with that Parade piece and really stole my thunder.  This isn't a Victim Binge post, but…you do feel me here, right?  Thus, the whole grudgey silent treatment thing.

It took me a while to figure out how to recover, but I did.  Whenever one finds herself at a loss for blog content, turn to one's child's father.  There's always something rich there.  So…I decided to write an open letter to him…but it isn't complete.  Alas, that's an upcoming post.  Fortunately, something else came up recently…

During an interesting conversation, my new colleague, a Black man who has hinted at Republican leanings but seems to support our new President nonetheless, and I were trying to make sure we were talking about the same person.

"Oh.  You mean the light-skinned brother?" he asked.

Now, this is a reference every Black person in this country at least (I don't know how they do elsewhere in the Diaspora) has had umpteen million times.  It's a standard way of describing the man you're dating, which child belongs to whom, which woman you're about to stalk at the club…yourself.  But for some reason, in this instance, I found myself stumped, confused, befuddled, as I looked at my own skin trying to compare myself to the nameless subject of our chat.  Still, I responded appropriately albeit unconfidently, "Yeah.  Maybe my complexion or a little lighter."  Or was he?

I don't know if it's my new Obama Era sensibilities that have shifted my perspective and suddenly left me questioning so many things, including my ability to differentiate shades of Blackness or perhaps some new consciousness about the relativity of Black people's skin color comparisons, but dangit, I need a Complexion Color Wheel.  And, if we are truly going to be led into this post-racial America, I know White folks need one, too!

Seriously, I consider myself relatively pecan, not light, not quite brown-skinned, definitely not caramel, because there's a certain glow that goes with that that I just don't have, but to my son's father's Charleston-bred family, I'm just light-skinned.  And, when is a brother dark-skinned versus chocolate? Is that just when he's fine?  Then there's yellow versus red, although, I haven't heard "redbone" in a long time.  My middle sister is the yellow one in our family, and I think my youngest is brown.  I can't quite place my son. His father, dark-skinned.  And, then, there are those among us, who can't be classified as other than white, but on the spectrum of Blackness.  You get my point.

On second thought, I guess I realize that my color wheel could lead to more Wannabe/Jigaboo colorism, but I'll hope that in the Age of Obama, we will finally dead that.  Because, for real, some Black-is-beautiful Pantone chips would help a little.  Anyway, I found my confusion confusing until I realized that this thing we do, this way of describing ourselves is confusing and relative and dynamic…but still so beautifully Black, fraught with all the creativity and contradiction that color us as a people.  

The good thing is, turns out that my colleague and I were talking about the same person…at least I think we were.  

Your turn…Have you figured this whole shades of Blackness thing out yet?  Do you really know what brown-skinned means?  Are dark-skinned and chocolate the same thing?