Being Forty-Four

One kid drinks daily coffee

And the other is growing a “goatee.”

What in God’s name does that say about me?

Am I old enough to be the mom of these two,

Passing wisdom and sometimes judgement

Just to name a few?

Both looking down at me, now I’m the small one.

Am I ready to have such an amazing daughter

And and almost grown up son?

Forty-four isn’t that old,

It’s double digits,

It’s eleven.

Still playing,

Knowingly paying for shenanigans

And other transgressions.

But sorry, Go back

No way. Not me.

Never do I want to return to, say, 23.

Back then I had my way all planned out

Didn’t know much of what life was really about.

Didn’t know I’d make it through

Grief,

Anxiety,

Depression,

And pain.

Through moves,  

Being broke,

That feeling of being stuck out in the rain.

But, Im still here at forty-four.

Brighter, better than before.

With age comes crown-wearing wisdom

And a regal beauty no one can ignore.

Or at forty four, we’ll quickly tell you

To get the hell out the door.

So coffee and goatee,

My babies you will always be.

Be proud you have a momma

That knows she’s enough.

And to her, there’s more than what you see.

Being forty-four is alright with me.

Through a Child's Eyes

“You’re black and ugly, like your skirt.” This matter-of-fact statement from a stringy haired girl, 6 inches taller than me, a little Queen Witch, was dropped, like an mic or an F-Bomb, at my size 3 feet. I looked from her cold eyes, down to my black and white houndstooth, wrap-around ice skating skirt, that up until that moment, I thought I was rocking, and looked back up to see her skating off to rejoin her audience.

I was 8.

After recovering from stunned disbelief and my 3rd grade logic trying to figure out what I’d done to have such mean girl antics tossed my way, I slowly moved to skate an easy recovery lap and attempt another Bunny Hop for my upcoming evaluation. I couldn’t shake the sense of feeling “less-than” that had come over me. And further, what would I tell my parents who’d grown up during full scale race wars in the South. Would they ever let their little, suburban, brown girl skate at UTC any more?

I decided then and there not to utter a peep. Ice skating was more important than mean girls, even when my heart was in my throat each time I lapped the ice and got near her.

I decided then and there to hold my head up and do my thing, even if I had to do it alone or with people who thought I was black and ugly.

I decided I was strong and brave and a fighter. I also decided to know where exits are and that ice skates and a lot of other things, could make a nice weapon if need be.

I learned that being smart wasn’t just a matter of test scores, but knowing how to thrive and survive even when that meant hitting the ignore button and carrying on was the best option.

I wonder about that not so little stringy haired girl and wonder just how ugly she’s continued to be. But I know, this brown girl would skate laps around her now, I know just what to say and am spreading more love than she can hate. If she could only see me now.

In Marvin's words, "What's going on?"

France, Tunisia, Kuwait...my heart is hurting for our world. Feeling like I need to help, but I don't know what I can do besides be and teach compassion, tolerance and love. It just doesn't feel like enough right now.

We need his music and wisdom to help us heal.

https://youtu.be/jzPA-FrVu3I

The Readenest Child You Ever Did See…”

"The Readenest Child You Ever Did See…”

“The readnesest child you ever did see,”

Just the opposite of the she that was me.

“Silent reading time,” Mrs. Butler would say,

The favorite part of many of my fellow third-graders’ day.

But not mine.

For me, reading meant racing the others to see

Who would be,

The Pages Read (red) champion, never me.

A slow reader I was, kind of killed the reading buzz

Because

I thought I was inferior

Because my reading log numbers weren’t superior.

Little did I know,

It was interest, not skill

That delayed my completion

of getting that log to fill.

Not my lack of speed,

That kept me from wanting to read.

Though books were a plenty,

None starred little brown girls

With ebony, kinky curls,

barrettes and bows,

and a fear of ashy elbows.

No heroines for me

To see me on the page,

So my natural response

Was to stay off the reading stage.

Until,

Until many years later with professors

and friends

and roommates

and sorors

awakened my being to all the

Little Ruby Bridges,

The Maya Angelou’s.

Langston’s telling verses made Harlem come alive and

Zora Neal Hurston made my eyes want to watch God.

While Baldwin gave me something to go tell on the mountain,

Ntozake Shange told me the rainbow was enough so considering anything else would not do.

“The readenest child you ever did see,”

Became the readenest, writingest, teachingest truly grown woman, you ever did see.

‘Cause finally, I could see me.

*Inspired by Lou Heck’s Demonstration, Mining of Nuggets. This quote was captured and posted by another student, made ready for the taking!

Cheers to New Beginnings: Back to School

The “just right” outfit picked out; comfortable, cute and “appropriate” for professional company. Backpack ready with new pens and a clean journal.Lunch and snack packed in the sack that’s become comforting. Jif PB & Welch’s J, just like third grade. The only difference is that I, not my mother, packed it, in the home I own, leaving my own children behind as I walk out the door for my first day of school. Feeling the need to “rep” the real me in tandem with the me I want to be.

Backpack on, head up, comfy shoes, steady gait, walking tracker set (recording the mileage and calories for posterity). Five weeks of one-mile-each-way-walks in the hope of becoming a better me: a better teacher, better writer, better human.

Nostalgia’s gentle breeze takes me back over 20 years when I last walked to school, analyzing blowing leaves, locating that sound in the bushes and noting property markers with each step. Sunlight growing as shade fades, even at 8 am. In it all, excitement and nerves grow conjoined. Climbing the University stairs, felt like coming home. I am supposed to be in proverbial ivory towers pondering difficult questions and pushing myself intellectually.

When reluctantly responding to the inevitable, “What are your summer plans,” question and my “Going back to school,” response left many speechless and baffled, I felt no need to justify myself. No, I need no more letters behind my name. No, I won’t get a raise or promotion. With all due respect, what type of teacher would I be if I ceased to be a learner? How can I deny my spirit the cleansing push it’s longing for? How can I close the door on what might be beyond the University doors?

No amount of sand between my toes, poolside naps or daytime TV can feed my soul the way writing and learning can. (Plus, I can do all of that after school. So to new beginnings, I say, Count Me In!

What new beginning is waiting for you?

From the Demons...In the End, We Can't Win

Let's make sure, she's in pain
That she always has something
That can rob her of sanity giving sleep.

Let's also be sure her heart aches,
Her stomach quakes,
That she feels alone and burdened.

Let's ensure she second guesses
Every decision she's ever made...
Every yes, every no, every hesitation.

Let's make sure she's exhausted
And that when she does need,
The person she hesitantly reaches out to is away,
If even momentarily.

Let's make sure we beat her down,
Stall her will,
And preoccupy her mind with every possible "could go wrong."

Let's climb on her shoulders,
Tie weights to her journey,
And tie one hand behind the other.

Only we know,
In the end,
We can't win.

Her will moves her forward
Even when she doesn't know what
She, herself is capable of.

Her so-called waning faith will carry her through to the faint light in the distance.

Her fight is stronger than we know.

So torment, yes we can,
Defeat her...alas...no.

The "Blingy" Pen - Gratitude for a Simple Gift

The Blingy Pen

A gift from the sweet daughter that looks slightly down into the eyes of her mother who is just a tad shorter than she. A gift selected for the mother she knows lives and breathes to write.

It sparkles and shines, draws radiance from the light and casts a sense of elegance the way she sees her mother.

This daughter's eyes look past the frazzled racing around the house, the slamming of cupboards in response to life’s latest disappointment and beyond the tears of frustration and the inability to be in more than one just-as-important-place at a time. Daughter sees beyond the self-denouncing inner voice, the overly critical eye, and the self-deprecating angst mother reserves for herself.

Truly, daughter sees just mom, the closest thing to the real Wonder Woman her mother, herself, has idolized since 2nd grade.

Daughter takes note of the kindness displayed to others even when mother is beyond exhausted. Daughter sees all the mothering of kids not her own and of their parents sometimes, too.

Daughter sees paying bills online while stirring some recipe mother “just made up” as she stands in the kitchen still in work clothes having had meetings before and after school and patiently explaining #3 for the fiftieth time.

For daughter, this blingy pen is a symbol of honor, love and awe for the woman whose voice sometimes only can be heard with pen and paper. Daughter knows this pen can be a friend when it’s 3 a.m.; when no one else is there for her mother. Sometimes, daughter knows, this pen can be a lifeline.

So for mother, this blingy pen, is simply the best gift, saying more with simplicity’s angelic voice in the form of sweet daughter.

Mother, thanks you, my love.

Even when it seems like no one would really miss you if you were gone, truth is, you are still here.

Even in the loneliest hour when it feels like there’s only you and yourself to keep you company, remember, there is someone who would not be on this planet if it were not for you. Whether it be your kind words of encouragement in what may seem like an infantecmile moment to you, your smile at a seemingly innocent stranger, your couch cushion coins to a homeless person on the corner of your route home, or what seems like a random text to a long lost friend, they need you. Your tears need to be wiped from that tender, child-like cheek, your seemingly endless heartache, your questions of why me or why not me are insignificant in terms of the one life, the one person, at that one moment when it is you who makes all the difference.

So in those times of darkness and pain-filled deep breaths, or those times of questioning why you are really here and if anyone would miss you if you were gone, remember, there is someone out there, most likely unbeknownst to you, that needs you for even that one moment. So hang in there. Wipe your own tears from that pillowcase. It’s ok if you’re all you’ve got. Breathe deeply and remember you are necessary, you are here for a reason and you are needed. Even when it seems like no one would really miss you if you were gone, truth is, you are still here. And that someone you need, is there waiting to run into you...too. Tears dried, tiara on, holding on tight. You are still here for a reason.

Anxiety...You Bitch

Anxiety is a real, true, utter BITCH. Yes, I said bitch because only a female could be as conniving, backstabbing and messy as Anxiety. Her ability to wake you in a cold sweat by bringing your fears to the forefront on repeat, as if it’s your favorite song, is a skill only females have mastered. She can sweet talk her way into your chest until you feel as if the weight of the universe is settled there and you can garner no more than a straw’s worth of oxygen, just enough to keep you from literally dying: though you have already died a thousand times in your mind because of Her.

Anxiety worms her way through to your soul, particularly when the clock ticks it’s loudest in the hours where the the moon is at it’s fullest and the nocturnal animals are on their jobs. She wants you tired for the next day so her work is easier. So that She can weasel her way into your forethought and so that you suddenly feel like not living would be easier than facing her again.

Guess what, Anxiety. I am a bitch, too. Strong willed, strong arming my way through a world whose mantra is that women like me, women period, are second best, second string and for some, second veiled without the freedom to walk down the street. I am a bad bitch who would rather walk alone than compromise what I know to be my truth whether it is The Truth. But then, She comes along and creeps into my otherwise peaceful dreams distorting them into dark sounds and eerie sights. She comes into my waking moments making my heart race as if I’ve just been told to run for my life. She fills my head with all of the things that could go wrong because so many have gone wrong and is somehow able to overshadow everything that’s gone just right.

Oh, you bitch. NO amount of prayer or meditation or medication can remove you forever, only tame you into temporary submission. It is my blood to fight until my last breath so me and you will remain adversaries of the ages. Know this, bitch, I do not quit. So...leave...me...the...fuck...alone. I will no longer be easy prey. I DO NOT stop and you are NOT my master. Keep swinging, though. I know you will often connect and have one heck of a left hook. But know that I fight whenever, wherever, however it needs to be done and I will not ever stop. Bring it, Bitch. My tiara and sword will be right here, not running, but standing firm.

From Teacher to Parents...These Are OUR Kids

These Kids, Your kids, Our kids

These kids want to be grown up, 

Do-it-yourself, but don't realize how much they need you know-it-alls,

While really needing to be 

Guided, nurtured and heard.

These kids will grow to be their best 

With the right combination of “supportilizer” that 

Each of us has patented our own brand of.

Your kids will fight, argue, swear they’re “done,” and have “done” their best,

Will become door slamming, 

Lawyer worthy case pleaders 

Who cry in your lap one minute 

And swear they are grown-up enough to handle everything the next. 

Your kids need to know you’re still there,

Through the mistakes, 

The tears, 

The successes, 

The failures, 

The dreaded questions

And answers they sometimes do not want to hear. 

Our kids will forget we were once in their shoes, 

Forget we have survived many bumps and scrapes they have yet to experience, 

And forget we truly want what’s best for them. 

In all of that, 

Our kids will know, 

That under our protective partnership of loving understanding, 

And letting them make and learn from their mistakes kind of care, 

We are united, 

We have the best intentions and 

We will do whatever it takes to 

Push, 

Pull, 

Drag and 

Glide them to the next level. 

We are we. 

We are united. 

Because they are all 

Our kids.