Be Gentle

We are our worse critics. We know that. But what is amazing is how cruel we can be to ourselves. What we would never say or think about our friends, we put upon ourselves. Our self-criticisms are not gentle, they are at times, cruel and evil.

Recently, a good friend of mine passed away. He would be proud that I remembered not to put a s on the end of "mine". It was a little thing between us. "That's mines" I would say. He would smile and gently correct me. It is funny how one remembers the little thing between friends when they are not around. My friend died from cancer. We don't get to have those conversations anymore. In the last few months of his life, I would go to visit him often. As his sister-in-law said to me, "I try to come as often as I can because I don't know how much time we have left". And we didn't know. We knew it was limited because the hospital sent him home after years of his illness. He managed to battle cancer for the majority of his life. He had lost part of his leg, later to have the whole leg removed. And he was still going. My friend seemed invincible and I just thought the hospital was wrong.

I only visited and did not live with my friend through his final days. His husband and his family was with him much more than I was. Yet, the recorder inside of me took in the gradual changes. As cancer took a stronger hold of his body, my mind was filled with "before and after" images. His body became weaker. He became thinner. And I cried when my friend's mind no longer was sharp. His statements stopped making sense. It tore at me like muscles being pulled away from the bones. The pain was not visible. I knew it would mend with time but it was there.

One of the last things I got to share with my friend toward the end of his life was that another one of my best friends had gotten a great job in Hawaii. When I told him, he lit up and smiled. I shared that moment with my buddy that was leaving for the islands. She was happy that he was able to acknowledge her news despite his struggle to make sense of things in that stage of the disease.  He died days later. So, after watching one friend pass away, I prepared to say bye to another. I promised her that if she got the job and decided to move, I would go with her to help her settle in her new home. Hawaii is so far away from the Midwest. I hoped that simply having a friend on the plane ride over would help. It was odd, going back to the airport but not having her board with me. This time, as I said good-bye to another friend, I had the feel of an empty, gnawing stomach. Different hurt but pain just the same.

I like to self-medicate.  Greasy food, sugary treats gives a numbing result. Anything with cheese on it helps. Drinks are good too. After saying bye to my friends, I didn't feel good so I medicated. What was left was a person 20 pounds heavier. Rather than admit that I was in pain, I beat myself up some more. I told myself that I was being a baby. I looked in the mirror and was fixated on the ugliness that I had decided was in front of me. There was no gentle happening at a time that my soul really just needed a hug. So cruel.

I'm starting to feel better. I've taken a little time each day to write in my personal journal and to take myself on some much needed walks by the lake. I now see a friend in the mirror. That's the thing about friendships. It comes with amazing highs but also a few lows. I am blessed that I have beautiful friends. I am being gentle with me, just as my friends have always done when I needed help. And that is how I treat my friends. It works for me too.

If you would like to read about my now departed friend and how his husband has survived the lost, check out the xanax diary.

From some pretty tight shoes...

10 years ago, I was a writer for a very cool website, twotightshoes. We wrote articles and poetry for women of color. I recently went to see what was left of our old site. Take a look at www.twotightshoes.net . Trust me, that is not what the site looked like when I posted there.

I decided to share a piece that I posted some years back. Enjoy!

The Visitor

This morning I woke to find a demon in my living room. She looked a lot like me, only with horns and a tail. She had taken a place in my favorite Lazy-Boy. There was the remote control in her left hand and a beer in the right. Her feet were up and she looked as if she had always lived in my home, very relaxed, almost too relaxed.

“Excuse me. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” I said. I tried to keep my voice calm. You don’t exactly want to piss a demon off.

“Don’t you recognize me?” She said. “Look at me. I’m your demon, silly. You know, your dark side. You’ve been going so long not doing anything to get rid of me so I figured I might as well make myself at home. It’s pretty boring inside your head. You don’t do too much. It’s much cozier out here. Want a beer?” She reached into a cooler that was sitting on the floor next to the recliner. “There’s a good talk show coming on in a few minutes. Grab a seat.”

“I don’t think so. Umm, since you’re out and about, why don’t you go to someone else’s house? I heard OJ’s demons could use some company. Why don’t you go there? Isn’t he in California? The weather is much better there than in Chicago.”

“Umm, no.”

This was not going to be easy. I ran my hand through my dreadlocks and thought for a minute. “OK, you’re my demon, right?”

“You bet!”

“OK, I demand that you leave, right now”

She began to laugh. “That’s funny, girl. Come on, sit and have a beer or two.”

“Fine”, I said. “Then I’m just going to kick your butt out.” I proceeded to grab her arm. The heat from her skin singed my hand. “Ow! You really are a demon, aren’t you?”

“You bet! Now hush. The show is on”.

I went back into my bedroom and slammed the door. How in the hell was I going to get her out of here? And why did I have such a big lazy demon anyway? I didn’t even know I had something like that lurking in my head. This must be a dream! That’s it, a dream. I rubbed my eyes real hard, jumped up and opened the bedroom. Just as I got the door fully open, she gave a thunderous belch. How disgusting! Nope, it wasn’t a dream. I slammed the door and threw myself onto the bed.

Three days have past and she’s still here. I’ve tried screaming at her, tried ignoring her, hell, I even tried reading scripture and doing Buddhist chants. She’s still here. She looks like she’s getting fatter and lazier. She eats up all the food in the refrigerator. She doesn’t shower and she stinks like I don’t know what. The cats won’t leave the bedroom. I think they are the reason she doesn’t crawl in my bed at night. She just stays in that chair, drinking beer and watching TV. I’m going to need help with this one.

I went to the library last night and picked up as many books as I could about exorcisms. There was a lot of nothing in most of the books. It wasn’t until the last book that I got an idea.

“When were you created? I asked her when I got home.

“When you were born. Can you be quiet, I’m watching TV.”

“No, I can’t. Why did you keep growing? You look as old as I do. That means you must have been growing as I’ve been growing. How is that so?”

“As long as you don’t conquer your fears, I can live. Stop asking me questions.”

“You have to answer me, don’t you?”

“Yes. Damn it, stop that!” she screamed. She seemed a little agitated.

“Umm, no. I’m going to keep asking you questions until I know everything about you.”

I spent the night quizzing her on my entire existence. The more I asked, the smaller she got. I felt this weight removed, not only from my Lazy-Boy but from my soul as well. There was a peace with the understanding. At times I cried, at others I laughed at my ignorance of what had kept me from my goals for so long. And she just got smaller and smaller.

“OK, I’m finished.” By this time, she was nothing but a formless red smoke hovering over the chair. “One last thing. Get the hell out of my home. Better yet, get out of my life!”

As the smoke cleared, I heard a voice whisper “be careful, I just may come back.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it”, I said. And peace was returned to me.

1, 10, 100, The World

"I want to start a mentoring program." I have been saying this for 5 years. There are notes, there were conversations, still no program.

Today I decided on a new approach. How many children do I really want to mentor at one time? I took a piece of paper and folded it into four sections. I labeled the sections 1, 10, 100 and The World. I wrote bullet points in section 1 for what I needed to help just one child. How many people do I need to be mentors? Where will we meet? I stayed away from theories and documentation. Next, how could I help ten children? When I got to one hundred, I found myself only able to write negatives, what could go wrong. The World section produced more negatives. OK, now I know where to start.

My first thought for mentoring one child was "what's the point?" I skipped passed it and moved to the 10 box. That seemed like a comfortable start. I began to list the requirements. I will need ten mentors. I will need a place. That's when I stopped and put my notes to the side. Baby steps. 

It was a few days later that I came back to the one-child idea. I could be that mentor. Why not? Wait, better idea. I could go mentor a child at the high school in my district (students in my school get me five days a week already and they are a bit young for what I'm envisioning). Wait! Even better idea! I could go back to my old high school and mentor a child.

The ball is now rolling, not only in my head but on paper. I could connect with some alumni and we could mentor a few kids. A few years back I had spoken to an old high school friend about mentoring. He was interested in working with young men in the community. And my old neighborhood keeps showing up on the news. This morning a 9-year-old was shot in the head only two blocks from my childhood home. Maybe this was a sign that my old neighborhood, the inspiration for this mission, needed to be first on the list. I can speak to this population. I actually lived there.

I do worry about what people might think about me for leaving the old area that I grew up and not returning for 20 years. After a few years in the dormitories, I moved to the other side of town and have stayed. I visit the old streets that I was raised rarely. I guess I will just have to include that in my story. It is true. I left because I didn't feel a part of things. I was a nerd and a lesbian in training. Life in an urban Black neighborhood was not a place of comfort for me. So I stayed away because of sour memories. But this is what haunts me. I know there are other children who are struggling with that environment that doesn't manage to embrace everyone. No neighborhood does. If those kid could just see an alternative, like I did, they could make things better for themselves. If they could bond with someone that had faced the challenges that they are dealing with, whatever those challenges are, they would not feel so alone. In any case, I will work through that scenario.

Note to self - the words "return" and"circle" need to be included in the mission statement. That's another project for another day. To me, it's a chicken situation - which comes first, the outline or the mission statement? I look forward to the challenge.

What's Wrong?

Now that I'm in my forties, I have discovered my subtle super powers. Over the years I have learned to make these skills work for me. I'm a detective in a way. I can answer the question "what's wrong?" Its great for being a teacher. I look at my six-year-old students, deep in the stages of development, and I figure out what needs more work. If "Jackie" can't read, I will identify what pieces are missing. Does Jackie know her letter sounds? Is she getting the b confused with the d? I'm a teacher. Teachers fix what's wrong.

My super powers also works with adults. I can read the tension in a person's face and I will find a way to get that person to relax. "What's wrong?", I ask. People like to share with me because of this skill. I have been told that I carry a sense of calm. It makes me feel good that I can put someone's mind to ease. This skill also helps me to identify bad guys. When people-watching, I can find that shady person in the crowd. I can see what's wrong with a picture. Its very helpful.

I acquired my skills in a way that I'm not too proud about. I grew up with an alcoholic. Having a drunk dad coming home from a drinking binge, I had to be very observant. I had to figure out if this is a babbling, fall-asleep evening or a angry throw-a-plate kind of night. I worried about upsetting the other members of my family. They were walking on eggshells and the last thing I wanted to do was make them upset. It was simply chaos. Everything was wrong but I didn't know this because I was a child. Children should be worrying about other things than intoxicated parents. So, without wanting to, I worked on constantly labeling what was wrong.

I am happy that as an adult I put my powers to good. I try to help when I know what's wrong. Yet here is where things fall apart. Life is not perfect. There is always something "wrong" with everything. I get fixated on the negative. There will always be a moment that a person will show tension. In my mind, I always need to stop and listen. If they are carrying too many problems on their sleeve, I'm overwhelmed, running for the hills because for me their discomfort glows like neon.  I meet a woman that I feel attraction and I immediately make a list of what's wrong with her. That would explain why I am single right now.  I'm on overload because I keep seeing what's wrong.

It gets worse. Not only am I focused on what's wrong, I'm thinking about what could go wrong. It is this ball-and-chain that is dragging my ideas for a mentoring program through the mud. For five years, I have dreamed of starting a mentoring program. I believe that children of color, particularly those in urban public schools, should have mentors of color that successfully have graduated from urban public schools and gone on to college. I would like to put these two groups together.  I have written notes. I have done research. I even presented my thesis in my graduate courses. But my constant worry about what could go wrong has kept me from putting my ideas into motion.

This blog is in some way a means to organize my thoughts and to put a program together. This is a way to focus on what is right and what is possible. It also lets me be a writer again. That's the journey and there's nothing wrong if it feels right.

Stepping into the Forest

Recently I read a wonderful book about perseverance. There is a story about two men on a journey that have to decide if they will travel through a dangerous forest. One man stays at the edge of the woods, afraid to be attacked by thieves amongst the trees. The other makes the journey. His journey is not without challenges. He hides from criminals and wild animals. But he stepped into the forest, braved the hurdles and he made it through.

I haven't written in a published format for years. I teach elementary school students and a few paragraphs of 1st grade writing samples on a classroom board are as much as I've put out lately. I ran into an old friend at a party who introduced me as a writer to his girlfriend. I had forgotten that writing was ever a passion for me. It was like a giant suitcase of tools and samples that were buried in the back of a closet. My writing had become something to be discovered years from now and not for the present. That bothered me.

Recently, I've had a lot of conversations about a friend who passed away only weeks ago. My friend had a "why not" attitude about most things. His husband encouraged me to write again. "Why not?" So, here I am, stepping int the forest. I really can't fail at this. Failing was standing at the edge all that time.

I won't give any apologies for my writing. It's a process. It's a journey. Enjoy!