What’s it All About, Alfie? - Dedicated to Baby Stiles, Aunt Shirley, and Grandma

What's it all about, Alfie?

Is it just for the moment we live?
What's it all about when you sort it out, Alfie?
Are we meant to take more than we give
or are we meant to be kind?
I believe in love, Alfie.
Without true love we just exist, Alfie.
Until you find the love you've missed you're nothing, Alfie.
When you walk let your heart lead the way
and you'll find love any day, Alfie, Alfie.

Excerpted from the classic song written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David and recorded by Dionne Warwick circa 1966

So I guess this title and tune tells even more about my age (and don’t hate on vintage Dionne). But there’s nothing like a sudden Turn of Events to give rise to a bunch of questions and realign one’s perspective.

Event One:

A friend of mine, Rikki Brown, lost her baby son, Stiles Alexander Curtis Brown. A Beautiful Soul who fought hard to get here (he was born at a tender six months) and is gone too soon (made his transition at a tender 19 months).

Rikki called him, “Her little engine that did.”

Indeed.

Seeing a tiny casket surrounded by pictures and poems decorated with Disney characters touches a place deep within all of us, especially those of us who are parents. My teenage daughter, who accompanied me, said I did worse than Rikki.

Event Two:

After the wake for the Beautiful Soul, my daughter and I high-tailed it to Philly for yet another Homegoing. This was for my Aunt Shirley Berry Bright.

Aunt Shirley and my mother, an only child, literally grew up together. They had been friends since the 10^th grade at Overbrook High School in West Philadelphia and went on to be roommates in college at New York University. From there, they travelled almost 60 years of highs and lows, weddings and divorces, births and deaths, and definitely shopping.

I remember summer weekend afternoons watching Aunt Shirley and Mommy smoke cigarettes and listening to them tell all the same stories while Aunt Shirley made Kool-Aid. I also remember her encouragement through high school and college, being front and center at my wedding where her talented son sang, and rallying around my utter fear of inadequacy when my daughter was born. She was central to my Village and there was always, always laughter. Mommy remembers, too. 

Event Three:

While riding home from Aunt Shirley’s funeral, I received a call from Drew's dad – his mother had just died. Boy, I did not want to tell my daughter this news but without even looking at me, she reluctantly held her hand out for the phone as if she already knew.

I was not, however, prepared for her reaction.

It was disbelief and tears and screams of denial that had all of us in the car in a fresh round of tears. "You're lying!" she cried. “You're not telling the truth! Just take her to the doctor, Daddy, and she’ll be fine.”

Drew’s Grandma was just indescribable. She had lived to see it all. She had picked cotton in the south; endured back-breaking labor in a factory in Baltimore; lost her one and only love early in their marriage; and cooked like it was Thanksgiving every Sunday. She had lots of love and kind words, warm hugs and good cheer, and a double-barrel shotgun by the bed just in case. And she LOVED her family, especially her children and grandchildren.

So - 

Maybe death does come in threes.

I can’t say for sure but it definitely did this past weekend. 

When many of us face these kinds of Events, we may find ourselves wondering, “What’s It (Life) All About?”

Well, how about yet another Unusual Event in the midst of all of this?

I had landed a new job in Suburban Philly (just outside my hometown) and was looking forward to clicking my heels three times and chanting, “There’s no place like home.” However, the relo was proving a bit challenging logistically and I couldn’t find a neighborhood to live in with a decent public school that I could manage financially. I was also in the running for a job where I currently reside but hadn’t gotten an offer.

So I’m due to the new Philly gig Tuesday morning and it’s Saturday. On my way to Event Two, I had a little talk with Jesus and We decided, “Listen, Allison, you actually have a job in Philly. If you have to commute for a few months, so be it.” Because, to paraphrase Tommy Davidson’s homeless character in Spike Lee’s Bamboozled, “In the meantime, in between time, we need some income comin’ in.”

So check this out: not one hour after I gave my, “Drew, I’m going to have to be able to trust you and depend on you because my days will probably be long but we can make it” speech, I got a restricted call on my cell phone. “Hi, this is Allison,” I shout into my corded (that’s right I said corded) ear piece. “Ms. Miller,” the Recruiter said, “We normally don’t call on a Saturday but thought you’d want this good news.” I got the local job!

All I could do was shake my head and give profound thanks for the certainty that even when it doesn’t feel so hot, everything always eventually turns out in the best way possible for all involved. 

Most of us single moms worry incessantly about having enough, being enough, and doing enough. But when I looked at Events One, Two, and Three of the past weekend, even the new job with more money paled in comparison to the ultimate gift of life and sharing that gift in the forms of love and support when needed most. And that gift can only come from the Source. 

“All has been heard; the end of the matter is: Fear God [revere and worship Him, knowing that He is] and keep His commandments, for this is the whole of man [the full, original purpose of his creation, the object of God's providence, the root of character, the foundation of all happiness, the adjustment to all inharmonious circumstances and conditions under the sun] and the whole [duty] for every man.”

-  Ecclesiastes 12:13 Amplified Bible

Now don’t faint at the sight of a Bible verse in my blog but here’s my conclusion to the whole matter: Love God, Love Yourself, and everything else will follow.

Happy Being Me (Even if Me is Nappy) - Dedicated to Andre Fuller

You guys already know a bit about my self-esteem issues and my church issues. So imagine what went down when I cut my hair!

Dra-ma!

Ever since I was a little girl, I loved short, natural hair. I remember how gorgeous I thought Shari Belafonte was in the 70’s with her short, cropped cut and used to love this wig called the Linda Boy Cut advertised in the back of Essence magazine each month. 

But, like many Black men, my father had serious long-hair issues. 

I remember cutting my hair in the notorious snatch back when I as a freshman at Howard in 1982. I musta thought I was big and bad since I was 150 miles away from home, totally forgetting that I would actually be going home again and soon!

When I walked off the train at 30^th Street Station in Philadelphia that Thanksgiving, my father’s face went from a grin to crestfallen in 10 seconds flat. I immediately knew I was in deep doo-doo.

My father expressed his complete and utter disapproval by not speaking to a soul for three days and finally telling me he didn’t like anything about me.

Ouch!

Not very affirming for a fledgling freshman whose self-esteem was hanging by a thread.

And my hair wasn't even nappy! It was still fried, dyed, and laid-to-the-side. Fluffy, chemically-straightened curls just blowin’ in the wind.

Like many sisters, thus began this tug-o-war with how I wear my hair. 

Fast-forward some 10 years and I faced this same showdown with my then husband. 

I decided to cut my hair in the infamous Halle Berry style of the early 90’s and I looked GOOD! But my husband was about to make me go live in the garage! 

It was around this time that my scalp staged a major revolt known as seborrheic dermatitis (a form of dandruff) and folliculitis. You see, I have very sensitive skin and never tolerated relaxers well. My scalp would literally be on fire and, after years of damage, finally said, “Enough!”

The awful scaly flakes were eventually cured but the chronic itching, redness, and irritation was not (still isn’t).

Did I also mention that I went to different dermatologists for 10 years who prescribed everything from shampoos, special concoctions, and rounds of antibiotics that did not work? I smelled like a cross between Sulfur 8 and Glover’s Mane. When the last resort was scalp injections, I said, “That’s it! I’m outta here!”

So after years of suffering I decided I wanted to cut my hair and wear it natural. 

I was like, “Damn it, I am 30 years old and should be able to pick my own hair style!” And if you're gonna complain about any kind of short, I might as well go for it!

I did cut my hair short but I wish I could say I wore it natural from the jump.

I punked out based on my fear that I wouldn’t look feminine enough, as well as admonitions from the Deacons and Pastor from my church that a woman’s hair is her glory and I need to grow my hair back for my husband.

Don’t even get me started.

Anyway, I would use a “texturizer” to “relax” my curl just a bit and experimented with color. A milder relaxer, I reasoned, and no heat from curling irons and blow dryers. So let’s just add another chemical (color) to maintain the same level of torture, why don’t we?

I eventually went to another dermatologist who told me the only way my scalp woes would improve was to go as natural as possible. 

But how could I be Happy Being Me since Me is Nappy?

Well, one evening during the Christmas Break of 2004, I took my sad, lonely self to dinner at Carrabba’s in Bowie (it was Dad’s turn that year).

Since this was spontaneous, there was a hellified wait and I decided to sit at the bar where you can watch the chef’s cook. I “happened” to sit next to a sorority sister and one of her friends who had THE sharpest Caesar cut. I said to her - a complete stranger, mind you – “I wish I had the guts to cut my hair natural like that.”

She, my now good friend Dr. Kim, said to me, “What are you talking about?! You’re already there!”

I was like, “No, you don’t understand. My ex-husband already thinks I’m a lesbian since I divorced him and lost 40 pounds (don’t know why he didn’t get the correlation - he just thought I had HIV) and the church thinks I’m the anti‑Christ. This will just solidify their suspicions.”

She was like, “Girl, look: on my next day off, I’m going to take you to my barber and we’re going to do this!”

Well, we did and I worried for weeks about not looking enough like a girl. I wore more make-up and added bigger earrings. 

Eventually, I got so many compliments – especially from men – I was like, "I got it goin' on!"

I’ve been wearing my hair in this awesome style for six years and have still been told by some very, shall I say, ill-informed people that if I want a man, I need to grow my hair back. Incidentally, when I got the Halle Berry cut 10 years before, one of my aunts told me I needed to grow my hair back (it was close on the sides and the back) because no husband wants to wake up to a bald head every day. My mother’s response was, “You have a head full of hair and are still divorced so what’s the difference?” As the texters and IMmers say, SMH.

About a month ago I started growing my hair out just a tad based on my teenage daughter’s urging. Apparently, I am on my way to all gray and our hairstylist thought a little length and a little color might do me some good. The jury is still out on whether it will stay this way or not but it’s NAPPY and I’m HAPPY!

P.S. This picture is me with the close cut, not the new longer, dyed hair :-)

On Lock - Dedicated to Miss PJ and Tommie Collins :-)

So how about a little levity on this Friday?! I have to warn you - there are swear words in this one so I hope I don't offend :-) As always, enjoy and let me hear from you!

Peace and the Kindest of Blessings - A.

On Lock

            Every now and again I brave the Generation Next nightlife with my daughter‑sister-niece (DSN) and her husband. I call her my DSN because we met when she came to work for me as an intern. Now she’s all grown up with a family of her own and a Master’s degree. We started out as mentee-mentor and have now become very close friends. However, she’s 20 years my junior which makes her too old to be my daughter (kinda) but I still feel like she’s my “baby.”

Hanging out with them is always an adventure. We have so much fun. I get to see what’s going on with the young folks in a world that reminds me that there are seasons in life and this season in my life is over. Nevertheless, pretending to be a young single every now and then gives this old single a voyeuristic thrill into the life of the footloose and fancy-free.

My son-brother-nephew (SBN) is somewhat of a celebrity in this world, having worked as a promoter on this scene for quite a while. This comes in handy as all I have to do is walk anywhere remotely near his shadow and my stock automatically rises. “Oh, are you with him?” the gatekeepers ask. When I say yes, the bouncers in black move to the side and let me in. The crowd at the door parts like the Red Sea and velvet ropes are magically unhooked as many pairs of eyes bore holes into my back with both envy and jealousy. “Who is she?” I feel them asking, as they continue to wait in line outside.

 So in we go and I soon realize that while my hanging out season is over, things haven’t changed all that much. Just like dances in high school, the boys are on one side of the room trying to look cool (some even practicing synchronized moves like Guy in New Jack City) while the girls are huddled together giggling.

Of course, I am immediately reminded of how much things have changed as most of the girls are wearing outfits that maybe have a yard and a half of fabric (and that’s being generous) which gives me an unpleasant eyeful when the wallflower steppers do finally ask them to dance. She is bent over, hands touching the floor doing a hamstring stretch talking on the phone while her ass is smashed up against his pelvis.

Whatever happened to The Bump? The Hustle? The Cabbage Patch? The Smurf? The Prep? The Running Man? OK, OK, I will bring it to the 20^th century – The Electric Slide?

            Oh well, that’s hanging out in the new millennium – soft porn as an introduction to a potential suitor. I want to warn them both, however, that if they do manage to actually talk and exchange phone numbers (which these days means whipping out your cell phone and “locking them in”), I hope their phones have a camera and they take a picture of one another. After all, it is very dark in the Club and since she was looking at the floor and he was looking at the crack of her ass, I don’t know how they would recognize each other face-to-face in daylight.

Back to my VIP status…

So now I’m gliding along on my SBN’s coattails while all the brothers are glad-handing him and all the sisters are cutting through my DSN with dagger eyes.

There’s no doubt about it – my SBN is The Man.

Even the resident DJ / Hype Man walking through the crowd with a cordless mike yelling at all of us to get our motherfuckin’ asses on the dance floor (I think this is supposed to be a motivator) walks up to my SBN and yells his name over the mike while hugging him like he just got back from Iraq.

Come to think of it, I notice a lot of guys asking him where he’s been and then looking at my DSN with nods, smiles, and winks.

It appears that my SBN is not as much of a regular as he used to be and you know that means my DSN has put him “on lock.”

Now unless a brother’s ego is firmly intact, dem’s fightin’ words. Or at least grounds for a lot of crotch grabbin’ while settin’ the record straight. Can’t you see and hear it? “Sheeet, I come and go as I please….”, or, “Don’t nobody dictate what I do, know what I’m sayin’…”

But my SBN does none of this, which lets me know that my DSN has indeed made the right decision in snapping him up and I will not have to get Cousin Lem from Soul Food to open up a can of whup-ass some unsuspecting evening for breaking my baby’s heart.

No, SBN simply notes that he’s been there, done that and then some and is sure he’s not missing a thing. As a matter of fact, he does a bit of noddin’ and winkin’ himself, with a grin that says, “If you only knew…”

Trust me, in today’s world, being “on lock” may be your best bet. Yup, the more things change, the more they do stay the same. No man worth his salt wants a half-naked girl for the long haul. And the Club World does not encourage meeting and really getting to know someone, nor is it the place for anyone trying to maintain a committed love relationship – remember Miss Missy on all fours.

No, being a regular at the Club for any length of time gets old and shallow. Hopefully, we grow up, get a life, and make way for the next generation which, unfortunately, will include my daughter soon enough.

My daughter-sister-niece may have my son-brother-nephew “on lock,” as his boys say, but neither of them seems to mind at all.

Mommy's Love Letter to Drew

Circa 2007, Updated 2011

Dear Drew,

It has been so many years since I have written you.

When you were first born, I started a journal called, My Love Letter to You (even then my soul knew I wanted to, needed to, had to write). It was my way of recording my many thoughts and feelings surrounding your entrance into my life. I wrote you assiduously, as Ntozake Shange once wrote in her groundbreaking play about the life experiences of African American women, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide: When the Rainbow is Enuf (now infamous thanks to one Tyler Perry).

Unfortunately, I have misplaced this precious artifact. And it was really good, too! Alas, one of the many casualties of my decision to walk away from the life of so many others’ dreams; an invisible prison so many could not understand my fleeing. I had to pack hastily and have moved more than a few times since then. 

God only knows where that manuscript is (and I am sure the Universe will once again bring it to me). But tonight I feel compelled to record new musings.

I look at your school pictures and can’t wait to hear your adult recollection of your childhood.

I envision you saying (as we all do when we see these blackmail shots), “What was my mother thinking about putting me in those clothes?!” or “What in God’s name was my hair doing?!”

Or is that my own unmerciful voice scrutinizing my every jot and tittle while you are so much more loving and accepting of yourself (as well you should be)?

I’m wondering if you will remember your childhood as similar to your peers while I have spent a great deal of it feeling woefully inadequate, having fallen short of a single family home and at least one luxury vehicle.

Yes, you have had private schooling (now public) but do you have enough of the trappings of the Prince George’s County Talented Tenth, natural offshoots of the Paper Bag Brigade? Did I measure up to all that Dr. King died for or am I just a wannabee, with a lot of substance but none of the fluff? I used to wear substance sans fluff as a badge of honor (which is profoundly obnoxious – I have some nerve thinking that I am so righteous) but now I see, as most experiencing such eventually do, that borderline poverty and dogged struggle are highly overrated.

People often say don’t judge a book by its cover. Just because people look like they have a lot of stuff doesn’t mean they are happy; have peace in their minds and homes; or even have the money they look like they have. But there are still times I am torn between and have even dreamt about taking such a righteous stance for my life - that decision to flee I mentioned earlier. Even if my marriage and our family wasn’t the passionate love affair I’d always dreamed, perhaps I should have tolerated the discomfort of disappointment so I could have provided for you better. You could have lived in Woodmore. I could have dropped you off in the Rover you love and continued being a Black Stepford. You could have had a dog, a backyard.

Honey, that was not and is not the life I want and I am learning to be proud of myself for not providing you “at least” – at least a nice house, at least a dog, at least a picket fence, at least summers in the Vineyard – while you were learning that living a lie is normal.

In my heart of hearts I know I could not have endured such inauthenticity. God knows I tried. Being at odds with my truest self almost killed me. Besides, who’s to say we won’t have an even bigger, badder, and deffer fat-ass house with a backyard and a dog? We will have our beautiful house that is a home filled with love and peace. 

I want more and want to be more for both you and for me.

I want – and deserve – it all.

And so do you. That’s what I hope I am teaching you.

Love, Mommy

Another Leg on the Journey

So this one is pretty revealing. I'm a little nervous posting it but I committed to Allison (which means the Truth). Yikes! My purpose in writing is to hopefully offer encouragement, empowerment, healing, and sustenance to myself and others. I look forward to your thoughts!

With love and kind blessings,

Alli! 

Letter to Me as Prayer to God

Circa 2006, Updated 2011

Dear Me,

Destined for greatness

But when? Where is it?

What’s taking so long?

And how many setbacks, valleys must I endure?

My entire life has been a quest for acceptance; “OK-ness.”

How do I find it?

          I feel like I’ve done all the right things and it has, at times, been torture.

          What are my goals now?

They are so different.

I never had any as a kid or young adult.

I thought goals were ridiculous because life did what it wanted to do, didn’t it?

That was the abuse, chaos of my family of origin talking.

My childhood was not as it seemed; a façade.

I wonder how we pulled it off, if we pulled it off.

It was like our little secret, my Mom and me.

Something very negative, very bad, very unhealthy that bonded us.

I was her confidante; her best friend; the only one who knew; her co-conspirator in survival.

The images of my childhood are sketchy and vivid.

Once, at about six, I remember my father putting my mother in some kind of chokehold in our then empty dining room with my Videomaster playing – a red and white educational toy that had a screen and a phonograph with a strip of pictures that advanced automatically while the record told the story. I followed along with a book.

I don’t know why my father was angry.

Sometimes we could predict his eruptions. Or we could at least piece the puzzle together afterwards.

While that was an accepted pattern of living that became the prototype for my future relationships and lifestyle, I eventually decided it’s NOT OK and isn’t the only way to live.

How come I seemed to be the only one so profoundly impacted by the hurt and pain and abuse of my family of origin? Why was I the only one in the world so lacking; so without confidence and self-esteem; so fractured and broken and f-d up? Why did everybody else have it so together except me?

Perfect families; perfect lives; flow charted career paths; unlimited familial and financial support.

Everything pristine. All “I’s” dotted and “T’s” crossed.

Yeah, that’s what you think, Sister. Looks can be deceiving but it is a powerful perception to overcome.

My entire journey has been about achieving legitimacy in one form or another, whether it was pledging in college or having a career afterwards; excelling in high school or singing and performing every chance I got; overachieving academically and being involved in every extracurricular activity I could fit in.

All driven by the pain and fear of never quite cutting it.

I just couldn’t go through my entire life “needy” because that was what I was accused of being most of my life.

Sensitive. Neurotic. Determined to live in the past.

Call it what you want but I needed some answers. Some understanding.

And understanding has come.

I am now discovering and embracing the Truth that all I have to do is increase my awareness of the God in me.

The Divine Power that brought me to this earth.

The fact that I’m here says I’m “legit” (my age showing) and I don’t have to “do” anything more to “prove” my validity. All I have to do is be and love me.

That’s why life is called a journey.

I’m getting there :-)