Middle Passage

Hopefully you remember my love letter to Drew and my angst surrounding “cutting it” for the both of us (see Mommy’s Love Letter to Drew, Thursday, February 17, 2011). What parent, especially a mom, especially a single mom, doesn’t fret at least a tad about their child’s well-being, education, future?

The middle school teen years have been more of an adventure than I was prepared for. It’s just that the onslaught of hormones came with such a vengeance and caught me off guard.

It felt like it happened overnight.

I woke up one morning and saw a young woman in the bathroom with a bangin’ body and mad attitude.

I said, “Damn, girl! You kinda fine but who are you and what have you done with my princess?”

With this natural progression came the need to transition from the shelter and innocence of elementary school to the mean streets, I mean hallways of middle school.

Those of us in the DC metropolitan area wrestle with public schools that we find wanting even though we pay a king’s ransom in property taxes. So we opt for a private school whose cost matches or exceeds our monthly mortgages.

I don’t know about those of you who have searched for private school but when I began my search, I was completely overwhelmed by the process.

There were applications, open houses, shadow days, interviews, essays, and standardized tests.

The cost of going through this process fore each school matched my car payment.

So we jumped through these hoops more than a few times; rolled up on campuses that rivaled many an Ivy League school in beauty, expanse, amenities, and endowments; and learned that one year’s tuition exceeded the cost of my entire undergraduate education.

For seventh grade!

We finally settled upon a school that was kind of in between but we still had no idea what we were in for.

Drew was one of seven African Americans in the entire middle school. Mind you, the school proudly touted that this was its most diverse middle school class since its inception in the late 1960’s. This should have been a red flag as this diversity included everybody who’s not white so you know how quickly those numbers dwindled when you considered Black kids alone.

Nevertheless, they seemed liberal, inclusive, tolerant, and enlightened enough. So we gave them the old college try.

Drew quickly became the darling of her teachers and classmates. She excelled academically, played sports, and sang and danced in the school play. She was also invited to birthday parties and bar mitzvahs that always included raised-letter invitations to houses on the water and members-only country clubs. With wide eyes, Drew and I would drive up to these houses and venues in our 2005 Honda Civic missing one hubcap and say, "Who knew?!"

Woven in between this idyllic scenario, however, were throw-back racial experiences that we truly did not expect. There was everything from being asked by a white boy if he could call her “nigger” now that they were friends to being spat upon by a white girl in frustration during a PE scrimmage (to be fair, they were both talking trash but still…).

It must also be noted that her self-esteem and self image took a beating since her gorgeous sister big‑boned body was surrounded by pencil -thin white girls who thought they were fat.

So what’s my point?

Granted, we all want the best for our children. But when did sacrificing our children’s emotional and social well-being for the sake of fitting in with the “right” people and getting into the “right” schools become the barometer of success?

I’m not saying don’t strive for the best. I believe we should take advantage of every single opportunity out there because the world is our oyster and we deserve every seat we’ve earned at the table.

BUT

I am wondering if subjecting our African American children to the soul-stripping world of white elitism is healthy? Necessary? Is that a requirement for knowing how to so-called successfully navigate the two worlds all of us Black folk inhabit?

And how do we define successfully navigate?

Is the goal of educating our children to churn out corporate capitalistic clones or well-rounded, well‑grounded, thinking, creative, human beings with a conscience? A desire to contribute?

I hope I don’t sound too preachy. It’s just my passion and my own unanswered questions as I conduct my own assessment.

One more thing:

My perception (i.e., not the gospel) of our community pre- and during the Civil Rights era is that we were so strong in our identity, so knowledgeable of our history and culture, and so surrounded by love that we were able to leave our sanctums, go into a cruel Jim Crow world, and come back with our essence, our souls  intact. Even when we were battered and bruised emotionally and physically, we knew we could always come home and be fortified. Be reassured of who we were, what we stood for, where we were going, and why.

Succeeding meant lifting up the self and the whole. It was a complete package – moral fiber and money; pride and prosperity; faith, fidelity, and fortune. It was more than bling and things that, if examined closely, may actually convey a deeper sense of self-loathing I am sure many of us are not even conscious of.

So I suppose this is my long-winded way of saying let’s take stock. For me, the jury is still out on the notion of sacrificing the innards of my child in order to guarantee success for those of "us" who have made. Just doesn’t sit well with me.

But I am still looking, learning, researching, and evaluating.

After all, we have high school in the fall.

Love Continued - My Boys

In 2004, Patti LaBelle released a jam that quickly became every sister’s Anthem –

Seems my life is finally coming together

Feels so good, don’t think I’ve ever been better

It’s clear to me my future will bring

The peace I’ve been longing for is mine forever more

It’s a New Day…

At that time, I could really relate. I had been separated for four years and divorced for one and was deep in the throes of Life Reinvention #1 (we’ll save Reinvention #2 for another time). Not only that, but after more than a decade, I found myself dating. We can now add almost a decade of dating on top of the onset of Reinvention #1 and I still find myself SMH.

“Dating” appears to be the catch-all phrase for what you are doing when you’re single but not officially coupled, whatever that means (yet another land mine in this netherworld).

            First of all, I’m not sure I ever “dated” – meaning going out socially with more than one “suitor,” with or without sleeping together. Being a church girl who is completely anal by nature, I found the whole notion of juggling on that level way too confusing. Besides, premarital sex was supposed to be out of the question (let alone with more than one man at the same time…well, not literally….you know what I mean).

            But, Dorothy, this ain’t Kansas by a long shot and middle-aged hormones are much more persuasive than young, idealistic ones. The ones that really believed my Prince would come.

            So what’s a sister to do?

            Well, the anal me needs clarity, especially since that is what this Patti Labelle New Day is about.

I am supposed to know what I want and ask for it without apology.

Spread my wings

I’m doin’ things my way

It’s a New Day…

But honey, asking a brother you’re dating for clarity is the same as asking a brother if he takes Viagra.

            I mistakenly thought that defining middle-aged relationships was less threatening than doing so in your 20’s and 30's. I mean, I’m hip. I can handle modern attachments (to use the term loosely).

“So what, Mr. Prospect, do you want to do? What do you have in mind? Do you just want to hang out? Get laid? Be friends? Or, God forbid, consider developing a relationship?” A smorgasbord of non-restrictive, open-ended options. A plethora of back doors. A generous stack of Get-Out-of-Jail-Free cards.

            Was I ever wrong!

I’ve never heard so much stammering and stuttering or long, drawn out, cryptic soliloquies in my entire life.

Just crap!

            So I went to one of My Boys for help.

            I say, “What are these fools talkin’ about?”

            And you know what he said? “The same BS we were talking about in the 10^th grade.”

            “Oh,” I say. As though this clears it up for me.

But deep down, and out loud I say, “Are you kidding me? At 40 and over?!”

            And he says, “Yup. What can I tell you? Brothers can be raggedy and sisters let us get away with it.”

            Interesting.

            “It’s a numbers game,” he continues. “Sure, we might get your response from a few but, with enough attempts, one of y'all is bound to give in.”

            Rolling of the eyes.

            Are you effin’ kidding me?

            Apparently not.

Now another one of My Boys tells me that my direct inquiries for relationship clarity are simply not done. They're a no-no; a massive faux pas. Bro-ham #2 says, “No man, Allison, is going to say, ‘Well, baby, to be perfectly honest with you, I really just want to get laid.’”

I’m like, why not?! That works for me!

Now for the record, I’m not a maintenance kinda girl. Not casting any aspersions on anyone else but that just doesn’t work for me. However, I don’t think it’s too much to ask so I can know what I’m working with; you know, make an informed decision. I mean at this age, is making small talk for two weeks during loud happy hours and late dinners really worth the 20 minutes most of us can manage after a long day at work? (I hear a resounding “Yes!” from the brothers out there but I digress!)

Married men hittin’ on sisters certainly have no problem asking for pure, unattached, ‘til-the-cops-come-knockin’ booty . I mean the he’s-just-not-that-into-you conversations I’m still having with my friends were totally unexpected at this stage of the game. “What do you think it means if he only wants to get together late at night?” they ask. Or how about, “Maybe he hasn’t called in three weeks because he's out of town.”

Really, ladies?

I constantly hear myself saying, “I am too old for this shit!”

Speaking of old, I’ve also learned that I have to be open to dating men at polar opposites of the age spectrum. Someone old enough to get the Tuesday night discount at IHOP as well as someone young enough to be born in the late 80’s (I hear the latter makes me a cougar).

It’s really startling to realize that at 40, I’m old enough to date men in their 50’s! Fifties! Senior citizens! AARP card holders! And not just graying at the temples in a distinguished way but a head full of white hair! I was once talking to a lovely gentleman about my passion for Black history and civil rights. While I’d gleaned most of my information from books and documentaries like Eyes on the Prize, my friend remembered having to move “up north” because the southern city he was born in wouldn’t desegregate the schools even after separate but equal was ruled unconstitutional! I was like, “Damn! This dude was knockin’ on middle school before Brown v. Board of Education!”

Then I made the leap to the young, gifted, and young (see On Lock - February 18, 2011). Remember when I went to The Club? Not H₂O for Friday Night Happy Hour (where deacons wearing matching ties and handkerchiefs that say “I Love Jesus” in gold letters hang out) but Live or Jin or something like that on U Street on Saturday night! (See? I don’t even remember the name!) Two words for you – culture shock. And two more - generation gap.

This guy doesn’t ask me to dance (like in my day) but pulls my arm until we are pelvis to pelvis. I look at him in disbelief and he returns my gaze equally as puzzled. “Why did you just cut your eyes at me?” he asks incredulously. I respond, equally as incredulously, “Because our bodies are touching and I don’t even know your name!” I go on to say, “I am not used to dancing like this!” He asks, incredulously again, “Where have you been?”

I instantly feel every bit of 40-something for real.

To paraphrase Loretta Divine in Waiting to Exhale while attending happy hour with Her Girls, I would have had a better time staying home watching Good Times.

So for now I’ve got plenty to mull over.

Even though many of us are loathe to admit it, we still bought the notion that love and marriage are the apex of a girl’s existence. But I have discovered that the New Day Miss Patti-Patti is talking about isn’t only (emphasis on only!) about a balanced, loving, and joyful romantic relationship. It’s about the entire package - a full, rich life with the love and sisterhood of groovy girlfriends; work we find fulfilling intrinsically and financially; and a lifestyle that matches our expectations and no one else’s.

And, of course, no girl’s life is complete without Her Boys.

I’m excited for the things ahead of me

I decided I can make it on my own

Embrace the good and bad and let go of the past

I’m lovin’ what’s inside of me…

Love and the Universe

            So you knew it was coming, right?

            My “Two Cents” about love. Romantic love. A “boo.”

            So for me nothing is separate from Spirit and the Law of Attraction.         

 

            Which means we have what we think, right?

            According to the Universal Law of Attraction, like attracts like. Whatever energy or vibe I’m putting out attracts life experiences and people on the same wavelength. Teachers like Iyanla Vanzant constantly remind us, “Our thoughts are seeds we plant and are the cause of every condition in our lives. My success, health, wealth, and relationships are a direct result of my thinking.”

In the relationship department, I can relate to Whitney Houston’s character Savannah in Waiting to Exhale. As she prepares for a blind date on New Year’s Eve, she recalls asking God for a good man and proceeds to list what she got. Her conclusion was that God had some serious explaining to do.

I confess that many times I have felt exactly the same way.

“What the hell are Ya doin’?” I secretly wonder, hoping He / She is not going to turn me into a pillar of salt for saying a swear word in my prayers.

When I first learned of this Law of Attraction stuff, it posed a serious threat to my traditional biblical indoctrination. See, in the olden days we were taught that the life we wanted came about by using the Savannah method: you pray to God; ask; live right (and repent when you don’t); and wait for your change to come.

When it doesn’t happen, or at the very least seems to be a bit protracted, your only alternative is to ask AGAIN; live righter (and repent a bit more fervently); and wait AGAIN.

Now when it doesn’t happen this time, your only alternative is to question / doubt / blame yourself, or wonder if there’s something not quite right with this version of God and this process.

Well, you know blaming God is a guarantee that that prayer won’t get answered. Questioning the Almighty is just not done. So it must be you. Of course, this leads to the abyss of spiraling self-flagellation that confuses matters all the more until we ultimately sigh, shrug our shoulders, and resign ourselves to living a life according to the “cards we have been dealt.”

According to the Law of Attraction, we are the ones who create the life we want according to the thoughts and feelings we constantly dwell upon and the subsequent beliefs they solidify. If we constantly think we’re wrong or bad or undeserving or not‑living-up-to-God’s-standard-so-that’s-why-we’re-being-punished, we create a haze of funk that will only attract more of the same and reinforce exactly what we don’t want.

We blame ourselves or God or others instead of owning what we have created and taking empowering steps to change our thoughts according to what we do want. That requires taking responsibility and we humans have a profound aversion to taking responsibility.

I must admit that when I first learned this concept, taking responsibility sounded a lot like the same type of blame: “Told you you’re all fucked up and what’s worse, it’s your fault!” That’s the sin / repentance piece that has nothing to do with how I truly AM and how God truly sees me. Nowhere does the Universe reject us. Nowhere does God reject us. Church may have with its steps and weeping and gnashing of teeth and, “Bless me, Father for I have sinned and please lay hands on me, Bishop, with lots of oil so I can be delivered, Hallelujah.”

So if I get past the condemnation that the church was supposed to be helping me release but was, in fact, reinforcing, I can actually say, “Yeah, I did do that but it’s OK and I’m OK. Let’s figure out how to do something that’s closer to what I really want.”

That’s taking responsibility.

But I have to warn ya that becoming free and empowered is a direct threat to those who are fully vested in you staying funky. Church. Friends. Family. Employer. Spouse. Children.

And even when we become aware, it’s easier to wear the badge of dysfunction than to actually change.

That’s where I was this one day as one of my Sister Friends and I embarked on a Girls Afternoon Out.

The night before our afternoon excursion, I went on a date with a blast from the past that left me brokenhearted a number of years back. One of my co-workers warned me that if he hadn’t explained the earlier heartbreak, he was still wishy-washy and something in me knew she was right. I forgot to mention that when we slip back to operating on the level of funk, amnesia sets in and our fear / lack training kicks back in full throttle. After all, wasn’t a date with potential (maybe he’s changed / seen the error of his ways) better than being home alone? (Do not answer that!)

The newly empowered me set the rules of engagement since I know how I want to be treated and I deserve respect (you know that’s right!).

Our date was scheduled for 6p. He calls at 6:20p to say he just got in, one of the basketball games he coaches ran late (the cell phone you’re calling me from now must not have been working then?!). He was supposed to have planned the date and did nothing. I mentioned a movie I was interested in seeing and he says, “Why don’t you look into it while I take a shower?”

Why don’t I look into it when you were supposed to have planned the date and you are half an hour late? Yeah, OK.

I wish I could tell you that’s what I said and told this guy to take a flying leap. But what ends up happening is we decide to go out for drinks (I pick the restaurant, of course) but deep down I don’t even want to go. (We decide on drinks because the movie isn’t out yet which means yes, I did look into it. I know, I know…)

Note to self: we teach people how to treat us.

As I recounted all of this to my Sister Friend, I mentioned my concern with attracting emotionally unavailable men. Perhaps it true, I lament, that maybe there aren’t any brothers out there who haven’t been mortally wounded. (Sound familiar? Here’s a refresher: sigh, shrug our shoulders, and resign ourselves to living a life according to the “cards we have been dealt.”)

And we'll just overlook the glaring pink elephant in the room for now (e.g., uh, Miss Alli, how emotionally available are you?).

Moving right along....

My Sister Friend is an AKA but didn't bring up anything pink. She simply, lovingly made a point that reminded me why I love her so.

She said, “You’re right - there isn’t anyone out there who hasn’t been wounded but there are people out there who have worked through their issues. Focus on attracting them.”

An “Aha!” moment indeed.

There’s no need to whine when I believe in the goodness and universal abundance of the Universe, right? I have the power through my thoughts and beliefs to create and attract exactly what I want (which, believe it or not, I am doing unconsciously anyway, but it’s just more stuff I don’t want.)

So get with the program, Sister (talking to myself). My man from group therapy is out there waiting for me to get it together.

Old New Kid on the Block

Here I am back working in downtown Washington, DC.

Feels kinda like riding a bicycle.

The hustle; the bustle; the very strange outfits.

And I was concerned because I chipped my nail polish on the way in on my first day.

This time I have 25 years in the workforce under my belt and a much more accurate sense of self.

My first go ‘round in the big city was as a fresh college graduate in 1986.

I had all of these images of what success looked like.

Pin-stripped suit; white, pale blue, pink, or gray button down; polyester paisley bow ties in power red, blue, and yellow.

Look, it was the 80’s.

Back to my fantasy: I would have an office; commute to work in my sneaks until I bought my 1986 Nissan Maxima; and be systematically promoted until I retired with a gold watch at 65.

So you know how that panned out, right? But you couldn't tell me nothin' when I landed my first job as a Customer Service Representative at American Security Bank at 15th and M Streets, NW.

Many of our customers worked for the Washington Post next door and I remember seeing all kinds of dignitaries coming in and out of the Madison Hotel across the street.

I was surrounded by movers and shakers. I was deep within the bastion of wealth and power. I was stompin’ wit da Big Dogs.

The Branch Manager was a bubbly blonde who wore power suits and fancy perfume every day and had a gold Seiko watch I thought looked like a Rolex. (I didn’t know shit.) She answered the phone very professionally and with a smile. The Assistant Branch Manager was a tall, homely brunette who wore outfits that looked like she made them in home ec in high school (like a forest green polyester dress with a big collar and white stitching).


I chose to emulate Blondie.

Did I mention my salary? A whopping $15,400 a year.

I was rich!

After taxes (WTF? I thought it was $15,400?) and rent (good thing utilities were included), I barely eked out bus fare, let alone a Maxima.

And on top of that, I HATED the work!

I was the first line of defense for disgruntled customers and, let me tell you, those Washington Post people were mean! Not to mention that the ATM card had just come out and those machines would eat that thing at the slightest misstep.

After four whole months, I decided I was too stressed out and had to find another job.

This became a cycle for a decade or so as I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what I wanted to do.

But NOW I do. 

I have a Plan.

There's a skeleton with more than a little meat on its bones.

For the first time, I could actually tell my interviewer where I saw myself in the next three to five years and mean it.

I was buying, not selling.

And I got the job not only because I needed a job but also because I was the best candidate. I have value and am valued. I am making a contribution.

So here we are at the end of Week Two and I love it!

I’ll keep ya posted <wink>