A Rose by Any Other Name….

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose                                                                                                                    

By any other name would smell as sweet;                                                                                                                       

Romeo and Juliet

William Shakespeare

This post almost didn’t make it. The subject matter I know all too well and is not easy for me to visit. But helping to educate others about domestic violence and shed light on its profound impact is my passion and purpose so here goes.

Earlier this week I read an article by Jacque Reid on The Root.com titled, Domestic Violence Can Happen on a First Date. Since I have chosen to thrive, not just survive, the abuse I experienced both as a child and as a spouse, anything that has to do with domestic violence grabs my attention. So I “Liked” the article and posted a link to it on my Facebook profile.

In the article, Ms. Reid shares how she was abused on a first date but didn’t cry, press charges, or consider her experience “domestic abuse.”

As it turned out, neither did many I shared the article with. I even got a Facebook comment that admonished me to be careful what I label domestic abuse. To the FB Friend, this was assault on a first date, not domestic abuse.

I felt a kind of righteous indignation at the comment but decided that since it stung so much, I must need to take a step back and meditate, write, ponder, something before responding.

Prior to going inside, however, I deleted the post and the article for fear that I had done “something wrong” or exaggerated a “minor” incident.

I responded with the same panic and dread that reminded me of a very dark place I know all too well but we’ll get to that later.

Just yesterday I saw a news story about a woman viciously attacked by her soon-to-be former husband in a judge’s chambers at her divorce hearing (see Divorce Court Attack, news.yahoo.com).  The response to this post was the polar opposite.

There was outrage (rightly so) at such a disturbing assault and outcries at how our judicial system does not protect the most vulnerable.

These responses – different as they were - brought it all back for me.

What qualifies as valid abuse?

I don’t know if I’m missing something but I feel like it’s so difficult for women to speak out when any violence against them occurs that it is incumbent upon us as listeners to be careful how we respond.

The reason I was drawn by the Jacque Reid article was her recollection of her response to her attacker. When this man literally threw her out of his apartment building, she picked herself up off the ground with scrapes and bruises and hailed a cab. She even greeted her doorman with a smile as she entered her own apartment building. 

She didn’t define it as domestic violence because, as she notes, “what happened to me didn't compare to the severity of the abuse that women like Rihanna [of Chris Brown fame] are subjected to in their relationships.”

So what’s the threshold? Marriage? Cohabitation? A relationship longer than two months? One bruise or two?

I know at one time, my definition of “valid” domestic abuse only included an Ike-style ass-whuppin’. Everything else was negligible.

So when I was faced with naming the torment I experienced, I was stuck. Surely this isn’t abuse, I reasoned.

I will spare you the gory details but it took the facilitator of a domestic abuse support group at a local family crisis center six weeks to convince me that yes, Allison, this is abuse and, no, you don’t have to stay. Every week I would listen to the other women share horrific stories (most of whom were married to pastors or some kind of church leader but I’ll leave that alone for now) and say, “So do y’all think this is abuse?”

It takes so much strength to acknowledge and admit that violence has occurred because so many of us blame ourselves. As though we were the cause of someone hurting us. It’s all in our pretty-little heads.  

 I certainly heard and read a plethora of well-meaning advice in how I could “save” my marriage. I would describe situations that were making me crazy and they would reply, “That can’t be true! You must have misunderstood.” Or, worse of all, “Maybe this is your cross to bear so you must endure hardness like a good soldier. After all, look at what Jesus did for you.”

SMH

The reason I mentioned the severe physical abuse reported in the Yahoo news story earlier is because it usually takes an episode this dramatic for us to take domestic abuse seriously.

 While my FB Friend does have a point that we have to be careful what we label as abuse, arguing the nuances of what actually qualifies as domestic abuse and questioning whether or not a particular instance or form of violence “counts” reminds me of my own pain at being minimized as well as countless other women who have also been dismissed.

One of the best gifts I received in the 12-week support group mentioned above was validation. I thought verbal, emotional, and spiritual abuse paled in comparison to the physical abuse they had endured. They would say, “I was seven weeks pregnant and he pushed me down the steps and stepped on my stomach.” I was sitting there like, “They are so gonna laugh at me.” But when I described what I’d been through, they nodded and said, “Oh no, girl! It’s one and the same. ”

A rose by any other name…

While my abuse wasn’t physical, there is a form of that terrorism that lives in me every day. It’s a fear and self-doubt that haunts me. But I practice exchanging fear for love, and surrounding myself with those who are loving and affirming. I choose different thoughts and grow stronger.

So regardless of your opinion of this subject or the victims noted in this article, I hope you will consider the following:

Abuse has a profound effect on its victims. It strips the soul of its worth and balance and results in a measure of trauma. It’s not something that has to define one’s life but it does require management. It is an injury – psychic or physical – that takes time and love and gentleness and kindness to heal. Not subtle undermining and hair-splitting as to whether or not it justifies attention.

To be sure there are abusers who abuse this issue. But I humbly recommend avoiding the minimizing of those who do come forward and are victims because of the idiocy of those who are mainly the exception, not the rule.   

I would also ask that you be mindful of the considerable bravery and courage it takes to come forth and vocalize this experience. Give it a name so you can reclaim yourself and let the world know this is NOT OK. Not unlike rape victims, many domestic abuse survivors would rather not go through the ridicule that tends to come when this issue is raised.

So to quote Otis Redding, try a little tenderness.

Middle Passage Part Two: The Talented Tenth vs. Bebe's Kids

Last week I spent a great deal of real estate weighing the pros and cons of elite White private schools for African American children.  (See Middle Passage, March 31, 2011). What I didn’t have the space to tackle – but was nipping at my heels – was the other side of the coin: the elitism of the so-called Black Upper Class.

Now if there’s anything that fries my shorts crispier than elitism in general, it’s this illusory and absurd caste and class system we have in the African American community.

Now to be fair, let me be the first to share my experience at being caught between this rock and very hard place.

I have the appearance of an original Philadelphia Negro. I am light-skinned, used to have long hair, and went to the Philadelphia High School for Girls.

What I didn’t have was  all the right accoutrements and connections. I lived in East Mount Airy instead of West. My parents were just a teacher and civil servant (not doctors, lawyers, and soul power chiefs).

While my Inner Rebel didn’t want any parts of this world, my outer cowardice wanted to conform and be accepted.

Growing up, all I knew about the elite is AKA Fashion Shows that my aunts always guilted my mother into attending. I also remember hearing people say you weren’t a proper Philadelphia Negro Woman unless you had a fur.

In spite of the fact that I did try to get every color Ralph Lauren or Izod polo shirt I could, along with every pocket design of Jordache jeans available, there were some things I just wasn’t gonna do, namely pledge AKA. I became (and remain) the only Delta in my family and - let the record reflect - Deltas have Fashion Shows, too.

Of course, I went on to cement my fate of guilt-by-association with the Upper Echelon by attending Howard University. Thus began my global exposure to the Talented Tenth. I was in the Land of the Philadelphia Negro times 10!

There were generations of pedigree I had no clue about. And for four years, I just fit in by default.

What I didn’t realize is that striving to fit in with “Their” Kind of People in undergrad was for amateurs compared to when we had children. That level of social climbing was strictly for professionals. (Little did I know that until I read Lawrence Otis Graham's Our Kind of People, I hadn't a prayer anyway.)

I once again felt the familiar sting of being an outsider but this was my child we’re talking about. I’m not talking about me making line or getting invited to someone’s summer cottage. This is my future, my legacy.

So the games began.

“Am I providing enough exposure?” I begin to wonder.  Do I have an Action Plan for the Middle School / High School / Power College Tract? I would hear, “So and so’s child is at Dartmouth, you know, because they spent summers at Sag Harbor with so and so’s family and went on to graduate Sidwell.” 

I was frankly out of my league.  I would see some of my Howard friends participating in all of this stuff and wonder why my six degrees seemed so separated. They were not all bourgeois but their kids had access. You know – Jack and Jill. Martha’s Vineyard. At least a Cotillion.

But I was not a part of “them” and I genuinely did not know what to do.

Mind you all of this is sorely against my constitution but still.

Well, my constitution got its chance to shine last spring when we left Anne Arundel County and the School of N-words and Spitting for Baltimore for a lot of reasons, fiscal challenges being chief among them.   

Once I decided where to live, I checked out the neighborhood school.

According to the Internet and my unofficial poll, there was nothing, I mean NOTHING, good said about this school! It did not meet the No Child Left Behind standards and was being taken over by the state. That meant a whole new regime was on its way. In addition, the students who did bother to show up scored in the low 20^th percentile in the state assessments measuring basic proficiencies.

I was not happy or comfortable but it truly was the best I could do given my circumstances.

So I take Drew out of Shangri-La for half a day for a field trip to see exactly what we are getting ourselves into.

I followed the directions from Google maps and felt my jaw drop when I saw it. It was small and old and quite non-descript. Not the winding roads and lush campuses of the previous year’s search, that’s for sure. Drew and I looked at each other with blank stares and broke out into cold sweats.

After we composed ourselves I said, “OK – if we walk through those doors and it’s the Lean On Me school with Joe Clark, a bull horn, and metal detectors, we scram, capisce?” She said, “OK!”

So in we go.

While its cinder block walls are painted a very 1960’s institution mint green, it is quiet, calm, and pleasant. We meet the principal, who seems nice enough, and I share the results of my research noted above. In response to my assessment, she smiles and says, “Yes, I know my school is just awful! Don’t you see the blood splattered on the walls and the students swinging from the ceilings?”

We both laughed but that wasn’t too far from the zoo I was expecting.

I’m like, I don’t see Bebe’s Kids but I know they’re around here somewhere.

She went on to explain the complicated world of No Child Left Behind and neighborhood schools and lack of support and every other social ill we hear about on the evening news. I really felt for her. I also felt like while I want what’s best for my child, what about the others who aren’t blessed with the options I have had in the past?

I think part of me was rationalizing my gnawing sense of failure (what would my Philadelphia Negro family and friends think is they saw this?!) but I did genuinely feel a sense of humility and awakening. What makes me think I shouldn’t be subject to the challenges most American families are faced with?

Well, I wish I could say the school has done a miraculous 180 and Drew’s public school experience in a predominantly Black environment was not as difficult as that of her predominantly white private school.

While I genuinely hope no one is offended, this was my daughter’s First Day of School Report:

“Mom! I made all new friends just like you said I would and they are so cool! I can’t wait until you meet DaQuan, Dayja, Marquis, Sade, Jai, Nazaraha, and Cortez.”

“I’m so glad, honey,” I reply.

Around week number three, Drew had a young man pull a knife on her on the school bus because she wouldn't kiss him and let her know he meant business by ripping the seat cushion in front of her. The next day her father and I were up at the school filing charges while the principal and the county police assured us they would review the surveillance camera on the bus for suspects and examine the bus for evidence.

Then there is this notion of her being accepted among her own.

I’ve had to watch her navigate a very different kind of peer pressure.

Drew, like her Mama, is light-skinned but she is unmistakably and unashamedly Black. But that didn’t help. Here’s a sample:

What the f*** kinda name is Drew?

Are you Mexican?

Is that your real hair?

Why don’t you wear track?

(An aside – Drew: “Mom, can I get track?” Mom: “Hell, no.”)

I suppose the most disheartening aspect of all of this is the academic reality.

We were told by the eighth grade principal that the county curriculum just isn’t robust enough for where Drew is academically no matter what school she attends.

Now contrary to popular opinion, neither Drew or her classmates are stupid. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, they simply learn early on that the world is politics. Teachers have to each to a test to maintain their jobs (and in this case, keep the school open). Teachers are also frustrated with students “acting out” but the students don’t feel like many of the teachers have any expectations of them, let alone high ones. (I’m not even scratching the surface of all that goes on so public school educators and administrators please forgive me!)

In spite of all of these factors, however, we have learned exactly what I've heard most parents say: by and large, if a teacher sees potential in a student and the parents stay engaged, he or she will look out for your child. While Drew may not have gotten all of what she needs, she has gotten the best this school has to offer. And she has learned some very necessary life lessons along the way.

So the conclusion of my meandering for the past two weeks is I’ve decided to follow my proverbial first mind. Success is 150% an inside job. Who and how we are primarily determines where we will go and how far. Sure, environment plays a role but remember to keep the main thing the main thing. And sometimes what seems like a negative on the surface is all part of the Master Plan.

I’d like to end with this quote:

“We believe we’re all so different, but we’re not. We cover ourselves in customs and costumes of aspiration, struggle, and victory, sacrifice and loss – and soon forget who we really are….I want to make sure I never lose sight of the truth of my existence. I am a ripple in the ocean of God and I want to be able to see my reflection in the face of everyone I meet, to understand that even people I will never know are reflections of my undisguised self.”

Here Oprah tells us what she knows for sure and for me, particularly in this context, it resonates. If you can get THIS, I don’t care if you go to Phillips Exeter or the Round-the-Way School, you will succeed, however success is defined for you.

What I Know for Sure

O, the Oprah Magazine, April 2011

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>

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.