Nine-Nineteen

On September 19, 1992, my father walked me down the aisle and, upon reaching my betrothed, he lifted my veil, kissed me on the lips, looked him square in the eye, and said "If you ever get tired of her, bring her back just the way you found her." That really sums up Daddy. Protective. Resolute. And always willing to set you back on your heels. 

On September 19, 2021, my husband (who obviously has not grown weary of me) and I were driving through Louisiana, on the way to Texas, to visit with my father. Four hours from our final destination, my father passed away. Transitioned. Died. 

I really do not have the ability to put this loss into words. Approximately 3 months have passed, and I woke up this morning with this fierce determination to end 2021 trying my best to describe him. Define him. Maybe even depict who he was. He was complicated. 

My father was amazingly humorous. Fun and funny. Prone to repeating jokes with impeccable timing. He was also great at making fun of himself and the world around him. I loved nothing more than him pointing his finger at something or someone, then holding his hand to his mouth and whispering what he found hilarious. 

My father was demanding. You’d better do it once, do it right, and do your best! Disappointing him was never a pretty thing. Unfortunately, he set the bar really high, and he would move it higher every single time you managed to hurdle the mark. It was exhausting. 

My father loved my mother. Even though they had been divorced for years, he still loved her. She knew it. My sisters and I felt it, and it was very comforting. Even though he had remarried, it did not seem odd at all that he felt the way he did. It seemed natural and right. I guess it would be easier for you to understand with a little background. 

My parents grew up together. Their mothers were best friends, and they had known each other all of their lives. This bond was not easily erased with a piece of paper, especially with the 6 daughters they had raised as a unit. Until his dying day, my mother and father had a routine of talking about "the girls." My father liked referring to each of us as a number. I am #4.

My father was intimidating. Before you got to the twinkle in his eye, there was a steely reserve. A no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners look and demeanor. Especially in the early days. I believe it was his way of preparing us to be adults. I also believe he had to be somewhat anxious while raising young, black girls in the '50s and '60s. 

My father was open/free. We were never the household that had to hide our femininity because Daddy was home. I actually thought that my female peers grew up in similar environments and that this was the norm. That wasn't true. Some of them slept in bras and weren't allowed to even wear pajamas around their fathers. Our lifestyle was the extreme opposite, but never lewd. I now know it was special. 

My daddy could fix anything that was broken. Your car. A toaster. The screen door. My lousy ex-boyfriend. Now, that is a story! He could fix anything.

This last quarter of the year has been challenging. I am not entering 2022 with the idea that the first quarter will be any different. For 61 years and 11.5 months, I had a physical relationship that is no longer.  I miss you, Daddy.

Untitled

I am a founding member of a group that was established in 2020 to discuss our current climate regarding race. The catalyst of the group coming together was the murder of George Floyd, and the name of the group is "Conversations on Race" or "COR"-- catchy, right? 

It was originally founded by a woman that I have a great amount of respect for. Aside from our personal, close relationship, she is a woman who believes in others and has always been a champion of people. She enlisted two other women of color-- black women-- because she believed as a LatinX, that she should not spearhead it alone. One of them is someone I have also known for years, and we participated in a lot of altruistic work in the community. We also worked for the same department and  shared expertise in employment, training and facilitation.  The other woman I knew only as a personal trainer, but I knew that she was trusted and soon learned that we had a really great vibe.

My friend has been candid about the fact that she established the group because of the hurt and pain that I had expressed to her on many occasions. She also knew that I had suffered some mentally challenging days. That and the fact that she wants to see real change happen in her community is why she's my girl. She immediately asked me to be a founding member, for which I was grateful, and I hoped to have some impact. 

As we began to function, a small group of us had zoom meetings to discuss how we could best make some inroads in a pretty "good ole boy" environment. Ultimately, we decided to address the community by hosting a monthly evening session. These sessions varied in topics, speakers, and what some perceived as useful dialogue. There was some grandstanding and self-serving but, that is typical of organizational work. There was also some fallout based on legitimate work schedules and plain ole disinterest. 

I wanted to set this scenario not because this blog topic is about COR. As a matter of fact, the topic has nothing to do with the organization itself. However, it is within this organization that I found myself grieving horribly, and I recognized that the amount of trauma I was experiencing was hard to express to the same group that I was working with to educate others about systematic racism. The irony.

The trauma that I was experiencing, and still experience, is rooted in resentment. I began to resent this "cute" group that I felt was non-functional based on topics that may or may not be acceptable to white America. The amount of times that I heard or felt, "oh, THEY may not like that" was so jarring, upsetting, and telling, that I soon realized the group as a whole was afraid of challenging white America about their privilege. 

The very system that was oppressive, cruel, hostile, stifling, and plain ole intent on ruling over POC-- the group was fearful of upsetting. I began to resent those on the team who could decide to pick up the mantle of "fighting for justice" and then lay it down when they were around their relatives or non-Black friends. I began to resent having to try and explain my pain to people who could, if they wanted to, research any number of books that would break down the last 400 years and the detriment caused to my people. 

I began to suffer mentally. I started re-hashing conversations I have had or overheard from non-Black people that shined such a bright light on their privilege. There are two instances in particular that always pop in my head. 

The first involves a middle-aged white male who owns a substantial business. He has always gloated over his work ethic and how despite his father being a businessman before him, he never benefited from it. The ridiculousness of this is so preposterous, but as many times as I have heard his rhetoric, I have never challenged him on it. The reality is that your father's name did carry some weight, and your skin color opened doors for you at the bank that a black man would never have been afforded. Even if this black man had a father who preceded him in business. 

The other instance was repeated to me after I attended an event that was either political or a fundraiser or something along those lines. I was good at being in that crowd when I lived in California. I was having a discussion with two white women (I was the only black person there), and at some point defended some principle that had to do with POC. I made a statement that obviously didn't sit well with them. The next thing you know, I was told that they said I was prejudiced. 

Two things about this made it laughable. First, the word prejudice is rooted in pre-judgment. White people have been showing us who they are for 400 years. If we are speaking in general terms about how I feel about them as colonizers, there is no way I can be prejudiced. If we are speaking about their behavior toward POC, again, I can't be labeled as prejudiced. 

I have a zillion stories of ways in which "white privilege" shows up and owns the joint. The other night, I took myself on a date. I gathered two books, one fiction and one non-fiction (you just never know) to accompany me on this outing. To make a really long story short, a woman on my left (after a brief conversation) decided she would reach over and grab some food from my appetizer... all the while, uttering..."I am going to taste your..."

I wasn't surprised. She was white. She thought it was okay. I mean, after all, I smiled at her... exchanged pleasantries. Obviously, I was a nice little negro who understood my status in life and hers. I subsequently pushed the entire plate toward her and told her to enjoy all of it. The sarcasm was lost on her. She smiled in glee. 

I thought about a half-dozen sistuhs who would still be in there cursing her tail out and teaching her some manners. I was surprised I wasn't one of them. At the minimum, I could have told her how inappropriate her behavior was. Amazing how uncivilized they can be. 

Since George Floyd's murder, there have been 229 Black people killed by police. The majority were male ranging in age from 3 months to 88 years old. And we are now well aware of what happened to our brother Ronald Greene in 2019. Police claimed he died when his SUV crashed-- we now know he was violently murdered by state troopers.  

I am grateful that I am able to lay this resentment at your feet. I don't blog for massive readers or to be touted as a phenomenal creator. I blog because writing, for me, is cathartic. I have been feeling so much pressure, anger, angst, anxiety, and two weeks ago, my depression actually was at an all-time low. I was not able to do much of anything, other than sit while tears rolled down my cheeks.  

I leave you with a longer version (than perhaps you are used to hearing about) of James Baldwin's 1961 response, to a radio host, about being Black in America:

To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a state of rage almost, almost all of the time — and in one's work. And part of the rage is this: It isn't only what is happening to you. But it's what's happening all around you and all of the time in the face of the most extraordinary and criminal indifference, indifference of most white people in this country, and their ignorance. Now, since this is so, it's a great temptation to simplify the issues under the illusion that if you simplify them enough, people will recognize them. I think this illusion is very dangerous because, in fact, it isn't the way it works. A complex thing can't be made simple. You simply have to try to deal with it in all its complexity and hope to get that complexity across.

MARCHing ON

March. For me, this is a signature month. For many of you, it is, as well. It was the third week in March when I realized just how serious COVD 19 had become. It now had a name other than "the Chinese flu" which, in hindsight, I find quite defamatory. It also began to show up with statistics, warnings, regulations and protocols. It changed our lives. 

It has been a year of mask wearing, hand washing, sanitizing, testing, re-testing, losing, gaining, crying, resolving, canceled flights and vacations, socially distanced functions, and so much more. 

This will be a really transparent blog and the shortest one I have done by far. Here goes. 

It was May when I decided that I would make a grilled cheese sandwich. Yes. This is newsworthy. Up to that point, I rarely ate any bread. I announced to the prayer squad that I was throwing caution to the wind and that as soon as the pandemic was over (in my mind, that would've been in a couple of months) I would get back on track--get in the gym, eat a diet with no carbs. My regular way of life. My habits. 

The more isolated things became, the more food I consumed and alcohol I drank. Now when I say alcohol, most people know that I really like my wine. A good buttery Chardonnay, a crisp Rosé and, once in a while, an expensive Pinot Noir. But I rarely drank any hard alcohol. 

I found myself buying whiskey, bourbon, vodka--oh, and nice whiskey glasses with a matching decanter--and ultimately, an entire bar setup because I was invited to a friend's online birthday bash, complete with a mixologist. I looked forward to the event just a little too much. 

Soon, I was treating myself to night caps (daily) that I convinced myself were, like the grilled cheese, temporary. I would read or hear people talk about addiction on the rise during covid and laugh when people talked about "covid weight." Inwardly, it made me uncomfortable. 

I promised this would be short, so...

In the last 12 months, gluttony has been my thing. In particular, food and alcohol. These were my new habits. I found myself going to bed at 3, 4, and once 7 a.m. Then I slept til the afternoon. I found out this last habit has a name: Revenge Sleep Deprivation. Check it out. It's a thing. And because I am self employed and work consistently, it really fit right into what I was doing. 

I could only think of one way to take care of the mess I had gotten myself into. I hired a personal trainer. We start tomorrow morning at 7 am. I have to go to bed because I have to get up. That solves two of my four issues. The other two line up nicely. I believe working out and eating clean go together. When I am committed to an exercise program, my eating habits fall into place. Lastly, drinking in the evening and working out in the morning... well, read that sentence again. It doesn't make sense, does it?

Tomorrow is March 1, 2021. I am as isolated as I was in March of 2020, and I have no idea how long this will last. What I know for sure--in my Oprah voice--is that at some point, what I thought was a temporary thing began to feel very permanent. 

So let's raise a glass to new beginnings. My glass will be figurative.

Past

I returned from the military in May of 1981. A lifetime ago. I was really not enamored with being home, although it was my choice. A choice based on a voice from God that literally said, "go home".

This voice was familiar but based on ancestors, long gone and recent/past ideology from visits to the sanctuary. I heeded but was quite skeptical.

There I was. At mama's house and ready to go the moment I arrived. 7 months pregnant. I knew her name was Jasmine. I now call her Nicole.

I started looking for my own crib, immediately. I had money, a sense of perseverance and a stronger sense of independence.

It didn't take 24 hours to figure out why the voice (God) sent me there. 

I went to a Bible Study beneath a tree (a shelter that I had been to many times, unsaved) - there, I listened to a man I loved from youth, but on this occasion, he introduced me to the same Jesus he had preached before; I accepted and my life has never been the same. I was 22. 

I moved into my first apartment on American soil  (I had lived in Germany, previously) and started hosting many entertaining endeavors.

My place was the place. My younger sisters crashed there.....my friends dined and played cards. I started mothering at that same spot and there, I learned that I loved to have people over. I delighted in playing music, cooking good food, laughing, gossiping, telling good stories and living life.

On top of it all, I was saved, sure and sold out for Christ. Oh, the good times that ensued. 

There was not a day that went by that didn't include a friend dropping by unannounced and welcome. I didn't realize that hospitality was a gift; I just knew that the more, the merrier. It became "do drop inn" and, I loved it. 

That small apartment was filled with love, laughter and tears. The stove was always on and the door was always open. 

Eventually, I moved into a larger apartment and the company followed. 

My love for the Lord, my Church and the people of God continued. The man that introduced me to Christ became my spiritual mentor......father....friend. To this day, I miss his presence, his preaching and his influence.

.................

Since I began blogging, in April of 2018, I have always had a title prior to my actual content. I looked.....I even stared (there is a difference) at the title section, then I tabbed down to where you type the actual content.  

At this moment, I have no idea what I'm going to write. Another first. 

I do know that I have been promising to blog for months. I have even written dates and made promises, and you "liked” or “loved" the posts on social media. Then. Nothing. I had nothing. 

Now, don't get me wrong. I always have something to say. A story brewing. An incident. Past or present. And as a woman said to me in 2019, "Well, you know you love to talk,” which isn't quite true. It also hurt my feelings. Can you tell?

This is the reality. I love to tell a story......which sometimes comes out in the most irritating, rapid-gunfire, incessant way. I see what she means, I guess. 

My first audience was my baby sister, Yvette. I would come home from school and tell her everything that went on, but I always put a spin on it that made her sit patiently and listen. Or I would read books—sometimes boring, historical books—that I made come alive. 

As adults, one day she said, "I always loved listening to your stories," and I beamed. By the way, if she is ever telling you a story, run. They are long and drawn-out and sometimes, you forget what she was even talking about. But she does have a beautiful way of telling a story with her voice. She is a singer extraordinaire. Moral of the story: if she has a pianist with her, you are safe. 

Each time I told you I was going to blog, I meant it. I even had an idea that I jotted down. I had a thought about something I found interesting. Then, life......

You would think that in a time where social interaction is limited and people are somewhat sequestered, that I would find myself with all the time in the world to share. That was not the issue.

The truth is, the outside world has crept in and stolen my writing ability. My wit. My quips. My penmanship. It is almost like I do not know where to begin, and if I started, you would be reading a novel. But the novel would have so many chapters and no fluidity and no rhyme or reason. 

It would be romance, horror, fiction, non-fiction......based on my life and also based on my dreams; yes, like this sentence, it would be all over the place. 

So I have no blog. I have the recent passing of Chadwick Boseman, who played T'Challa......the superhero of black children and others. I have Jacob Blake, Breonna Taylor.....George Floyd......I have people, including myself and my youngest, who ran for 2.23 miles to honor Ahmaud Arbery.

I have Emmett Till who was 14 when he was lynched and Tamir Rice who was 12 ……I have Sandra Bland......I have Trayvon Martin.....I have friends I went to high school with who support a man and slogan that is aimed at making "America great again". 

I wish I had an old rotary phone. I would painstakingly put my finger in the hole and swing it around 7 times and when they answered, I would ask:

Which great do you desire to go back to? When my forefathers worked your fields? When my mother's, mother's mother breastfed your mother's, mother's, mother's children. When you hosed my people like dogs or spit on my people at the lunch counter? Or was it during the middle passage where my people were forcibly transported and made the final journey to Charleston, South Carolina? Interestingly enough, I went there in 2019 and ate shrimp & grits and thought of none of this. 

This is all I have. Minus the title. 

Poppy #2

Poppy's mother and I have had many discussions about infertility, and most of it has centered on whether or not it is a recent phenomenon. We have varying views about it, and I suppose that is because of our own life experiences. 

My mother was 22 years old when she had me and I was 22 when I had Jasmine. I don't think I had heard about women having a difficult time conceiving until perhaps 10 years ago. I also only knew of a handful of women who had suffered the loss of a child because of miscarriage. 

My era is one that was built on the industrial age, and Jasmine has had the benefit of going through her 20's and 30's in the information age. She and her peers are accustomed to living their lives out loud and sharing their experiences one keystroke at a time. 

With that being said, both of my daughters are extremely chaste when it comes to social media; I believe their brother shares more than the two of them combined. I am proud to say that all three of them are respectful versus inappropriate. And for this, I am grateful. 

My point is that Google, Wikipedia, WebMD, Bloggers, Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook and Podcasts, just to name a few, are all designed to inform the masses about any and everything. We are living in a world that loves to share.  

When Michelle Obama wrote about her own experiences with miscarriage and IVF in her book Becoming, many believed the former first lady was doing her part to help soften the stigma around pregnancy loss and infertility. 

My daughter has shared with me how difficult it has been for her when people voiced their assumptions about whether or not she wanted children and how invasive she thought people had become because they would inquire. 

I, on the other hand, found it to be a natural part of conversation that someone may have with a young couple. So much so that even after knowing what my daughter was going through, I found myself asking a young man one evening in Indiana, if he and his wife wanted to have children. Little did I know that they were having the exact same struggles, and they were deeply devastated that she had not yet conceived. 

So, have women of previous generations dealt with the same struggles and loss as the women of today? Have food, environment, stress, toxins, and God knows what else played a part? I don't have the answers, but I believe the latter is true. 

My daughter’s blog was very romantic, and it was a teary-eyed read. I honestly thought that mine would be more of the same. I am as surprised as you are. 

I believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. I believe that He honored a select group of female relatives that Jasmine asked to pray with her after her second miscarriage. Two of my sisters and me, my other daughter and two of my nieces. We're the prayer squad. 

We prayed with her and for her and her husband almost every Saturday for well over a year. We fasted together every Friday from sun up to sun down in the month of September 2018. Nothing—absolutely nothing—by mouth.

We wrote individual devotions on prayer and faith that we will one day share in a book. We set individual goals and did the “21-day financial fast” by Michelle Singletary. We laughed, we cried, but most of all, we prayed. We prayed out loud with each of us taking turns on fb video messenger. 

We also prayed for our individual and collective family members and we shared a list of other concerns that had come to our attention. 

In the midst of our belief, God did it. He gave us Poppy. Middle name Grace. The significance of her middle name is quite obvious. Her first name is also quite special. 

The man who baptized me, performed my wedding ceremony, baptized two of my children, and presented my last child to Christ, died on October 12th, 1997. He was a man of small stature, but extremely formidable. 

He was a preacher’s preacher and a mentor to many. His Bible Study methods were extremely unorthodox and not to be missed. He was the professor of a satellite theology school, but saved his best lectures for us at Denny’s. 

Over the years, my mother and three of my sisters were his administrative assistants. And on the rare occasion, I would find him sitting with my father, in silence, listening to Jazz music. 

He was well sought after, but extremely humble. He was prone to helping intellects, but preferred to be around young, inquisitive people. And as such, my children were as devastated as I was when he went home to be with the Lord. 

  

His name - Dr. Emmerett W. Roland. But we called him "Poppy."

Poppy #1

I am sure many of you have heard the phrase, "music to my ears," right? After 27 hours of labor, on November 5, 2019, a medical professional laid my granddaughter on my daughter's chest and I heard my daughter say, "I've waited my whole life for you!" It was positively the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

I asked my daughter, Jasmine, if she would be willing to share my first blog writing of 2020 because I wanted our circle to learn more about this incredible love story. The highs, the lows, the frustrations and ultimately God's faithfulness.

*Jasmine

My husband Thane and I have been married for 10 years. We have spent 9 of them desperately trying to get pregnant. That's 3,285 days, of praying, dreaming, hoping, begging, mourning, giving up and realizing that, no matter what, God is in control. And He will give me the desires of my heart in His perfect timing.

After 5 unsuccessful attempts with IUI, we decided that we would try IVF. Once we started that process, our lives were totally consumed by a particular, well-timed-out schedule. There are the medications, giving myself shots in the stomach, going to doctors’ appointments every few days. Then there is my husband giving me shots in my hips, egg retrieval and finally embryo implementation.

These are the various steps that every person must go through on the journey of IVF. Keep in mind, that going through them, does not guarantee that you will end up pregnant, let alone deliver a healthy baby.

Thane and I wanted a baby with our whole hearts so we moved forward full speed ahead. Our first embryo transfer worked and I was pregnant!! I can't begin to tell you how overjoyed we were. We told everyone about the pregnancy. I mean everyone! Family, friends, co-workers, people at the grocery store. Our neighbors. Yes, everyone.

Then our world turned upside down, I suffered a miscarriage at 9 weeks. I have never experienced a loss so great. Sometimes it felt like my body couldn't hold all the grief because it was too big, but in those moments, I really leaned on God. I would literally cry out to Him for peace, and He would pour it over my heart.

Two months after the miscarriage, we implanted another embryo and I was thrilled to be pregnant again. We kept this one under-wraps with the exception of sharing with my mother and a few others. When we went in for an ultrasound at 6 weeks, there was no heartbeat. The pain, if possible, was magnified and I was inconsolable. I want you to understand that my grief is not a contradiction of who the Lord is or what He can do. I am a human being who spent countless hours dreaming of the joy of parenting with my husband. The loss of these two children is indescribable.

After this loss, my husband and I decided to take a break from IVF and focus on healing our minds and my body. It was nice to focus on something other than our desperation for a child. We were intent on focusing on our marriage and it was during this decision-making process that I reached out to my mom and asked her opinion about starting a prayer group. I am pretty sure you will enjoy her version of the "prayer squad" much better than mine.

This would be a never-ending blog if I shared all that transpired during this time of "chill." What is most relevant in this journey is that I grew closer to the Lord. I developed a more intimate relationship with Him, and Thane and I began attending Worship on a weekly basis. Life became more manageable, and soon we were ready to try again.

When we implanted our last embryo, we did it with extreme optimism. We believed, along with the "prayer squad," that the Lord would see us all the way through and we would have the child we had been praying for.

God honored that prayer request, and on Nov. 5th at 9:19 pm, I gave birth to Poppy Grace Sanges. My mom has a saying that she normally ends her advice with. It goes something like this, "I have never lied to you and I'm not going to start today."

When I told Poppy that I had waited for her my whole life, I hadn't practiced what I would say. Remember, my dreams had turned into nightmares on two occasions. I was almost afraid to imagine the moment. I opened my mouth and my first words to my daughter were the truth.

*Suni

Part 2 is coming on 1/31/20