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.