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

Thank you for your Service!

There is a reputable grocery chain that has numerous stores and grocery distribution centers, in 8 states. I probably know more about this chain than the average person because my husband is a professional driver with them. 

I have had the pleasure of attending banquets where the insider information is shared and the drivers, the heartbeat of the company, are celebrated. Last year, my husband was a nominee for “driver of the year.” I left that banquet with a lovely little envelope that he promptly handed me after he was gifted. 

Most people would agree that there is only one other grocery chain that might be considered its rival. Both chains have delightful ambiances, and the service is stellar. I think we have them beat now that we have "select" bar service. Yes, you can grab a glass of wine prior to (or after) grocery shopping. I love it! Naturally, I only shop at the one that puts money in our pocket. As an entrepreneur, I understand how vital it is to support what supports you. 

Another feature that always puts a smile on my face is their "reserved veteran" parking slots. I always pull in proudly and hop out of the car. On a few occasions, I have gotten the impression that passersby doubted I ever served in the military. I shrug it off and head into the store. 

A week ago, my cousin came to visit from Pennsylvania. I was really excited about seeing her, even though she really came to hang out with my daughter. 

At some point, we went to the store. As I pulled into the reserved stall, I said out loud, "Every time I pull into this spot, I feel judged or as if people doubt that I served.” Then, we all jumped out of the car laughing at something else (who knows what) and continued enjoying each other's company.

At first, I didn't notice the big, black truck that was parked behind my car. I didn't realize that a Caucasian gentleman was asking me a question. I didn't know that my service in the military was actually being challenged. 

When I recognized what was going on, I could hear my daughter saying, "No sir, no....you are not going to do that to my mother!" At the same time, I was asking him to repeat his question. He did so quite willingly. "What branch of service were you in?" The snarl on his face was evident. He looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary. You know that "I gotcha look" of someone who is so sure that they caught you with your hand in the cookie jar?  

I was so stunned, so pissed off, and so shocked that I found myself asking him, rhetorically, "what? - what did you say?"  Before he could answer, I was moving toward his vehicle. I have no idea what I was going to say or what I was going to do. I just knew that I needed some space and opportunity, and I was sure the rest of it would work itself out.

My daughter, who has a much cooler head, literally put her elbow and forearm into my chest and said, "No, mommy back up.......etc."—all the while, letting the gentleman know he needed to move on. 

When he realized, based on how passionately we were dealing with things, that I must have served in the United States Military, he tried to clean it up by saying he was just curious where I served. He was lying.  

When you approach a known veteran, one of the first things you say is, "Thank you for your service." I have had it happen to me more times than I can count. I have humbly said it to others. My father and I say it to each other every year on Veteran's Day. He was lying.

I am not sure what about me said I couldn't possibly be a veteran. Was it my laughter wafting from the car? My beautiful melanin magic? My gender? My African styled head wrap? Perhaps it was all of these things bundled up together.

That entire episode could not have lasted more than 45 seconds, but it really broke my heart. I tried hard not to let it show in front of my daughter and my cousin. The sadness settled in my spirit, rumbled around, and now, it is here on paper. 

My daughter, who is always bossy but never aggressive, told me later that she didn’t want me to approach his vehicle because she saw a rack and thought he may have a rifle. Really?

I suppose she is right. Anything is possible. How many other people of color have been shot for less?

As Donald Glover so eloquently penned, “This is America” – and even though we picked their cotton and nursed their children, no one appreciates our service.

Legacy

Recently I texted my adult children and requested that they participate in a video chat. I didn't share the topic (the oldest child shared with me later that this caused a tad bit of anxiety) but they understood that it was mandatory. 

 

Once we were connected, I talked with them about my expectations for how they should conduct themselves when it comes to handling mine and Cleveland's affairs. I was specific about why I was leaving certain items to whom and the fact that the oldest is the executor of our will. I went on to explain that I expect for all decisions to be made jointly other than what we have specifically spelled out. We laughed about some of the choices I made and at one point, my son said, "You know I am gonna let them do whatever they want, Ma.” And I believe it. 

 

None of this was the real reason for the call. 

 

I told them how much respect I have for them as adults and that in their roles as parents, they would begin to create (if they haven't already) their own family traditions. Would I love for them to abstain from Halloween and teaching the fallacy that bunny rabbits lay eggs? Absolutely! But I refuse to challenge them or their spouse’s decision-making skills. My children have always sought my advice when they deemed it necessary, and I trust that this will continue. As a matter of fact, when I want to talk with them privately about something serious, I always ask their permission. This bears repeating. I respect them as my adult children.   

 

As I was speaking to them, my grandson was in the living room working on a puzzle. He was the reason I initiated the contact. His name is Amari Jordan White, and he's 9 years old. He announces his name very proudly when he introduces himself to others, and it is quickly followed by, "but you can call me A.J. for short.”

 

He's smart. He is in the gifted and talented program at school (given an opportunity, he will announce this also), and he is an extremely logical thinker. He is also very well-mannered. With the exception of the need to brag, he has my son's intellect and personality. 

 

In a few short days, Amari and I covered many topics. We talked about HBCU's. What a fraternity is. Being bullied in school and the after-affects. We also chatted about this insane idea he had about not displaying his brain power so that he won't be selected to skip a grade. This, of course, led to me explaining the term "dumbing down" and suggesting that he speak to his parents about his fear of being too small for the next grade.  

 

Ultimately, we landed on his favorite pastime. For several months, I have been well aware that my grandson is addicted to a game called Fortnite. I will not begin to bore you with why/how he is allowed to spend so much time playing the game, nor am I going to tell you the extreme measures he has taken in order to play. I am not even going to tell you about the strangers he has met while playing and how they have contacted him. I will say that my concern about all of this was the reason for the video conference.

 

I wanted my children to know that although I will not be invasive about how they rear their children, I do want them to consider what is on the table. The legacy of what my parents taught that their parents taught that their parents—well, you get the picture.

 

The morals, ethical values, respect for others, hard work, the bond of your word, and our love for God. These are not optional. The going in earlier, staying later, and working harder. These are not optional. A firm handshake (whether you are a male or a female) while looking the other person in the eye, the ability to apologize, and your commitment to those who are down-trodden. These are not optional. The immense dedication to your siblings above all others. This is not optional. 

 

For the last 10 days, Amari has spent time with me, Cleveland (who he affectionately calls Pop-Pop), his Aunt Sassy (and her husband), and his Aunt Sissy. He has been to two museums, played tennis 4 times, put together a 100-piece puzzle, worked on some art projects, swam several times, rode on Pop-Pop's motorcycle, and baked some chocolate chip cookies.

 

It is my hope that as an adult, he will look back on these summer visits and think of them fondly. No video games and no mobile devices. Just a family of loved ones looking to continue the legacy.

Be Still My Heart

I am always moving, talking, doing, cleaning, cooking, exploring - you get the picture? I am a self-proclaimed busybody. I get things done. You can count on me. I start what I finish. I mean, the best kind of mover and shaker. At least that is what I have always told myself.

Have I ever heard complaints about my inability to chill? Sure. But why take them seriously? As a matter of fact, I don't understand people who lounge around all day and relax. What is that about? There is so much to be done and I have always said, "I will rest when I'm dead.” My sister attributed a famous Army slogan to me many years ago. "I do more before 8 o'clock than most people do all day!" I thought it was a compliment.

So imagine my resistance to my therapist asking me to meditate for 30 minutes twice a week. I thought to myself, "Is she crazy?" Then, I said out loud, "Uh, that is a really long time. Do you think we could start small?" She agreed, and so my assignment was to do 15 minutes, twice a week. That was over 8 weeks ago. Guess how many times I have done it. Once. And it was painful.

My mother said I have been this way all of my life. Always talking and moving and attempting to do something. It is who I am. My husband often says, very graciously, "That is how you are wired". My daughter, Jasmine, says that I have a lot of little people that live in my head, and they are constantly telling me things. I believe they have resigned themselves to the fact that this is just who I am. What I have discovered is that who I am can always be improved upon. However COMMA this one is a real challenge.

Every time I think about attempting the exercise, my mind starts to come up with all the things I could be doing in that 15-30 minute window. All the things that I could accomplish and cross off my list.

I shared in my December blog that one of the reasons that I sought out therapy was for mental self-improvement. I am often impulsive and rash. I oft times say things that I wish I could take back. If you know me, this is where you are either nodding your head in agreement or you laughed. It's cool—I can take it. I am working on it. Or am I?

The assignment is supposed to help me be more mindful. My oldest daughter, who is the Membership Director for the Girls Scouts of America, shared that they teach their girls the same thing, but they use a different word: “Thoughtful.” That hurt.

At my core, I am an extremely considerate person. I want the legacy of my life to reflect my genuine love and appreciation for others. If my affection is overshadowed by my inability to be still and focus, then there is a conflict that needs a resolution.

So here is the real deal. This is a matter of discipline and self-control. Being able to sit quietly and not consciously go through a mental laundry list of ideas and activities is a valuable tool that I need if I plan to master my impulses. For far too long, I have treated them as if I have some amazing gift that everyone else is lacking.

The heart is the very center of our being. It commonly refers to the mind as the center of thinking and reason, but also includes the emotions, the will, and thus the whole inner being. The heart is the depository of all wisdom and the source of whatever affects speech, sight, and conduct. Proverbs 4:23 puts it like this: Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.

I have to work on my heart health. And that all starts with the practice of sitting still. As I wrap up this blog, I sit here with two of the tools that I need to become proficient. A blank journal I purchased (about the same time my therapist gave me the assignment) and a made up mind.

Therapy. Who Me?

I finally did it. It was a long time coming. And necessary. I am always grappling with spiritual and physical health, so it stands to reason that I would begin to examine my mental health.

For many, many years, I have been cognizant of the fact that I am unraveling. It has been a slow, steady, but sure descension into my very present state. Now let me rush to assure you that I am not in danger of hurting myself or someone else. Nor do I have a medical issue that has altered my perception of life. Very simply, I need to connect some dots. My words, not my therapist's.

As my hands have stopped typing, several times, and rested on the keyboard.....I can tell this will be a tricky blog. How much should you tell them? What will become uncomfortable for the reader? Let's see where this goes.

I am an avid reader. My collection of books are typically black authors telling our stories (non fiction) such as Michael Eric Dyson and biographical information about people like Al Sharpton, Aretha Franklin, and Charles M. Blow. My coffee table is also home to literary works about Steve Jobs, Barbara Walters, and Ted Kennedy. I like to know where people come from and how their environment has shaped or influenced them.

For this reason, I also enjoy documentary series that expose the background of singers and/or musicians like "Unsung" and "Behind the Music". I was watching a program about the immensely talented DeBarge family. When I learned that their white father was beating their black mother and the police looked the other way, along with the fact that that same father sexually abused many, if not all of them......let's just say, I understood why so many of them struggled with drug addiction. I had some context to go with their characters.

In the 80's, I loved buying a new album and ripping off the plastic, so I could read the liner notes and dedications. Which studio was used and stories about the location. I did the same with cd's in later years. These opportunities are rare. I think the last time I was able to enjoy this simple pleasure was when my youngest purchased Solange's "A Seat at the Table" for me. In recent years, I have downloaded or streamed music, and for obvious reasons, that makes me sad.

I love a good story and I wish I had a romantic tale about about how I reached the decision. The truth is, it was past time. It was also pivotal that a member of my family has chosen therapy at 4 different stages of her life. A close friend also shared how much it helped her. When I shared that I was toying with the idea, they were both encouraging and supportive.

Recently Michelle Obama discussed undergoing marital counseling in her book "Becoming" and on her book tour. For some, I suppose that was a stamp of approval. It appears that the stigma associated with seeking help via counseling/treatment has been lifted. People are boldly proclaiming that they drink smoothies, enjoy yoga and seek therapy. And you don't have to live in California to participate in all three.

The day I began researching costs, insurance, and therapists in my area, I was full of hope laced with a little trepidation. I had no idea what to expect and when I settled on the provider of my choice, I was at a loss when they posed the following question - "why are you seeking therapy?" Have you ever had a craving for something to eat, but you weren't sure what you wanted? I knew I wanted therapy, I wasn't sure why.

This is still new to me. This week I finished my second session. The same way that I have enjoyed learning about the childhood mishaps, educational blunders, parental covering or lack thereof, sibling rivalry, loves lost and recovered......world views, economic structure, oppression, and the household dynamics that have shaped others, I now am beginning to explore about myself.

I have already learned that there are certain defense mechanisms that I put in place when I was in the 6th grade. They might have been necessary when I was 11 years old, at a brand new school, and bullied for being overweight with crooked teeth. Operating in the same fashion 48 years later - well, it's not as beneficial.

Last night, I walked away from my blog to contemplate how I was going to end it and give my daughter a chance to check the grammar - now that she is working on her PhD, she swears I need help. One of the things I like to do in the evening is stream random, but at the same time relevant, talk shows. I stumbled upon an interview between Trevor Noah from "The Daily Show" and Charlamagne The God from "The Breakfast Club". Guess what the topic was? Yup, mental health.

Charlamagne has written a book titled "Shook One" that details how acknowledging his anxiety led him into therapy. He also deals with how mental health is viewed by the black community. More importantly, a therapist breaks down each chapter in an addendum. I'm looking forward to adding this to my collection.

As we head into 2019, we are sure to be overwhelmed by Facebook resolutions and perhaps the need for self-examination. I believe in the latter. I am committed to searching deep within in the hope that I will be the better for it. I wish the same for you.

http://www.cc.com/video-clips/99hx44/the-daily-show-with-trevor-noah-charlamagne-tha-god---combatting-the-stigma-around-mental-health-in--shook-one----extended-interview

What Brought Me #2

Today is my 59th birthday - wow! I thought it would be really cool to publish the second part of my story on such an auspicious occasion versus on the customary 4th. Notice that I am trying to skirt the fact that I missed an entire month of blogging. Ah, life. My life.

In the first part of this two-part series, I talked about the extreme lows of moving 3,000 miles away from home and it really wasn't a pretty read. But I didn't answer the question posed in the first paragraph of that blog. What brought me to Charlotte?

As I mentioned in the former blog, California is home. My father was stationed in the area twice and I had lived there, off and on, for most of my life. Aside from my grandparents’ home in Virginia, it is the environment that represents consistency and stability. At the time, I had siblings, nieces, nephews, my mother, friends, volunteer work, and political peers, and I was well known and trusted. If I can be perfectly honest, my name had a little clout. Why would anyone leave all of that behind?

California is a pretty diverse melting pot. Especially in areas like Los Angeles where more than 220 languages are spoken. In the Northern and Central part, we also embrace our relationships with other minorities in a major way. In 2014, 33.9 million residents were 46.6% white non-Hispanic, 32.3% Latino, 11.1% Asian American or Pacific Islander, 6.4% black non-Hispanic and about 1% Native American. Today, the Hispanic population is now the proud majority sitting at 38%, while the whites sit at 34%. Black people represent 5.9% out of 38 million people.

The diversity was something that I was always proud of, but the representation of and for black people was almost non-existent. On the first day of elementary school, I knew for a certainty that my oldest two children, who went to public school, were going to share that they had one or two other black kids in their classroom. When they reached middle school and attended high school, the stories were a little longer because they would share how many they had in each one of their classes but the numbers were still the same. I either heard, "i am the only one in...." or "there are two of us in...." - I became accustomed to the routine.

It was the same, obviously, in my adult life. There was a running joke among my peers about there being only one black person hired at each bank. Most of the circles that I moved in politically and otherwise were totally influenced by and run by Caucasian people. The makeup of the county was one that centered on a few "good ole boys" who made the major decisions for the rest of us.

Now lest I leave you with the idea that I was resolute and passive in my situation, let me hasten to tell you that I have always been an under-dog who relishes a good controversy. There are many organizations that I worked with and for to make sure that the underrepresented were heard. This blog isn't about my influence on my community, so I will not produce any receipts. As my late brother-in-law Ruben used to say, "the truth don't need no defense".

Many of these good ole boys were friends of mine, and some of them were associates. We would have a civil and sometimes heated discourse about the nature of the community. How minorities were perceived and the like. I admit that I often enjoyed antagonizing them because I knew that I knew what I knew. More importantly, I didn't figure that the Lord had me sit at the table just to ask for some crumbs. Sometimes there were phenomenal outcomes, and sometimes I was disappointed and stunned.

One of the organizations that I had been a member of since I was pregnant with my youngest, was the Business and Professional Women of Merced County. I loved those women and we had been to several conferences together and put on many fundraisers and events. At some point, I became the Vice President and was being groomed for the Presidency. I wasn't looking forward to it.

I also had been asked about seeking political office and was seriously considering it. One of my friend's husband was very connected and because of our relationship, I had done some work with the Senator. I also knew the Congressman quite well, and one of his aides and I were really close. God rest her soul. She was a "homie" - a latina and a firecracker. She lived in the hood and was proud of it.

During that same period, I started resenting the social invites where I was the only black person in the room. I started feeling like a fish out of water when I looked around at the familiar players. At this time, there was one other black person who used to be asked to sing at different functions in the area. I had heard her name come up in regard to a political seat as well. No disrespect to sistuh girl, but I was a little more engaged than she was so I always thought I had a better shot. At some point, I told those in my circle, that I would never run against another black person because I wouldn't divide our community that way. I would rather get behind her and help her win. I meant that. As a side note, she sang at my wedding reception - our first dance, as a matter of fact. She is a friend, and I admire her and all of her talents, greatly.

On one particular night, I was at a function that raised money for unwed mothers. It was a pretty posh event that was hosted by some associates yearly. The backyard, where the event was held, was 5x's larger than most houses. A woman ran up to me, clutched her pearls (literally) and said, "oh, I am so glad you finally arrived....now, where would you like to set up?" I had no idea what she was talking about and she could sense that so she said, "aren't you.....?"
You guessed it. She thought I was the black singer. I mean, after all, there is normally only ONE of us at an event and there I was.

For some reason, that was the day. It was the day that I no longer wanted to be affiliated with the groups, charity events, organizations, or the people. It was the day that I decided I would seriously talk to my husband about moving to a different part of the country where people looked like us and had influence and power.

I thought about how great it would be for my youngest to go to school in an environment where she saw people of color affecting change in her community. She knew about my altruism, and like her siblings, I had taken her with me to knock on doors and pass out information. But I wanted her to realize that I was not some strange phenomenon. What she saw and what she didn't get to experience came down to statistics and opportunity.

Like most of you, I have led a full and eventful life. I feel as if I could write at least 3 more series about this topic. The bottom line is that I moved from California to Charlotte for the very same reason that P Diddy is trying to dupe you into drinking Ciroc in his commercial - I did it for the culture.

What Brought Me.......#1

The question that most people ask, when they find out that I call California home, is......"what brought you to Charlotte?".....It's a big question with more than one answer.

On August 12, 2008, I left Merced, California in my Kia Sorento, with my best friend (since 9th grade) in the passenger seat. We were headed for Charlotte, North Carolina, and we were excited about traveling over 3,000 miles together. We figured it would give us both a chance to reminisce about our friendship and figure out what this long distance relationship would look like.

Now don't get me wrong. Both of us are military brats that are used to travel and being disconnected from friendships that we may have developed. It wasn't as if we had never been apart from one another. As a matter of fact, I was in the military myself and spent some of my adult life in Germany. This was different.

In 2005, my husband and I began to discuss moving out of California. It was something that I had thought about for a long time, but I wasn't sure where I wanted to live nor did I have a solid plan. I knew I was tired of the community that I lived in (for various reasons) and I felt as if evolution was on the other side of the country.

The more we discussed it, the clearer things became. We did some research on Atlanta, Georgia and ruled it out. Then Richmond, Virginia (I spent some time in the summer, every year, visited my grandparents when I was a child - they lived in Virginia) which was extremely promising. Ultimately, we started thinking about North Carolina.

I was pretty familiar with the Carolinas - my oldest daughter had completed a semester of college in South Carolina and eventually moved to North Carolina. I also traveled to Greensboro every year on business, and I really enjoyed the culture and environment. The more we debated, the more we liked the idea.

In 2006, I traveled to Charlotte with that same best friend and another one of the yayas (a close group of female friends) to look at property and spend time with a realtor. Cleveland had also come out on his own. By 2007, we had purchased a lot and selected our builders. We literally chose all of our interior options and upgrades using the internet and when the color choices weren't definitive, our daughter would go to the showroom and deliver a report. It was an exhilarating, magnificent time!

Then the bomb dropped. The financial crisis of 2008 created the biggest disruption to the U.S. housing market since the Great Depression. Our home in California went from being worth a quarter of a million dollars to having no real value at all. Our plan to sell was now a pipe dream.

At this point, there was no going backwards (construction was well under way) and we were financially responsible for two homes. The story gets better. Cleveland was working for Mclane Pacific (a grocery distributor that operated nationally) and he was offered a position in Concord (20 mins from where our new property was located) - ideal, right? I thought so. There was one problem. They wanted him to start prior to August 12 which meant, he would have to leave California before I did. I was perfectly okay with that - I figured between my Church family, real family and friends, I could get the house packed up and get on the road. He turned down the job.

So, now we are financially responsible for two homes AND my husband doesn't have a job in North Carolina. A dream suddenly seemed like a nightmare. We did end up renting our home prior to leaving California, but we couldn't rent it for what we owed on it, so each month, for many years, we had to make up the difference.

Before we left California, we received a call from the realtor who let us know that construction had been pushed back because of weather conditions and, in addition, there were other homeowners that had priority over us. The conclusion to this story was the latest of several disappointing facts. Our home would not be done by the time we arrived in Charlotte.

Just to make sure you are keeping up with all of the facts, let's cover the highlights. 1. We are responsible for two homes 2. Cleveland's job in North Carolina is no longer available. 3. We have no where to live when we arrive in Charlotte. Are you with me? As people of faith, we obviously didn't believe that it was the end of the world, it just felt like it. Out of respect for your time, let me wrap up this story and put a bow on it.

I arrived in Albemarle, North Carolina (at my daughter's house) on August 16, 2008, late in the evening. My husband pulled in shortly behind me in a U-haul truck with my then, 13-year-old daughter and my son who was on his way to start a new life in Florida, where he currently lives. After meeting with the realtor, the next day, and getting our stuff loaded into a pod, my husband boarded a plane and went back to his old job in California where he stayed for the next year.

I lived in temporary housing in Albemarle (not my daughter's house) and for three months, five days a week, 4 times a day, an hour each way, I traveled back and forth taking my daughter to her new high school in Charlotte. To say that these were trying times would be putting it mildly. I missed my husband, my friends, my family and the familiarity of a life that I had perfected and that was perfect for me.

I went from being socially and politically connected to being severely depressed and having a difficult time communicating with others. At my lowest point, Honoree' came home from school (after we had finally moved in the new house) and asked me if I was going to change clothes today. When I gave her a puzzled look, she said, "mommy you have been wearing those clothes for three days".

During this time, I bent, but I never broke. So when people ask me "what brought you to Charlotte?", I respond with many answers, but without a doubt, the Lord not only brought me, but he kept me.

WAIT AND WEIGHT

Coming up with a monthly blog that I think will enlighten and enlist conversation is very challenging. I start thinking about it at the end of the month and I ask myself, "should I talk about food, celebrities, my businesses, something personal - what should it be......what sounds fascinating?"

Yesterday morning, I woke up and immediately I knew I wanted to talk about the two things that have been heavy on my mind for the last couple of weeks. Wait and Weight. I have struggled with both of them my entire life and, right now, the struggle is super real.

My Mother has a picture of me sitting up (barely) on a blanket and I remember asking her, "why was I so fat?" Her reply, "you ate a lot". Keep in mind, I was about 8 months old and I wasn't going in the kitchen or preparing any meals. By the way, I debated posting the picture but quickly changed my mind. In regard to my lack of patience, I am sure that I have had the issue all of my life. I was probably crying, as a baby, in between bites of oatmeal.

I just don't like to wait. I just don't like my current weight.

It has been a little over 5 weeks since I had the total knee replacement and, although my recovery has gone remarkably well, I can't work out and I am really limited in mobility. Aside from physical therapy, twice a week, I spend a lot of time in the confines of my home. I know that I can't rush the process - it is a matter of time before things will get better. This is what I keep telling myself. It is not working.

While I am mentally practicing patience, I have enjoyed cooking and eating some pretty delicious meals. And, guess what I figured out? Sitting in a restaurant and eating a meal, loaded with my favorite carbs, actually makes me feel better. I believe we know them best as "comfort foods".

All of the unhealthy eating and no exercise has resulted in a 10 pound weight gain. The minute I stepped on the scale, to find out exactly what the damage was, I became anxious. I don't know about you, but my impatience and my anxiety really feed off of each other. My anxiety sounds the alarm and my impatience says, "you better take care of this right now!" Sounds like a mess, right?!

There is a principle that involves balance - some know it as rhythm. You cannot go against it even if you try hard. Pushing too much towards one polarity will ultimately force you to go back to the other one, whether you want it or not. This time, however, perhaps under less favorable circumstances than you would like to experience. For instance, you can work hard for months, or even years, juggling multiple projects and responsibilities, while skillfully balancing on the edge of depletion. But when you don’t regularly incorporate the necessary rest, it will be forced upon you. You will become ill.

The existence of such a rhythm suggests that the best strategy is to become conscious of it and use it intelligently in your life. The key understanding here is the act of balancing between the two sides. No matter which direction you choose and how far you go, you know that you will need to turn back and swing towards the opposite. I actually talk about balance on the wellness page of my website (found on sunishines.com) - knowing and doing are two different things. It takes action.

This week, I am living in a more conscious state. I started a routine of lifting light weights and core exercises. I am not where I want to be. As a matter of fact, 15 minutes into it, I was worn out. And, of course, I am watching my intake. It is only a matter of time before I am back on the hiking trail, in the boxing gym and maybe even going for a nice run.

You will just have to WAIT and see........

Who Needs Surgery?

June is here which means we are halfway through 2018. Anybody, other than me, marveling about just how quickly time seems to be passing? I mean seriously? Didn't we just have Christmas dinner and weren't we JUST complaining about how cold it was? Time. The older I get the more cognizant I am that nothing stays the same and change is going to happen with or without our permission.

Speaking of which. I am two weeks post op from a total knee replacement! Tomorrow I will have the staples taken out and get a better idea of what the rest of my rehabilitation looks like. I have a zillion questions.

I have a limited amount of mobility and I have never felt so dependent in all of my life. My functionality is limited to working with my physical therapists, hobbling about on the lower level of my house (which frankly leaves me feeling like i just finished a work out), moving from the sofa to the recliner and back again. Ultimately, I head upstairs to bed. This routine is basically on repeat.

How well do you know me? On a scale of 1 - 10 with 1 being "I am grateful for the chill time" and 10 being "I am about to go crazy" - where am I? Ding, Ding, Ding!!! You got it. I am really trippin' out over here! LOL Just serious!

I injured my knee in Basic Training over 30 years ago. Since that time, it has grown progressively worse. I abused it even further when I decided to take up running in my 50's. I was told by my Chiropractor on many visits that I was doing the kind of damage that could only be reversed by surgery, but I kept running regardless.

Ultimately, after a torn meniscus surgery in 2014, I was forced to give up the running. And, I knew that the total arthroplasty was in my near future. I held off for as long as I could.

By the time I made the decision, I could no longer stand up straight and my knee was ALWAYS swollen. There were several exercises, at the boxing gym, that I had to modify. I was in severe pain if I sat for longer than 20 minutes. I could no longer wear any type of heel which really wrecked my flow.

Then. I fell. I was in Miami Florida at a conference with 25,000 people at the American Airlines Arena. Yes, the spot where the Miami Heat play. I had walked down several flights of stairs so that I could grab something to eat. No problem. When I began my ascent, my knee buckled and I hit my head on the stairs. My food flew everywhere along with my purse. It was all bad. One of the security guards insisted that I had to go and see a medic but I knew that, no matter who I saw for treatment, they had nothing for my extremely bruised ego.

Slowly but surely, I had gone from someone who had extreme confidence in her ability to maneuver to someone who was cautious about every step. My mom used to talk about the way that I walked into a room and it always made me laugh. I was not conscious of it, it was just me.

So, I returned from the conference knowing that I would have the surgery as soon as I could. I got a referral from my acupuncturist and I immediately fell in love with my Doctor. The pre-op was two hours. Surgery was done in less than two. I spent a total of 3 days in the hospital.

My oldest daughter was a life saver. Her and my husband held me down, big-time! My youngest came toward the end of the first week and stayed until recently. They both agreed that if my son was here, neither of them would have been allowed near me. Thank God for family, right?

This is what I know. You can not fix what is wrong without going through some agony. This is true for relationships, financial hardships, weight control and ________________(fill in the blank). The agony may be physical or it could be mental. In my case, it is both. Physical Therapy is agonizing. Not being able to hop in my car and drive to the store is frustrating. It's temporary.

What are you willing to work on now so that you can be in a better position, tomorrow? I can already stand up straight. My knee is no longer curved inward and I am looking forward to further progression.

Friends!

At 12:20 this morning, I arrived back in Charlotte, after spending a week in Vegas, with 6 phenomenal women. Now typically when I am talking about women that I admire and cherish, they are my best friends, my sisters. In this case, I am speaking of the yaya's - a beloved group of friends that I have known for eons. Our group total is actually 9, counting myself, but we have a hard time getting everyone to be available for everything. Our aim is always heavy participation.

One of these women I have known for 44 years, while another, it has only been 12. And, the latter did not become a formal part of the group until I had moved away. Speaking of which...being absolutely transparent, that was difficult for me. To add another member to an already cemented group was...it was tough and I was pretty resistant to the idea.

You see, I take my relationships very seriously. I don't say the word "friend" easily or casually and, I most certainly wouldn't want you to be a part of this coveted group of women without you being vetted quite heavily. That is probably why it happened after I left. My friends know me pretty well.

The original group of yaya's stemmed from a close relationship that I had with one of them. We mutually knew or worked with two of the others. I brought my best friend into the mix and eventually added another chick that I knew. We rounded the group up to 8 when we added a friend of my original friend and another woman who was a BPW (Business and Professional Women) affiliate of ours. And, the last member? She is a friend of the original friend's, friend. I eluded to how that happened above. Although, I did threaten to revoke her membership this past week. True Story. Confused?

We are literally a diverse group of women that have varying taste in politics, music, parenting styles, denominations and, who we choose to partner with. We respect each other even if we do not always agree on how the person approaches life. We range from business owners to dog sitters to retirees. We did not start out with our formal title nor did we make ourselves official for many, many years. We slowly, but surely, grew into something pretty spectacular.

We have been there for one another on the worst days and we have been there to celebrate the moments that have mattered the most. We take care of each other and we set each other straight. I have been the maid of honor AND the matron of honor to the same woman in this group. True story! We put our money together for the good of the collective and we don't think twice about it.

We have partied hard on land and on sea. We have woken up in each others homes and, sometimes in each others beds, on more occasions than I can count. No, it wasn't an accident. We share ideas and recipes - uh, only 4 of us have done this because the others don't really cook. And now that one of them discovered "doordash", she really doesn't go in the kitchen. I digress. We are the yaya's. You know, one for all and all for one? That's us.

It is not always rosy and divine. As a matter of fact, we can "get into it" on the regular. Of course, based on personality, some of us can get into it more than others. We have our passive aggressive "lay in the cut" types.....and then, you have me. *insert sigh. What can I say, I like to put things out in the open. Sue me.

I thought about this blog while I was with these precious friends of mine. I knew I wanted to write about how much they mean to me and, I wanted to share who we are to each other. I also was hoping that the reader could relate based on similar relationships. People who will love you no matter the transgression. People who will stand up for you when you are right and shut you down when you are wrong. People who will teach you something that you may never have considered and will allow you to do the same. I am grateful to God for mine.

So, I leave you with this - in the early 80's, an ole skool rap group, who went by the name of Whoduni, made these lyrics famous:

Friends
How many of us have them?
Friends
Ones we can depend on
Friends
How many of us have them?
Friends
Before we go any further, lets be
Friends

Is a word we use everyday
Most the time we use it in the wrong way
Now you can look the word up, again and again
But the dictionary doesn't know the meaning of friends

And if you ask me, you know, I couldn't be much help
Because A friend is somebody you judge for yourself
Some are ok, and they treat you real cool
But some mistake kindness for bein a fool

We like to be with some, because they're funny
Others come around when they need some money
Some you grew up with, around the way
And you're still real close too this very day

Homeboys through the Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall
And then there's some we wish we never knew at all
And this list goes on, again and again
But these are the people that we call friends

My first blog, ever!!!

I have been thinking about this first blog ever since I started revising my website. As a matter of fact, this is the third entry I have made and hopefully, I won't delete it.

I want every blog I post to have relevance and I also want it to resonate with the majority. Do you think I feel any pressure? Just a little, huh? Well, I finally let myself off the hook by recognizing that some of you will relate, some of you will dismiss and some of you will read it because we are related and then you will dismiss it. You'll catch that one on the way home.

Seriously - these blogs are going to run the gamut on every subject imaginable. For my first entry, I want to lead with an article written by a guy that I have a lot of respect for. Recently he posted something that really struck me. I dug it so much that I immediately posted it on one of my social media pages.

It's a whole new world, people. You might as well get ready.......

I want to settle this “the millennial's are entitled” conversation. They aren’t entitled - they want to do what matters.

In the past - the opportunities we have today didn’t exist. Many times we worked to just survive financially even if we worked ourselves to death. Today it’s different. Today there’s limitless ways to earn a living and do it in a way that you love. We finally have hit a day and age where your passion can be your life - you wake up excited - you don’t care about retirement BC loving what you do means you never want to stop. Today we have the ability to earn a living and love the work we do!

This is the first generation that is questioning the status quo because they have more options than any previous generation before them. They refuse to work just to earn a paycheck. To me - much respect. I applaud them. I encourage them to keep fighting that fight. After all - they have the options (btw so do all generations now if you open your mind) - so why not do what matters!? I think gen x and baby boomers may want to take a page from their play book.
-Ryan Stack - gen X