rear end!
Lord, I know that you made Adam, Solomon, Abraham
and more. Hey, even David strayed a little from your
plan.
But you loved all your creations ’tho they fell into temptations
’cause you’ve always hated sin but not the man.
So, I bring this task to you because you know me. You
alone know who my soul-mate ought to be.
So, if you’re ever in that creative mood again, Lord,
please—could you make a man for me?!
RuNett Nia Ebo
6
LOVING
BLACK MEN
It is one of the facts of life that there are two
t sexes, which fact has given the world most
of its beauty, cost it not a little of its anguish,
and contains the hope and glory of the world.
James Baldwin
My Divas
When we love black women, we love ourselves, and the God who made us.
Michael Eric Dyson
To all my Divas who are working long hours to make ends meet. My Urban Queens holding down the home front while my strong black brothers labor in the workforce to earn their keep. When God created you, the black woman, he took the strength of mountains, the sweet fragrance of a rose, the passion of a lioness, the power of a mighty storm, placed them all in a blender and pressed the button, Mix—Her.
You are all and everything a black man will ever need and nothing less. You are the shining one, giving life to my universe. When I’m in your presence, mmmmm. I thirst.
Your tears represent the water that flows down an island fall. Every tear that you shed for me, because of me . . . God catches them all. You are the lily in my valley planted just for me. You’re a descendent of kings and queens . . . Akhenaton and Nefertiti.
When God created you, he made your lips round and sweet. When I sample your nectar, baby, it tastes like a seasoned Georgia peach. Your hips are round like the mound of an African gazelle, and when you walk through my space, your grace shakes, casting a spell on me, so I stare. Oh my God! I’m in awe, hurry, look over there. Your skin is dark and creamy for a reason. You have the ability to endure the elements of all four seasons. No other women or race is created like you. Your high cheekbones, the power of your hair, the muscles in your calves, all made to help me through the trials of life. When I come home after a long day’s work, at night; one touch, one kiss from you makes everything alright. From one Black AfricanWarrior to a Mighty Sister, there’s one thing I want you to take with you wherever you go.
You are my Diva:
Divine, dark, delightful and delicious
Intelligent, intellectual and independent
Victorious and virtuous—The woman whom I will always
Adore.
You were made just for me, a black man; please come soothe my soul.
Antonio Crawford
Love, Laugh and Live Today
I am at a ripe age of thirty-five years. There are many roads in life and often turns leading one to the true test of self. Regardless of the thoughts of the masculine ego, there is much to learn from our wives, mothers and sisters. The strength of a man is a physical novelty, but true strength lies in our partners. Who among us can fathom the pain a black woman can endure? I am not qualified to pretend to understand a day as one of my sisters, let alone my wife, Valerie.
In our four years together, Valerie and I have overcome many of life’s trials. When we started out we had no worries, and with only the wind at our backs, victory was ours. Our souls soared without fear as we planned our future. Some say the greatest of gifts is one’s self.We chose to present our gifts in matrimony.
A quick trip to the doctor for a check-up is a normal part of wedding planning. I saw the one-hour trip as a small sacrifice in the name of love, or so I thought. Like any other day, I called home to chitchat with my wife-to-be and heard a strange sound in her voice. I heard fear, longing for yesterdays, and a soft hint of the pains of tomorrow that would shortly come crashing in.
Subtlety does not cushion the blow of bad news, and Valerie has always shot straight from the hip. “I have cancer,” she said. “I have cancer.”
Always worried about my well-being more than her own, Val asks me, “Are you okay?”
My ego rose to the occasion. “Of course, I am,” in response to her question. Under the circumstances, I can prove my love and support for my wife!
My arrogance surpassed my ability to maintain composure, as a day turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I question my resilience after three surgeries and her loss of hair.My stamina buckledwhenmy love’s beautiful skin and nails changed to amurky brown. I cannot sleep because she is always in pain. Chemotherapy not only attacks the disease; it also attacks the whole body. In order to remove the beast, I guess we must call upon the help of the monster.
I witnessed my strong black woman slowed to a crawl. Am I now to become her parent because she depends on me more? No! Valerie continues to fight. Val still walks three miles around Lake Merritt, she maintains regular trips to the gym and continues with her tai chi classes. It is truly amazing to witness that level of drive firsthand. I have forgotten much since my childhood. The times I cherished watching my mother be the strong black woman in my life almost slipped my mind. Valerie is that breath of fresh air, a constant reminder of those days.
I have watched my wife ride the waves of life, as I tossed and turned. I have seen her turmoil disrupted with a smile. I am renewed daily with her loving touch. After searching high and low, I found my heroine in my arms.
They say the black woman is strong. I say the depth and scope of her strength is incomprehensible. Women do not try to be strong; it is just in them to be that way.
Charles Stanley McNeal
King Kong
I ain’t tryin’ to go with no gorilla.
Patti LaBelle
I was sitting behind my dad looking at the back of his big rust-colored corduroy easy chair. There was nothing different about this visit. I would make a comment about something on the news, and he would respond. I struggled to keep words passing between the two of us. My dad was a quiet man. He spoke mostly when he had something to say.
He swiveled toward me in his chair, peering from a side view over its top.
“Susan,” he started.
I knew the conversation was going to be serious; usually he just called me “Baby,” a nickname he gave me because I was the youngest of his three children. My mom often told me he had a connection with me from the very beginning that was different. He sent her a dozen gladiolas when I was born. When I came home he laid down beside me in the bed and examined my toes and fingers. It was a first.
“I don’t know if you ever think about getting married, or even living with someone for that matter,” he continued.
Then he paused, which was his custom—talking slowly and deliberately with skillfully timed pauses, timed so that they had the same effect on me as suspense movies. The music picks up. The screen darkens. There is a corner draped in shadows. The camera pans the shadows slowly and you see a half-opened door. You know someone is hiding there, someone with murderous intentions.
“But if you do,” he went on, “and you and your old man get into a fight. Don’t call me. . . . I won’t come.”
As he makes his point, I am looking at the top of his fuzzy, white head. His head is tilted to one side, a way of holding it that I inherited. He is looking straight into my eyes.
“I won’t come even if you are screaming and hollering.”
Pause.
I couldn’t believe my ears. My heart and stomach seemed to share the same space. Had I heard him correctly? How could my father forsake me like that? How could he be so mean? Barely breathing, I looked at him with the same tilted head, searching for understanding.
He continued, “But if you can just make it across this threshold,” nodding in the direction of his own front door
, “King Kong ain’t coming in here to get you.”
Most girls fall in love with their fathers when they are little. However, it was in this moment, knowing that my father would fight King Kong for me, that I fell in love with my dad.
Susan Madison
It Was Magic
Where are we going? Are we there yet? Why did Mommy do my hair in Shirley Temple curls? Shifting and squirming in the back seat of Daddy’s Chevrolet, my little body kept rhythm with the thoughts that raced through my mind. I didn’t know what was going on, I only knew that it was going to be magic.
How did I know this? I was with my daddy, and everything he did was magic. His was the kind of magic that caused little girls to dream and believe that dreams do come true. Once, he brought home this big old piece of wood. After a few nights, that same wood sat on our roof in the form of Santa and his reindeer. Another time, he bought all this sand and had it dumped in our front yard so that his little girl wouldn’t have to wait to go to the beach to build a sandcastle. Magic!
Where are we going? Are we there yet? Why did Mommy do my hair in Shirley Temple curls? After riding for what seemed to be forever, the motion of the car and the incessant thoughts proved to be too much for me. Against my will, I drifted off to sleep.
“Beep! Beep-beep!” The blare of horns honking jolted me from my unwanted nap, and then the brilliant lights overtook me. I pressed my face against the back seat window. Beneath the lights, people paraded in every direction.
“What is this place, Daddy?”
“This is Broadway.”
“What are we gonna do in Broadway?”
“We’re going to see Hello, Dolly .
I struggled to figure out how do you “see” hello. I wanted to ask, but I was more concerned that the people on Broadway were moving faster than the Chevy. I started fidgeting, anxious to leap from the car and move with the crowd. I longed to strut like the ladies in their high heels and make my hair bounce just like theirs.
Finally, Daddy found a place to park. We got out of the car and walked hand in hand . . . forever, and very quickly, too. It was as if my feet were flying over the ground. Lost in a sea of legs, I held Daddy’s hand tightly. The view from the Chevy was better, but this feeling was nothing short of magic.
Eventually, we stopped in front of the biggest movie theater I’d ever seen. Wow! This must be some special movie.
Everybody’s dressed up, just like me. Ooh, that lady’s wearing curls just like me!
When we got inside the theater, it was like being in the land of the giants. Everything was bigger than life, or at least bigger than I was. The ceiling seemed as far away as the sky, and the chandeliers twinkled like stars. Daddy handed the usher our tickets, and we were escorted all the way up to the second row on the left-hand side.
Before me was a huge stage draped with thick, velvet curtains. Below, men in black tuxedoes sat in a hole in the floor with all kinds of musical instruments. Up above my head was heaven. I settled into my plush, velvet seat feeling like a princess.
In the midst of enjoying the ambience of this magic “kingdom,” I noticed the lights beginning to dim. The instruments started making strange noises. All of a sudden, everything became eerily quiet. Then one of the men in the hole lifted his “magic wand,” and the whole theater pulsated with music I had never heard. Oboes and piccolos, violins and cellos, flutes, kettledrums and chimes created the richest, fullest sound I had ever heard. My heart raced as the curtain began to part. Momentarily dismayed because there was no movie screen, my emotions rebounded quickly as the stage was taken over by real live people who all looked like me. Real live people leaping and spinning, singing and swirling, smiling, shining! My head snapped back and forth as if attached to a rubber band. There was so much magic to see, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a thing.
I noticed a man with a smile as bright as the sun. And then, there was this beautiful, sophisticated and sassy lady. They were doing a lot of the talking and singing, and I remembered seeing both of them before. Maybe on “The Ed Sullivan Show”? Or was it on Daddy’s album covers? Sensing my recognition, Daddy leaned over and whispered, “That’s Cab Calloway, and that is Pearl Bailey.” My mouth dropped, and I don’t think I ever bothered to close it. I spent the rest of the evening totally engulfed in my first Broadway experience.
At the end of the finale, I could sense my magical evening was about to end, or so I thought. The cast came out to take their bows, and the crowd cheered. Pearl Bailey came out to take her bow, and everyone stood to give her an ovation. I stood up too, and clapped my little hands as loudly as I could. That’s when Daddy bent over and whispered in my ear.
“Go say hello to her.”
My eyes widened in disbelief as he lifted me in the air, walked to the edge of the stage and placed me on it. My eyes bugged, my knees locked and my heart stopped. I was frozen with no hope of ever moving again until I recognized the possibility. This might be my chance to create some magic for the one who had created so much magic for me. So for that very reason, I narrowed my eyes, focused on Ms. Bailey’s dress and began my journey across the stage.
With every step, I could hear people gasping, whispering and sighing. The sound from their reactions echoed fiercely in my ears, making my feet feel like I had on cin-derblock shoes, but I refused to stop. I finally reached the center of the stage, swallowed the lump in my throat, grabbed her dress and tugged. She looked down in utter amazement.
“Where did you come from?”
Innocently, I pointed in the direction of my daddy and replied, “Over there.”
Oohs and aahs filled the auditorium. Ms. Bailey lifted me into her arms, hugged and kissed me leaving a crimson lip print in the center of my forehead. She set me back on the ground and held my tiny hand in hers. At that moment, she stole my heart, and I knew that one day, I wanted to act and sing on the stage just like her.
About four years later, I made my professional stage debut. But Daddy didn’t live to see it. He died six months after he took me to see Hello, Dolly , but he did get to see his baby girl on a Broadway stage with Cab Calloway and Pearl Bailey. In the short time we had together, he created enough magic to last my whole life. He created moments that cause little girls to dream and believe that dreams do come true. And that night, I got to create a moment just for him, and undeniably, it was magic.
Nancy Gilliam
Forgiving Daddy
The telephone’s shrill ring startled me from a deep sleep. It was two o’clock in the morning—who could be calling at this hour? I tried to quiet my pounding heart as I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
My mother’s familiar voice answered on the other end of the line. It sounded drawn and tense, and before she could finish a sentence, she started to cry. My husband stirred slightly, and I answered in a hushed tone, “Mama, what’s wrong?”
“It’s your daddy. The doctor says he won’t make it through the night. I need you to come.” I sucked in my breath.
“I’m on my way.”
I awakened my sleeping husband and began packing a bag. I wanted to catch the first flight out—I had to make it in time! I just had to see Daddy alive one more time.
Although outwardly I was calm and methodical as I concentrated on the things that had to be done, a fire was raging in my brain as childhood memories of Daddy burned through it. I crunched my belongings into one little suitcase. My husband took me to the airport and said a loving prayer before I hurried off to the gate. As I boarded the plane, other passengers were already seated.
I began to pray under my breath as the plane taxied down the runway heading for my hometown. It was ironic that my first trip back to my birthplace—to the hospital where I was born—was because my father had returned to that very same place to die.
The plane arrived a few hours later and I went directly to the hospital. From the hallway I could see my mother sitting at the side of my father’s bed, her head drooped in a fitful, upright sleep. My heart broke
at the sight—both from Daddy’s condition and seeing them together again after all these years. She probably sat up all night and was exhausted.
“Mama?” I threw my bag to the floor and ran to her; we dissolved in tears for a moment before I managed to ask, “Any change?”
“No. No change.” I turned to face the hospital bed, my heart leaped into my throat. Who was this man? This was not my father—not my handsome daddy with the stunning smile! This was not the sophisticated military man in uniform that I remembered. This was a stranger, an old man—all skin and bones with sunken eyes—and where was the full head of silver streaked hair? A silent scream rose from deep in my belly. Who are you? Where’s my daddy?
But I knew the answer. The daddy I remembered was the daddy of an eleven-year-old girl, because that was the last time I had actually seen him. My memory of Daddy was frozen in time from nearly thirty years before!
As a child, I explained it away. Because he was in the Air Force Daddy was gone a lot, but I was sure that one day he would come home to stay. As I grew older, I called it something different—abandonment. Why he did it didn’t matter to me as a little girl. I didn’t care about how discrimination or some other social injustice made it hard for black men to keep their families intact. I didn’t ever care whether my mother wanted him there or not. I wanted my daddy at home, so I grieved the loss of that relationship for a very long time.
The turning point in how I felt about Daddy came after living without him for several years. My sister and I were going with our church to the nearby town where he lived. Somebody told us that Daddy lived right next door to the church, and they would let him know we were coming. I was terribly excited as I imagined our meeting. I’ll run to Daddy and give him a big hug! Then I’ll tell him about school and how smart I am and maybe invite him to come hear me lead a song with the choir. He’ll be so glad to see us! He’ll explain why he has been gone for so long and tell us how things will be different from now on. Maybe he will even come home with us!
Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 17