I finally left for my appointment. During the twenty-minute drive, I was almost fixated on the beauty of the fall leaves changing colors and floating to the ground. It was somewhat symbolic—I too was shedding my leaves. My visit to the psychiatrist, filled with hope, increased my desire to live and that desire was validated by the second stranger of the day who would help save my life. It was the beginning of the healing process for me. I was finally reaching out for help. My mind, body and soul had completely shut down, but I knew with time, they would be back in synch. I was determined to do whatever work was necessary to ensure that happened. I was ready to grow new leaves.
I started out that gloomy autumn day making a choice of death. But by the end of the day, I had decided to choose life. If I had followed through on the first choice, I would have never seen all the bright days that I have since lived to see. I couldn’t fathom then that there would be sunshine once again in my life. Even though it still pours rain some days, I just imagine that I’m Annie in the Broadway musical singing, “The sun will come out tomorrow.” And it always does.
Today, I feel a glow around me every time I hear my daughters’ voices, see their faces, or get hugs from them that fill my soul with a warmth that not even a blazing fire could replace. My older daughter survived her troubled youth and is blossoming like a beautiful flower. When I look into her eyes, I see my own reflection and am reminded that we indeed are both strong women who will let no obstacles keep us down. We’ve both learned to get back up, brush ourselves off and keep moving forward. My younger daughter fundamentally saved my life—the thought of her was my motivation to live—as if she breathed air into my lungs keeping me alive on that dreary day. Life is precious, and I now savor each and every moment of it. I have my soul back, reclaimed with a new sense of meaning and purpose. I now understand just how blessed I was, am and will always be.
Lisa J. Whaley
Greatness by Design
Our greatest problems in life come not so much from situations we confront as from our doubts about our ability to handle them.
Susan Taylor
I clenched his tiny hand in mine as we made our way to the top of the escalator. I was getting ready to do the unthinkable. My worst nightmare was here, and I was wide awake. As we walked closer to the gate, I began to feel overwhelmed, almost panic-stricken, because I knew in minutes he would be gone.
As the pain welled up inside me, the last year and a half flashed before my eyes—a mind movie of all the decisions I’d made leading to this moment. I’d sold my home in Florida, left everything and everyone I knew to follow a man I thought, without a doubt, loved my son and me. Yet now here I was, standing at the gates of hell, at least in my mind, getting ready to send my three-year-old son, Kwaku, on a plane without me to stay with my best friend, Suluki, and her husband, Saleem.
The night before, I had told her I was leaving my husband. I told her I didn’t know where I would be after tomorrow, my things would be in storage, and I needed to ask a huge favor. Before the words came out of my mouth, she said, “We’ll be there tomorrow to pick up our godson. Don’t worry. We’ll get you through this.”
Guilt and disappointment consumed my body and soul for putting my precious son through this. Would I ever forgive myself for what I was about to do? Were there signs, or was I just blinded by the idea of love and “happily ever after”? Ironically, we had just gotten really settled in our new life in Virginia. Kwaku was going to have a father for the first time, and my business was starting to thrive. I thought we were doing fine until the touches stopped, the kisses became void of affection and then anger became more prevalent than kindness. Before I knew it, I was planning to leave. But where will I go, and how will I regroup from this? I couldn’t believe I was going to essentially be homeless and loveless all in one fell swoop.
I refused to drag my baby around like a piece of furniture; my child must have a home and feel safe, even if his mother doesn’t have one for a while. I kept chanting silently, I can suffer, but my child will not feel this pain; that is not an option , while I came closer and closer to completing the single most difficult task thus far in my life, sending my son away.
Kwaku and I watched the planes arriving on the runway. He pointed and cheered as they landed and took off.
I hugged him knowing that these would be our last moments together for a while. It was gut-wrenching; my emotions were all over the place. I felt my anger, my sadness, and even my joy that I had someone in my life who loved me and I loved my son enough to stand up for him.
Suluki had always been that kind of sista.
When “Uncle” Saleemarrived,Kwaku ran and greeted him.
It was just another adventure as far as he was concerned.
When it was time to say good-bye, Kwaku turned and said, “Mom-me, the plane, big, go bye-bye. See you right back.” Kwaku grabbed his godfather’s hand and turned to get on the airplane. I waved and blew kisses and crumbled inside. I kept saying to myself, It’s temporary, and it’s for the best . I didn’t know yet if I even believed my own words.
Then came the second most difficult task in my life, surviving this seeming eternity of pain and disillusionment. Oh my God, what have I done? My baby is gone. I’m alone. Why me? Why now?
In the midst of all this, I had a show to do. God had just blessed me, one month prior, with the launch of my own national radio talk show, sharing a message and a mind-set reinforced by the inspirational lives and achievements of some of the most extraordinary women and men of our time. I believed God allowed me to host the show because, at this moment, I needed that inspiration the most. Many times I felt as if the guests showed up just to help me continue to push through. Every night I had the opportunity to have conversations with guests who had faced challenges, setbacks and fears and had persevered to phenomenal heights of achievement. It was clear that while my show was providing inspiration across the country, it was also saving me. One special night, Nikki Giovanni took me out of my pain while taking my breath away when she performed a favorite poem of hers, “The Song of Feet.” She spoke of wiggling her toes in the sands of time, trusting and once again feeling the warmth of the embrace, celebrating being a black woman. I held tightly onto her words, filling my heart with spirit.
Kwaku is in good hands , I would constantly say to myself. Suluki and Saleem love that “little critter,” as they affectionately called him.
“Mom-me, Christopher is my new best friend,” Kwaku shared during one of our daily phone calls. He had become instant buddies with the son of Suluki’s niece. They went to school together, played together, got their first bikes together, shared a room together, and became brothers.
I got through my first month without Kwaku in the refuge of my sista-friend Dyan’s home. She had literally created a space for me where I could heal, simply because she knew I had nowhere else to go. I was able to focus on allowing myself to cry out loud, pray, heal all the hurt and to transform my pain, my loneliness and my anger into forgiveness. First, I forgave myself for allowing and accepting less than what God had in store for me, and then I forgave myself for doubting myself as a mother.
Then it happened, I didn’t even see it coming—one day I felt my own toes begin to wiggle again. Then another day I felt a warm embrace all over my body; this hug was like no other I’d ever experienced. I looked around only to find that it was me, hugging myself, loving myself, singing and even dancing again. The tears I was shedding now were not from pain but in gratitude for the positive people God had put in my path; people who had made my journey meaningful and manageable.
Today is Kwaku’s fourth birthday, a celebration, a homecoming and a renewal of the spirit of family. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have a big party with all his classmates so far away, but as he walked into our new home he was greeted by trumpets of joy, a red carpet of balloons, and a cake lit with candles and wishes for new memories still to come.
Today, after three months of missing and praying to be with Kwaku
again, I’m just going to hold his little hand and watch both of our toes as they wiggle, together, again.
Blanche Williams
Kwanzaa on the Prairie
Sometimes I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.
Zora Neale Hurston
Two years of uninterrupted work time and a master’s of fine arts from the nation’s top creative writing program— that’swhat Iwas promised, and so I left behind a boyfriend I loved dearly, a three-bedroom Manhattan apartment and the most lucrative job I’d ever had to move halfway across the country to Iowa City, Iowa. I hadn’t researched much about the workshop program beyond the writing time and the degree, and so I was pleasantly surprised at how good it felt to finally be thinking creatively again after years of working in law firms. I was thrilled with my classes, and I marveled at the insights of my teachers.
I was also surprised by the bitterly cold subzero days and the necessity of driving in snow that accumulated in feet rather than in inches. But I was scandalized at the fact that the town’s black population was less than 3 percent.
And right from the beginning, I was aghast at the fact that out of one hundred students in my program, I was the only African American. The workshop, it seemed, had an unwritten rule that only one African American student be admitted at a time, and this had long been an issue: One of the last black students to go through the program had been so miserable he’d arranged to complete his degree in three semesters instead of the requisite four. Like the African American alums before me, I began to feel the pain and isolation of being the program’s lone black writer. My characters, a fellow student insisted, didn’t “talk like black people really would.” An entire workshop of people averred that they didn’t understand the significance of my protagonist’s Afro. And an overheard discussion about Toni Morrison ended with, “I know she won the affirmative action Nobel, but is she really any good?” I began to avoid the campus, insuring that the only day I spent there was the Tuesday I had workshop. According to tradition, each workshop group went to a bar afterwards. I never went with mine.
Every couple of months I’d drive to Chicago, where I’d get my hair braided and eat at a soul food restaurant. Every black person I saw on the street was a jewel, proof that I wasn’t crazy, that I didn’t have to live by the script my classmates wanted to write for me, that I was more than a figment of some white writer’s imagination. But then I’d recross the Illinois-Iowa border, and the black radio stations would fade out, and I’d return to feeling terribly alone.
Every few days in Iowa City, I’d see another black person on the street. I would strike up frantic conversations—I’m sure some of them thought I was crazy. But others lingered and stayed in touch, no doubt as lonely as I was.
By Thanksgiving, my sense of isolation had peaked. My sister had given me a kinara for Christmas the year before, and I had looked forward to celebrating Kwanzaa with the friends I’d make in my new city. But as the weeks wore on, I realized I’d probably just be taking my kinara home to celebrate with my family. Meanwhile, school churned forward: I went to speak to the department secretary about my fellowship application for the following year. At the end of our conversation, she gave me a jolt. “How do you like it here?” she asked.
“I love it,” I lied. But the tears were hot in my eyes, the lump rising in my throat.
“We don’t see you around much,” she said, continuing to prod.
“Well, it’s just that . . . I feel so . . .” I had never been one to let myself cry in front of strangers, but as I choked out the word “alone,” I couldn’t help myself.
She handed me a tissue and watched me try, unsuccessfully, to regain my composure. Then she spoke. “It must be difficult,” she said.
But how could she understand? Having been the only black child in my school for many years, I still smarted at the painful memories of the teasing and exclusion I endured, and I’d promised myself that as an adult I’d never put myself back into the “pioneer” situation. But there I was, a pioneer again by accident, trapped for two long years on the prairie. Knowing I could never fully explain, I bit my lip and left her office. I decided to go grocery shopping because it always put me in a better mood. As soon as I walked through the automatic door I saw a black woman with a full head of gorgeous braids. “Where did you get those done?” I gasped.
“Sylvia. She lives near campus.”
“Really? Wow. And here I’ve been going to Chicago.”
The woman chuckled. “Did you just move here?”
“A few months ago.”
She held out her hand. “Irene.”
“Jacinda.”
It turned out Irene was also doing her M.F.A., in drama, and she also felt isolated. Irene gave me not only Sylvia’s number but her own, and insisted that we get together for dinner.
“Cool. I’ll call you soon,” I said, “and hey . . . why don’t you come to my Kwanzaa party?” I didn’t know where the idea had come from, but Irene nodded vigorously.
“A Kwanzaa party? I’ve never been to one. Neat!”
I said good-bye to Irene and finished my shopping. I rushed home and called some of the black people I’d met on the street over the past few months. The following day, I called the minority graduate students’ office and tracked down all the black students who were doing M.F.A.s at the university. There were about fifteen of us in all—more than I’d thought—and they were all glad to hear from me.
The following Tuesday was a workshop day, but I was overjoyed that it had come, because it was also the day of my Kwanzaa party. I bought new red, green and black candles for my kinara, cooked up some greens and okra, and baked cornbread. I decorated my apartment with symbols of the harvest. And that evening, when workshop was over, I rushed home to finish my eggnog.
My classmates were no doubt out drinking after workshop, but I was partying into the night with my new friends. I will never forget how we boogied to my mother’s old James Brown albums, or how, as we lit the seven candles, we each read the principle ours stood for and said what we’d do in the coming year to live that principle. I’ll never forget how much we smiled at one another’s jokes that night, or how the unattended kinara candles melted onto the hardwood floor. Eventually, someone looked out the window and noticed that it had snowed about five inches since the party started. Folks began to pile out my door into the coming blizzard, but they still looked warm from the friendships they’d forged. “Thank you so much for doing this,” Irene said. “I’ve been here two years, and no one has ever gotten us all together like this.” I was glad for everyone, and glad for myself, because the only thing that was lonely that night was the streetlamp outside my window that illuminated a perfect winter snow.
Having spent the night in the company of my black brothers and sisters, I felt as strong as that steel pole, as unburdened as the lightest flake of snow falling from its cloud. Spending an evening with folks who looked like me, joked likeme, and understoodme deeply had givenme the strength and the calm to reenter a world I had formerly shunned. The following evening, I went to workshop. And I went out to the bar afterwards with my classmates, for the first of many Tuesdays.
Jacinda Townsend
The Bus Stop
Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.
Rosa Parks
This particular day began as usual. I got up, got dressed and headed for work.
I walked the usual four long blocks to the bus stop.
As I arrived, the same old faces were in the old same places. I kept to myself and attempted to avoid all eye contact. I was determined not to engage any of them in conversation. In the past, nothing any one of them had said was truly of any consequence. So I stood in back of the bus bench and leaned against the wall.
I didn’t have to look for the bus because the others each took turns leaning over to look for it.
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Late again , I thought to myself.
So there I was at the bus stop with all those losers who didn’t have lives or cars. I justified my place among this particular crowd: I would have had a car and a better job, if my dad hadn’t run out on us, making it impossible for me to go to college. If I had gone to college, then I wouldn’t be at this bus stop .
I looked around and noticed the white couple in their early sixties, who dressed alike every day. They sat extremely close together. They were probably afraid of us. They spoke constantly in some foreign language.
I looked over at the man I referred to as the “Dirty Old Man.” He always made dirty remarks. No one paid attention to him. Besides, he still wore leisure suits. I’m sure he was Mr. Personality back in the day. He and the older couple who appeared to be joined at the hip always sat in the exact same seats.
Daily I could count on a variety of strangely dressed, loud, ignorant-acting teenage boys at the bus stop. These teenagers made a point to speak loudly enough for every-onewithin a block to hear everyword of their conversation. I don’t know why someone didn’t tell them to shut up.
Then there was the “Book Worm,” a girl with thick glasses. Daily she wore an oversized jacket that probably belonged to her brother. She never spoke to anyone, and she never looked up from her book and that was fine with me.
There was the “Music Man,” a man in his early thirties. He wore the largest sunglasses on the planet and some kind of uniform. His earphones appeared to be attached to his head. He would blast the music so loud that you could hear it five feet away.
Lastly, there was an older woman about seventy-five. She wore a purple scarf over her head every day rain or shine. She and I leaned against the wall. She stared at me, but we never spoke. I was sure that she was a domestic worker.
Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 23