Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through

by Vanzant, Iyanla

  The good news was that it gave my children aunts and uncles they could relate to, and none of them seemed to mind that my father doted on Gemmia. He always wanted to know what she wanted for dinner. He always made sure Gemmia did a little something extra for her homework. He taught her how to type and helped her with her math. If the weather was bad, my father would say, “Leave the kids here tonight.” This gave me a much needed break from cooking. It also gave me an opportunity to really get involved in the activities of my office as President of the SGA.

  I was working full time, raising three children, and doing all I could to meet the interests of the students at the college—and I was an honors student. For the first time in a long time, I felt really good about myself. I had a 4.0 GPA. I thought I was finally putting my intelligence, talents, and skills to use in a worthwhile endeavor that was sure to have far-reaching benefits for my children. I really thought that, for the first time in my life, I was clear and stable—and that I mattered. The other competing truth was that sometimes I had no idea of who I was or what I wanted. And, at an even deeper level, too often I was still unconscious of the parts of me that were doing everything to gain the attention, acceptance, and approval of my father, who still didn’t notice me at all.

  I didn’t realize what was really going on until I graduated from college, summa cum laude, President of the Student Government, and valedictorian. My three children walked across the stage with me. They had eaten enough frankfurters, pot pies, and crock-pot concoctions over the course of three and a half years to be there.

  Grandma was there. My stepmother, Nett, was there. My father was not, and neither was my brother. The two primary men in my life and my heart disappointed me again. Gemmia sensed that something was wrong. Both she and Damon kept telling me how pretty I looked. Later that night, as I lay weeping in my bed, Gemmia came and cuddled up next to me. In her typical quiet voice she said, “I sure wish Grandpa could have been there today. He would have been so proud.”

  I entered law school when Gemmia was 13. By then, my children were old enough to be excited about what this meant for us all. Damon’s assessment was simple and to the point: “Are you really going to be a lawyer? We’ll be rich!” I assured him that I first needed to finish law school, and then maybe I would get a decentpaying job. It did mean that we could move out of the projects one day.

  Law school was a lot harder than college, and it would take a great deal more of my time. Gemmia told me if I taught her how to cook, she would make dinner. She had picked up a lot by watching and helping me, and although I was not ready to give her full responsibility for the family meals, it just sort of happened. On the weekends, she and I shopped and did the laundry. We discovered together that you really can get a lot of reading done in the laundromat. Things were going along pretty well until November.

  Nothing good can come of a 5 A.M. telephone call. It was my stepmother. She felt deathly ill and needed me to come right away. Within 90 minutes we were in the hospital emergency room, where we would remain for another ten hours. The diagnosis was sketchy, and they wanted to keep her for more tests. Thank God for the ragged little Fiat that I had gifted to myself as a college graduation present. It only cost $800, and for the next several weeks, it got me to school, to the hospital, and back home while the doctors pondered over Nett. They had no idea what was wrong.

  By the middle of December, the children were practically living with my father. All of my days I spent in law school. All of my nights were spent in the hospital. I talked to the children, especially Gemmia, three or four times a day, assuring them that their Nana was getting better. But it wasn’t true.

  I dropped out of law school during the Christmas break. Nett was not improving, and the doctors had no idea what was wrong with her. By January, she had had two cardiac arrests, the last one so intense that her two front teeth were broken off as they forced the respirator tube down her throat. Day after day, and through most nights, I sat watching and listening to that machine pump life into Nett’s body. I kept praying that she would not die. She was my one guiding light, the only one who ever encouraged me. I couldn’t bear the thought of my life without her.

  Nett was still in the hospital in March when my father died. When I told Gemmia, she crumpled into a heap on the floor. Losing her grandpa meant that she had lost her first love. Damon was pounding himself in the head, insisting that it was not true. Nisa was clutching me, crying, as I tried to pry Gemmia off the floor. Trying to console my children opened the floodgates for my own tears. I cried with them and for them.

  Gemmia became quite a young lady after my father’s death. She was pleasant and kind to everyone. She was dependable and self-reliant. And she was the assistant mommy in our household. They listened to her when they wouldn’t listen to me. I was a yeller, always in a rush, always frantic about something. Gemmia always seemed calm, stable, and in control of herself. One day, as I watched her helping Nisa with some difficult homework, I realized that not only was this child kind and patient, she was brilliant. It was then that I also realized I had missed most of her development. In fact, I had missed most of her life.

  When I think back, my participation in Gemmia’s life was like taking snapshots at a picnic: You get a lot of unrelated pictures that have no connection to the whole. I do remember that she loved to read. I can see her sitting somewhere in the house reading whenever I called her to do a chore or run an errand. Damon was always pulling on her or poking her to try to get her nose out of a book. Yellow was her favorite color. Blue was her next favorite. She loved chicken, but she absolutely hated peas. As an adult, she often teased me about the psychological and emotional damage I caused her by forcing her to eat so many peas.

  Looking back, I can see that Gemmia loved anything and everything that I loved. I loved music. She loved music. I loved to sew, and although I never took the time to teach her, she learned on her own and would make her dolls clothes from the scraps of material I left. I loved to cook and Gemmia was my assistant. She knew how to shop for the brands I liked, the things I liked, in the places I loved to shop. I rarely had to tell her anything twice. It was as if she anticipated what I would think, say, or want, then made it her business to see that I was satisfied with the result. She not only stepped in to assist me when I was up to something good, she quickly learned how to step up when I fell down. After the few rocky months at the beginning of her life, ours seemed to be a maintenance-free relationship. With all of the other craziness in my life, that was exactly what I needed—a relationship where I could just be.

  I am not sure when it began, but Gemmia was close to 14 when I noticed it—she was sleeping all of the time. She would go to school, come home, do her homework, then go straight to sleep. On the weekends, she would just sleep. At first, I thought my worst fear had come upon her—she’s pregnant! Then, after talking to her brother and sister, I realized that this had been going on for more than a year. I had no awareness of the symptoms of depression, so that wasn’t even a consideration. Instead, I threatened, bullied, and eventually forbade her to stay in the bed. Being the obedient child, she did what I asked: She stayed awake and sullen, responding to everything with the whisper of “I don’t know” or “I don’t care.” She wasn’t being defiant or rebellious. It seemed to me that she was in a place of deep despair, and I had no idea how to help her.

  One day I was at the hairdresser having my hair braided when my dear friend Tulani shared with me that she wanted to teach young girls the art and science of natural hair care. Tulani thought that if girls knew how to braid, twist, and care for their natural hair, fewer of them would opt for relaxers or the hot comb. Almost as a joke, I told her that Gemmia could be her first student. She told me to send her to the shop the next day. The result? For the next two and a half years, Tulani raised Gemmia. She not only taught Gemmia how to care for hair, she taught her how to run a business. She taught her how to dress herself and create a style for herself. Tulani had an eye for what makes a
woman look and feel good. I had no such skill or inclination. As a creative person, Tulani spoke a language that Gemmia understood, whereas I had no clue! We want so desperately to be where our children are, to understand what they feel, to do everything possible for them. However, we must know our limits. Often there comes a point when we simply do not have what our children need. I did not have what Gemmia needed, and it took a good, close sister-friend to step in where I could not.

  Around the same time that I noticed the sleeping, I noticed the boy. He was always around, so I thought he was one of the kids from the neighborhood who had befriended my son. Then I noticed that when Damon wasn’t home, this guy was still around. One day, I seized the opportunity to make a motherly inquiry.

  “So, what’s up with you and Pook-A-Doo?” She knew exactly who I was referring to, but she had to ask.

  “Who in the world is Pook-A-Doo?”

  “You know who I am talking about.”

  “No, I don’t. You always have these weird names you call people. Why do you do that?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Is that your boyfriend?” isa could not resist the temptation to tell on her big sister.

  “You know she’s talking about Jimmy, and you know he is your boyfriend.”

  “Shut up! He is not!”

  “Yes he is! You know he is! I saw you kissing.”

  My mouth suddenly went dry as I realized I had not yet shared the facts of life with either of my daughters.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Yeah, he’s all right.”

  “I hope he is more than all right if you are kissing him.” She had to smile at that one. “Have you two done more than kiss?” isa was stifling a scream of laughter.

  “No!”

  “Do we need to have the birds-and-bees conversation?”

  “Oh, please, I have had that conversation a million times.”

  “With who?” I was horrified that someone had spoken to my child about something I had forgotten.

  “With everybody—Grandpa, Mama Tulani, everybody. You adults are so afraid of sex, you keep talking about it like I am stupid or something.”

  “I am not afraid of sex. I am simply afraid of what can happen to you if you have sex. But that’s not the point. The point is you have a boyfriend I didn’t know about, and I want to make sure you are safe.”

  “I am safe and I am not having sex.” isa was beside herself.

  Later that evening I called Tulani. She informed me that they had been seeing each other for months. According to Tulani, he seemed nice, was very polite, and he absolutely adored Gemmia. But I had to ask myself, Why didn’t she tell me? Was I available to her? I was not. Was I accessible to her? I was not. The realization reduced me to tears. I was so wrapped up in myself and my affairs, I had neglected the needs of the people who meant the most to me in the world—my children. I didn’t sleep much that night. As soon as I heard Gemmia stirring in the morning, I ran into her room and confessed my transgressions.

  “Gimmi, I feel like I have failed you. I feel like I have not given you what you need. I am so, so sorry.” She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. In some ways, I had.

  “I mean, I am your mother. I should have known you had a boyfriend. I should have talked to you about sex. I should have let you know how important you are to me.” I was rambling. Gemmia was not impressed.

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you and me and my not being there for you.” I was quite annoyed that she did not understand what I was trying to say to her.

  “Mumzie, you are always here for me. You are going to school. You are working. You are putting food on the table and clothes on our backs. What more do you expect from yourself?”

  Wait a minute! Was my daughter lecturing me? Yes! And it was exactly what I needed to hear. Then why was I so pissed off?

  “You don’t have to tell me what I’m doing! We are talking about what you are doing without me!”

  “No, we are talking about your guilt.” Gemmia didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was a mouthful.

  “Guilt! What guilt? I’m not guilty about anything I’ve done.”

  “I did not say you are guilty. I said you are feeling guilty. You are feeling guilty that you are not here for us because you don’t understand that we understand what you are doing and why. We really do, and we are so proud of you.”

  Now we were both crying. I didn’t ask her why she was crying, but I was crying because I felt guilty! I felt guilty for underestimating my children. I felt guilty for underestimating myself and what I had taught them. I felt guilty because, although I was busting my butt, I was not honoring myself. Now here I was being called out by my child. It was all too much at 6:20 in the morning.

  “Ma, I would never disappoint you by doing something like getting pregnant. I am not you. You did that, which means I don’t have to do it. Okay?” The only thing I could muster up was “Okay. Thank you.”

  On a balmy September Sunday, I left New York and my children behind to move to Philadelphia to practice law. Of course, I left Gemmia in charge. She was 16. Damon was staying permanently in New York; he had completed high school and was living with his father, who had shown up after 18 years of silence to take him in. Nisa had just begun high school and was adjusting fairly well. I had to go to Philly not only to start work but to find a place for us to live. Four months later, Gemmia and Nisa joined me in a quiet residential neighborhood in West Philadelphia. I enrolled them both in West Philadelphia High School, and we began a new life.

  Guilty though I may have felt, as emotionally absent as I told myself I was, I always did something special for my children’s special days. When Gemmia’s high school prom came around, I was more excited about it than she seemed to be. And I was proud. In the fall, we would be sending her off to college. She had won a full four-year scholarship to Morgan State University.

  I made her dress: white satin, strapless, with a pearl and brocade bodice. I did her hair in an upsweep ‘do and put white flowers along the side. I wanted her to carry the purse I carried when I got married the second time. She said it was too big. I spent my last $15 and bought her a white satin clutch. She refused to allow me on the second floor of our home while she was getting dressed. She said I was annoying. I believed her, and instead, I sat poised in front of the sewing machine in case I needed to do any last minute adjustments.

  Jimmy arrived on time with a beautiful orchid corsage. We waited together until Gemmia descended the stairs—and I wept! That quiet little girl with two big left feet had been transformed into a beautiful young woman. She had beautiful legs. She had beautiful boobs. Her skin was beautiful. Her hair was gorgeous. Before I could really get my cry on, Gemmia ordered me to stop crying and get the camera, which I did obediently. She was standing before me, a vision of loveliness. Once again, I felt that I hardly knew her at all.

  When you feel unprotected, unsupported and unprepared to take care of yourself, your insides will feel as if you have been through a train wreck. The best way to describe the experience is that you are having a head-on bloody collision between your wannabe and your can never be.

  CHAPTER 7

  AIN’T NOBODY’S PRISONER!

  When I left New York and moved to Philadelphia, I thought I was leaving the bad times and bad people behind. I wasn’t aware that I was carrying more baggage than the 12-foot moving truck could possibly hold.

  I actually thought that a new job, in a new profession, in a new city would evoke in me feelings of accomplishment. From the poorhouse to the courthouse was a major accomplishment. Instead of celebrating that, I focused on the fact that my daughters and I were sleeping on mattresses on the floor. I beat myself up for leaving behind the broken-down furniture, because I thought my new salary in the public defender’s office would be enough for us to buy new things. Now I realized that my salary was barely enough for us to eat and keep the lights on. Instead of feeling good about livi
ng in a real house, in a neighborhood that had no unsavory persons hanging out on the corners, I obsessed over the fact that I had no family or friends to celebrate my accomplishments. Instead of studying for the bar, I beat myself down because of what I thought was missing in my life. My inner saboteur was in a death match with my past. This fracture was so deep in my soul that no amount of good fortune or Godly grace seemed capable of dethroning the lies I was capable of telling myself about myself. At times, I seemed hell-bent on being the nothing Grandma told me I would be, even though there was amazing and tangible evidence to the contrary.

  There are times when we can become so involved with our physical lives that we forget we have a spiritual life. Let me own that by saying I was so overwhelmed by the events of being human that I forgot to give care to the needs of my spirit. Though I wasn’t much of a churchgoer any more, I knew how to pray and did so frequently, but I usually prayed begging prayers. I would beg to a God outside of myself to fix what I thought was wrong with me and my life.

  Several years earlier, I had been initiated as a Yoruba priestess. I was a minister in the ancient tradition of my matriarchal lineage. I was a cultural custodian of an ancient civilization, possessing knowledge that allowed me to use my spiritual heritage as a resource, rather than just a reference. I wish I could tell you I stepped into this role with great pride and as a matter of choice. I cannot. Although I knew about my culture and the spiritual tradition of my ancestors, I fell into the priesthood chasing after a man—a man who had left me. I thought I loved him too. When he decided to leave me and our five-year union, a friend suggested that I see a spiritualist and get a reading to help me through the grief.

  Grief will make you do some very different things. The spiritualist told me that I had lost him and all of my luck because I was not following my calling. My calling was to be a priestess and to guide other people on their spiritual journey. Yea! Right! With eerie detail she told me things about my life that I had never spoken aloud to anyone. She also told me about the misery I could expect if I did not get on the right track. Then she told me what I wanted to hear. She told me that the only way I would ever be with the man of my dreams was to surrender my life and become a priestess. One year and six months later, I was initiated. The man never came back but—it is clear that his departure got me to where I was intended to be—in service to God.