by Saeeda Hafiz
So when I heard the docent say, “People come from all around the world to visit Pittsburgh, to study its landscapes, rivers, and industrial age,” I thought, That’s me, a tourist. I’m not going to focus so much on my family’s history but, instead, enjoy all of this city’s beauty. I visited the local parks. I went on walks and nearby hikes. I toured architecture exhibits. I went to the theater, plays, and dance performances. Mainly, I found myself going to the art museum at least twice a week.
Caroline was unlike anyone I had ever met. I’d seen pieces of her in different people, but not all rolled into one. She could easily do over twenty-five pushups at any given moment and make the silkiest apple and butternut-squash soup, sweet and tart with a nutmeg surprise. She was her name—Caro-Lion—strong, ferocious, and nurturing. She protected me while I was in my fragile state.
* * *
When I had returned to Pittsburgh with my tail between my legs, it was Caroline who told me that my business hadn’t failed; it was just taking a pause. She instructed me to make a list of all of my accomplishments since starting my business. “You will see how successful you really are,” she said. I believed her. Life was just taking a pause. Life was a marathon full of hills and valleys to tackle.
I did what she asked and that list prompted me to write a letter to Mark, the group exercise manager at a health club, asking for an audition to be on a yoga teacher substitute list. I wanted to get back into the yoga world and to earn extra money so that I could pay off some of my bills faster. I sent Mark a cover letter, a résumé, and the only newspaper clipping I had, an article featuring me teaching yoga to kids.
A few days later, the phone rang. “I got your letter,” Mark started, laughing. “I can’t believe you sent me a letter. Nice. You could’ve just called me. I know who you are. And I do have a class that is looking for a permanent instructor. It’s the Sunday class at 9:00 a.m. If the members like you, and I know they will, it’s yours.”
All week long, I practiced my sequence to an imaginary group of students in my unfurnished living room. On Sunday morning, I arrived early. This was the same club where I had taken my very first yoga class. I watched the students come through the door, giving each one a nod and a smile. Some faces were familiar, since I had practiced yoga there from 1990 to 1993, and some faces were brand new. But both sets frightened me.
I walked onto the studio stage and started to teach. The ninety minutes went by fast, particularly because whenever I step into my yoga world, parts of me vanish. I was still there, of course, but I was more than just little ol’ Saeeda. I was part of something bigger.
I hadn’t taught a yoga class in three months. I had forgotten the part of my teaching that I enjoyed the most, giving myself away and being with my own astonishing aliveness.
The next day, Mark called me, “They loved you. Let me read you some of the comment cards:
Keep her!
She’s great. I hope we have her every Sunday. Saeeda’s style fits our Sunday morning practice.
So, if you want it, it’s yours.”
I was elated, and I accepted on the spot. Another piece from my shattered life was completing the puzzle. Caroline started coming to my class, too. I would be her first yoga teacher. It was nice to be able to give to her, because from day one of our friendship she had always given to me. Things were moving in the right direction. Up.
* * *
From week to week, life lifted me one step higher. I was empowered to make a yoga video with my friend Zed. Then I had the thought: Perhaps I could do the same with audiotape, since my students often asked me for a tape of my class. I knew someone who had a high-quality home recording studio where I could buy recording time. One of my students, Liz Berlin, was a member of the band Rusted Root and she offered to provide original background music for both my audio and video. With the help of all these people, I began making a recording and a video for my students.
At the same time, yoga was becoming more popular among mainstream folks and was no longer confined to ashrams and alternative spaces. Phil Jackson included a practice for the Chicago Bulls basketball players when they were NBA champions. Sting graced the cover of Yoga Journal. Local newspapers did articles about yoga coming to health clubs. I started to get phone calls from these newspapers, expressing interest in my knowledge and perspective.
Caroline called me a local celebrity because when we walked along the streets of Shadyside people recognized me, and acknowledged us with a wave or a friendly chat.
Over the next year, I started to teach more often and at more places. One day, out of the blue, I received another call from Essence magazine.
They told me they were doing a spot on wellness, and asked me if I would do an interview.
“How did you get my name?” I said defensively.
“You’re in our files as a yoga expert.”
“Really?” I said, stunned. “Well, the last time you interviewed me, I…” I wanted to say how I was robbed regarding the previous opportunity, but then I realized I shouldn’t let my past disappointment block a future possibility. In that moment, I switched. I stopped myself and instead said, “How can I help you?” I decided to become an optimist.
The woman interviewed me for forty-five minutes. I was happy to get the call and do the interview. But this time, as I hung up the phone, I decided not to tell anyone that I was interviewed, just in case the story needed to be cut right before it went to print. I applied the Caroline marathon strategy: in it for the long haul. I decided to look at this Essence phone call as my passing a pleasant milestone. And who knows where it would end up? I stayed focused on the steps in front of me—work, food, yoga, and friends. My life was abundant.
The next day, I woke up and couldn’t help breaking into a big smile as I thought, “I’m in the files at Essence magazine as a yoga expert!”
* * *
I finished my yoga video and the audio tapes. Now I understood why movie credits are so long. A creative project requires the support of an overwhelming number of people. It was an eerie feeling seeing an entire community supporting my work. I didn’t want to think about needing so many people because I was used to thinking that nothing is going to get done unless I do it myself. And now I was faced with a new possibility: Nothing is going to get done well unless we work together.
To celebrate the video and CD release, Soba created space in their restaurant with complimentary appetizers that were Saeeda-friendly and a cocktail for each of my guests. Tom, the owner of Soba, was supportive of what I was doing, and I had always felt good about referring my students to his fine dining restaurants, which offered healthy alternatives for people changing their diets. I sent out formal invitations to friends, students from my yoga and cooking classes, and my spiritual family. I also invited my mother and other members of my biological family, including aunts, uncles, my maternal grandmother, brothers, sisters, and cousins. I would have invited my father, but he lived in Cleveland. I was excited to celebrate with everyone, regardless of the past.
A strange thing happened to me right before the video and CD release party. I was getting dressed, putting on black high heels, dark hose, and a chocolate brown mini-dress, then adorning the outfit with brass arm jewelry, simple earrings, and a big smile. All of a sudden, a flood of happy tears poured from my eyes. It was “rainbow weather,” when you have two opposing weather conditions, sunshine and rain, which makes it a perfect time to see a spectrum of all colors.
I don’t think I had ever experienced tears of joy before. I had laughed until my eyes watered, and I had experienced painful crying, but that wasn’t what I was feeling. I cried tears of joy, hard, then I laughed, hard, and when I finished, I checked my appearance, reapplied my makeup, and left my apartment. I put on flats and walked over to Soba. I arrived at the restaurant about 7:00 p.m. I did a walk-through and then chatted with the bartender and the server just to make sure that I
understood the flow. Then it was 7:30 p.m. and guests started to arrive. At 7:45, I was selling and signing videos and CD cases and answering questions about my recording journey. I was happy watching everyone climb the stairs; when each person got to the top, they entered and gave me a congratulatory hug. Time flew by. I was elated. It was going well, and then I noticed that not one family member had come to the party, even though I had sent them all proper invitations. Every time someone walked up the stairs, I was hoping it would be one of them: my brother, my cousins, my nieces and nephews, or my mother and Aunt Clair. I wanted them to be proud of me. Each time someone entered, I was excited, but also somewhat let down.
At 9:30, Lucky, my younger brother’s best friend, came in. I smiled and looked around behind him, expecting my brother, too. He wasn’t there. I thought, he must be parking the car.
Lucky gave me a big ol’ hug. “Omar wanted to be here, but he couldn’t make it. He sent me instead. He wanted to make sure you knew that he wanted to be here.”
“Thanks, Lucky.” I felt my throat close up a little. “I appreciate the update.” Lucky gave me the explanation in such a vague way that I didn’t dare ask why Omar couldn’t make it and, to this day, I don’t know the story.
It was 9:45, and a small group of us decided to have a late supper at Soba. This seemed like the perfect time to sit down with close friends and take it all in. We had sold all the videos and CDs. One friend counted all the cash that had come in.
We finished up our meal, and it was close to eleven o’clock. Overall, I felt satisfied and very lucky.
Then Caroline, Derek, Norm, Cindy, Zed, George, Esther, Marcia, Theresa, Paul, and I all debriefed about the success of the night. “It was cool listening to people talk about their experience with you as a teacher,” Zed said.
“You’re special, babe,” someone said. “You know good people.”
“Superstar. I’m so proud of you.”
“Ha!” Caro-Lion said, “And people started asking for signed copies. That was great!”
We all had smiles on our faces and laughter in our hearts. And then, in walked my mother. I may have seen a rainbow of color before the party, but now I only saw red.
Caro-Lion must have seen my reaction, because she quickly got up and welcomed my mother and found her a seat away from me, at the other end of the table. Caro-Lion gave her a menu, explained to her where we were in the evening, and introduced her to some of the people at the table. I, on the other hand, exhaled a long slow and deep breath. Zed held my hand. I was shaking. I wanted to scream across the table, “Now! Now, you show up! Now!” Derek tried to distract me from my own tension by saying something else successful about the night, but I couldn’t hear anything anymore. I was back in the world of thinking how I come from such fucked-up people. I was angry. I wanted to yell at my mom and express my disappointment. Instead, I swallowed my anger, like I had done so often in childhood. I also didn’t want to wreck my own triumphant night. So I exhaled a long, slow, and deep breath and continued talking and laughing with my friends and spiritual family.
The next day, I went to Caroline’s for a celebratory brunch. I was upset, but her husband gently said, “You had a great night. Don’t let your mom ruin it. Keep achieving what you want in life.”
Derek was right. Maybe my biological family wasn’t there, and I shouldn’t have expected them to show up. But more importantly, all the people who had been showing up in my life—and the list is long—were there. To name a few: Kathy, my spiritual big sister; Zed and George, my guardian angels; Gia, my mentor; Cindy and Norm, the happiest couple I know; Paul, my father figure; Leilani, my sister-like friend; my best friend Caroline and her husband Derek, and Daniel, my romantic interest.
I had always heard, “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends.” And on that night I realized that I had in fact picked my family, and I couldn’t have felt luckier.
CHAPTER 14
Daniel and Aaliyah
I MET DANIEL at an INROADS holiday function in 1996. He was fastening his nametag to his suit when he turned around and introduced himself.
Daniel waited for me to stick out my hand for the shake. He seemed to purposely go out of his way to gently “win friends and influence people,” just like Dale Carnegie suggested. I could tell mingling with new people didn’t come naturally for him. I liked that he was trying. I, too, remembered having to acquire the gift-to-gab.
Daniel had just started working for a Big Eight accounting firm as an accountant. He was a small-town boy, but I learned that his small town world was growing bigger whether he liked it or not. We became fast friends. During the time when I was treating myself like a visitor in my hometown, he allowed me to show him the Pittsburgh that I was newly discovering. We both had a childlike interest in life and were wide-eyed about what it could offer. I loved the safe space Daniel and I were in. Each week or so, we would have dinner with friends or alone, go to a museum, or take a city culture walk, and sometimes even take a day trip away.
Daniel and I did quite a few things together, such as going to the Carnegie Museum of Art and seeing the musical Miss Saigon. It was the first live musical he’d seen. He explained that his family didn’t do cultural things together, although they were close-knit.
“Did you know that I still live at home with my family?” he asked. “There’s no need to move out.” He made a clear declarative statement that blocked me from judging or questioning why he still lived at home. The truth was, I didn’t care either way.
“I could not wait to move out. I never really felt at home with my family,” I said.
“Wow.” Pause. “That’s hard for me to imagine. Growing up, I only played with my brother and my sister. And we kept to ourselves at school. We’re a religious family.”
“Huh.” I paused. “My family’s definitely different.” I didn’t explain too much. But I did say, “I’m not that close to them.”
Daniel shook his head as if to say, I feel sorry for you.
The look on his face frightened me. I liked our friendship and realized that I wouldn’t mind it developing into something romantic. But that I-feel-sorry-for-you look brought up my insecurities. Who would want to be with a girl from a drug-addicted, broken home?
* * *
After hanging out with Daniel for several months, I was certain that we were starting to feel romantic toward each other. So when he asked me to be his date at his company’s holiday party, I thought some magic would happen that night.
He picked me up at my house; I was in a particularly good mood.
“You look…nice,” Daniel said with a gentle smile, handing me a single red rose. His brown eyes told me that he was pleased with my choice of formal dinner wear. He was initially worried because he’d thought I should wear a long dress, not a cocktail dress. But I didn’t have a fancy long dress and didn’t want to buy a new one because I already owned a $500 cocktail dress.
Six feet tall and dressed in a tuxedo, Daniel looked like a leading man in a romantic comedy, like Boris Kodjoe or Shemar Moore.
At his firm’s holiday party, I felt like we were a version of young Huxtables from The Cosby Show, going to the high school prom. I never went to my own prom. This felt like my belated prom, a private fantasy inside my own head. I didn’t know if Daniel and I were just taking it slow, doing our own version of an old-fashioned courtship, or if he was just being a good friend to me. What I did know was that I wanted to try and find out more, even if I was afraid.
At the party, he introduced me as his date. I got a small shiver up my spine as a grin expanded across my face. It felt like he was saying, This is my girlfriend.
At the table, we easily and naturally talked with his colleagues about our how we spent our weekends.
Over dessert, he and I shared stories about our favorite day trip, to Falling Water. This world-famous house by Frank Lloyd Wright was
like a hidden goldmine located right in my own western-Pennsylvania backyard. I remembered feeling uneducated and ignorant when Caro-Lion put it on my radar. Even her Scottish husband knew about this house and the architect. I couldn’t believe that I didn’t know anything about them. I wanted to share how clueless I was with the table guests, but I didn’t. I wanted to explain to them how I thought it might be due to a combination of race, class, addiction, violence, and poverty. The more I functioned in my new world, the more I realized how my upbringing colored my education and experiences, or lack thereof.
At the table, I just tried to enjoy that I was finally in the know. It was nice to not feel like an outsider. Daniel and I, two new Buppies (Black Urban Professionals), had a lot of catching up to do if we were going to fit into our new world. The nice thing was that we were doing the necessary activities to catch up, and a nicer thing was that we were doing it together.
Then one of the executives’ wives broke my train of thought by saying, “Saeeda, I love your pearls, and that dress.”
“Thank you,” I said humbly. I wanted to immediately reply with “I had nothing to do with this outfit today. Caro-Lion lent me her expensive pearls, and my friend Frederick picked out the dress.” I didn’t want anyone to think that I was a phony, or posturing. I was having fun, but part of me did feel like a little girl playing dress up.
When the evening ended, Daniel pulled up to my apartment and we talked a bit in his car before he walked me to the door. I opened the door to the ground floor of my building, and then he reached out to give me a hug. “I had a good time,” he said. Thanks for coming with me.”