Ever practical, my sister Lisa told me I needed to decide what I was going to do and if I wanted to stay married. She said I should give it a year to try to work things out, then I'd be in a good position to know.
That summer, after a journalism convention in Chicago, I went to see my grandmother Momma Susie, who was living with my uncle Ronnie. My complicated, hard-cussing Momma Susie had always cautioned the women in the family to wait until they were thirty and had done some living before getting settled down. But she waited until late in life to give me advice about my own marriage. As I sat at the side of her bed rubbing her hand, she began: “Lonnae, I was married for fifty years. Some of it good, some of it bad, but I wouldn't change nothing. You stay married. There's nothing out there in the streets for you. You find somebody else, they got the same problems, or different ones. You stay married.” I nodded and cried and kissed her cold, fading hand. Fifteen minutes after I left her, my Momma Susie died. And since we hadn't spoken in at least two years, she had no way of knowing that my marriage was in trouble. I decided the universe was trying to tell me something that day. And I decided to listen. With all our cards on the table, things got better between my husband and me. Then Savannah came along, then Satchel, then we moved into our new home.
Not long ago, one of my best girlfriends and I were talking about problems in marriage and she said, “You know, Black people don't go for all that counseling.” I took her point. I grew up seeing couples who stayed together for decades, living in separate bedrooms—couples who would be more likely to smother each other than ever see a therapist. But I'm an advocate of counseling. I've had to face down too many dark things I wouldn't have been able to look at without help. Early in our marriage, I had asked my husband if we could talk to someone, but he had always refused. If we needed to talk to someone, we didn't need to be together, he would say. Later, when he was ready, I was not, because things had gotten better. Finally, after the move, we were both ready, and we decided to go to counseling. The experience has given us better tools and a language for the times when bitter words fail us. Although Black couples have the highest divorce rate in the country, says Audrey Chapman, a Washington, D.C., therapist who wrote Getting Good Loving: Seven Ways to Find Love and Make It Last, they have been slow to avail themselves of therapeutic remedies. Chapman, who also hosts the long-running radio call-in program The Audrey Chapman Show, says men, especially, are more resistant, less inclined to want to have “other people in their business.” Black folks “are so hung up on that, it's taken them years and years to come around,” she says. Like anything you want to last, marriage takes maintenance, tune-ups, “continual work,” says Chapman. “Weekly, monthly, yearly work.”
Shortly after we moved, we were welcomed to the neighborhood by the Taylors, a few doors down, who have three children of their own. She's a psychiatrist, he's a nurse anesthe tist,and they're very involved with their church. They're busy people, but they reserve one day a week as a date night for just the two of them. Ralph and I were so taken by this idea that last year we adopted the practice ourselves. For five or six years, Friday nights have been family movie night at the Parkers; now Saturday nights are date nights. Sometimes it's dinner and a movie, sometimes just a drive to a furniture showroom or even Home Depot. The point isn't where we go, just that we make time to be alone, together. As writer Angela Ards puts it:
There are no set roles. We play to our strengths and pick up the slack. I cook the most, because it's relaxing and I enjoy feedingfriends, but he burns in the kitchen most regularly. He also washes dishes, the chore I avoid like the plague, and takes the heavy lifting. At times what looks like tradition is more personal sensibility. … We say thanks a lot, which sounds kind of formal but is actually very nice because it's a reminder that we're choosing to love.
I'm glad Stephanie's friend Tanzi thinks I've never been through anything. Because I've never wanted my hardest times to linger on my face. If she thinks I make marriage look easy, it's because I work at it. I work at my marriage and my family when it hurts. I work at it when I fantasize about leaving it all alone. I work at it because I've had to work at everything in my life and I have no expectation that it will ever be any different, because, especially for the Black women I've known, it never has been. It is true that there are some things nobody can tell you, but sometimes it is worth it to try.
The move to my new house taught me a couple of things. If you have something that would be unbearable to lose, you have to find ways to take care of it. It's as true for marriages and children as it is for china and rosebushes. I think I've always known that, but it is important and affirming to remind myself daily. We do it with rituals—family dinners, movie nights, and date nights—to sustain us. Sometimes when there's trouble at home, we circle each other warily, waiting to see how it's all going to play out. My husband has a saying for those times, a balm he likes to drop. “Bring back the love,” he says. And not always, but more often than not, the love is stronger than all the angry words rising in my throat.
At Its Best
TRACY PRICE-THOMPSON
THERE'S SOME BAD TALK going around town these days about Black on Black Love and its certain demise. I mean the statistics are out there and the predictions are grim: the crumbling structure of the traditional Black family, the rising number of single Black female-headed households, the bone-shaking fear of dating a brother on the down low, the startling rates of Black teenage pregnancies, and the staggering numbers of incarcerated Black men.
Unfortunately, much of this negative data is a valid indicator of the erosion of the Black family. As a people, many of our collective behaviors and actions support these figures, and they simply cannot be ignored. And no, we don't have a monopoly on dysfunctional relationships or on societal ills. We coexist alongside of folks of all races, ethnicities, and socioeconomic backgrounds as we struggle to survive in a world where we're increasingly led away from self-love and taught that “family” is just another f-word.
But while there's no denying the fact that far too many of our children are living in poverty caused by single-parent households, and hoards of our young Black women are baring all and gyrating in music videos, and frightening numbers of our sons and brothers are off on extended vacations courtesy of the state and federal governments, can we also give some propers to the sisters and brothers who are out there doing the right thing each day? How do we honor those dedicated Black men who, like seaworthy ships in the night, return dutifully to black ports each evening, bringing home the day's bounty after navigating risky waters to provide for their own? I mean, where is the news flash that heralds culturally conscious Black men and women who choose to love each other, and who celebrate their Black love by living balanced lives and raising ethnically attuned productive Black children?
To hell with all that negative hoopla. I've run across quite a few good Black men in my day I gave birth to and raised good Black men. My father was one, as was my brother. I was born into greatness in that regard, surrounded by Black men who loved and edified me in all my blessed Black female glory. It was this unconditional love and adoration from the initial men in my life that taught me to appreciate my own worth and helped me become a confident, self-loving sistah from the inside and out.
I used to be a warrior woman way back in the day. Black, proud, fearless, and invincible. I met my husband, Greg, during a time in my life when I believed I could do it all, and do it all alone, if I had to. We were both young soldiers stationed overseas in Europe, and I was racing through life in my usual fashion, full speed and headfirst. He was charming and respectful. Funny and attentive. I was hesitant, playing the field. We explored southern Germany, marveling at the countryside and falling in love.
Somehow we clicked and it was magical. The universe went into a holding pattern. The stars were aligned and the sun shone perpetually. Greg was all man, and life was good.
My parents were thrilled. They loved him on sight. He was infectious that way, st
ill is. They saw in him the same things I saw. His character, the strength of his convictions, his unyielding efforts to do the right thing. Just a good Black man. We set about building our family empire, raising our children and teaching them to love themselves … and each other.
The years passed, most of them very good. Life was hectic, the military demanding. The children grew, Greg and I adapted, and my parents aged. There was joy and lots of laughter. Of course there were tears and heartaches, bumps along our road, and at times we faltered, but we held hands a lot and we prayed too. Sometimes we climbed over life's obstacles, and at other times we maneuvered around them. But always, we did it together. Always, holding hands.
I'd always known that my husband was a special breed of Black man. The kind of Black man who was culturally conscious and who believed in the power and worth of his Black self, and that of his Black family. After all, he'd married a spoiled little dark-hued sistah filled with spunk and zest. A superwoman warrior-diva who stood on her own two feet and let her hair grow out naturally, yet one who accepted his role as the head of their family and who understood her role as the family's heart.
Yes, I was experiencing Black on Black Love on every level, and it felt good. But very soon I would learn the true depth of my Black man's strength and love and at a time when I was hurting and needed him the most.
I was standing near my father's deathbed when it happened. Cringing, really. Weeping and shaking. Unwilling to get too near, afraid to bear such close witness to the transition that was occurring before me.
On the bed was the first man I'd ever loved. My rock, my sanctuary, my sword, and my shield. My beloved father. Until this moment I'd never made a major decision without consulting him. Even after I was married, I still clung to him. He was the real man in my life. He'd been such a tower of strength and wisdom in my world, an oasis of comfort and unconditional love. I was fearful of living life without him, had never once imagined it. His breathing was ragged; his chest rose and fell irregularly. My sister and I had finally given his doctors permission to remove him from life support, and watching him struggle was driving spikes through my heart.
See, I'd been spoiled. Raised by loving parents and doted on by my Black father, I was everything the statistics said I shouldn't be. Growing up in the projects, I'd witnessed the phenomenon of fatherless Black families devoid of male guidance and affection, but I'd never experienced it. My father had always “been there” whenever I'd needed him. In every way that I'd needed him. He had devoted his life to loving, providing for, and raising his children, and his character was the yardstick I'd used to measure the worth of every man I met. If a man didn't measure up to the stature of my father, then he wasn't the man for me.
And then came Gregory. He measured up. His character reflected my father's in all facets. With his kindness, strength, and affection, Greg had captured my skeptical heart, and now the love we'd built together was culminating at this crisis point as I stood near my father's head, terrified at the proximity, too close to his death for comfort.
My father would have wanted me right there, I knew. Standing at his shoulder, right in the forefront of it all. He'd spent his whole life preparing me for the day when I'd have to live without him. Strengthening me. And now that it was his time to die, what better way to make one's transition than to be surrounded by the children you'd loved and raised as they prayed for you and performed a laying on of hands, rubbing your limbs and whispering their love in your ears.
But still … it was all too raw for me. Too painful. As much as I wanted to be brave and strong for my father … I just couldn't. I hung back, shriveled in the presence of death. Sensing my distress, my husband took me in his arms. He whispered words of love, then quietly switched places with me.
He took the place at the head of my father's bed, using his love to create a protective barrier between me and that which I just could not face. His shoulders were broader than mine, his heart beat stronger. And while I trembled in my husband's shadow, he stood tall at my father's side and witnessed his transition on my behalf, serving as a physical and emotional buffer for my pain, standing strong for my father and allowing me, his warrior woman, to be weak.
There were several transitions on that hot June day. My father and best ally in the world departed this life. He left this world completely fulfilled, having been the best Black man, son, husband, and father that he could possibly have been. He left me secure in his love for me, secure in his love of his people, and secure in my love of self. He also passed the torch and left me in very capable hands. In the hands of a loving Black man. In the hands of my husband.
As I look back, I realize that all my life I'd borne witness to the positive attributes of Black on Black Love. I am living, breathing proof that Black Love can and does exist, and in the highest realms imaginable. Of all the blessings that have been bestowed upon me, all of the riches of life, the joys of my world, the greatest of them all is the gift of complete love that I was given by the first Black man in my life and that I continue to be blessed with in my husband.
Of course I've seen the negative ramifications of relationships in our communities. I've heard the statistics. The harsh realities don't escape me, and I'm well aware of today's growing rift between Black men and women, Black fathers and children, Black husbands and wives. The media and society at-large would have us believe that there's no real need to encourage and develop strong Black family units anymore. In this so-called melting pot of America we're supposed to be culture-blind and oblivious to the fact that our Black children still require ethnic edification and intensive lessons in self-love and esteem. True love begins with the love of self, and the love of one's own, but the images broadcast by our mass media lull us into forgetting these principles, and then when our chickens eventually come home to roost, the media slaps us in the face with their carefully calculated statistics and we're forced to acknowledge that we're failing each other and we have no one to blame except ourselves.
Sure, the oceans of Black America have become littered with shipwrecks. The choppy waters are churning with casualties of this ever-raging battle against Black Love. Black men are rejecting us in droves. Declaring as beautiful those women who look as different from their mothers, sisters, and daughters as possible.
Yet I choose to praise, focus on, and align myself with those mighty African-blooded seafarers who love their own and who choose to return to Black ports each night. Bringing nourishment and sustenance to those Black mothers, daughters, and sons who depend upon them for solid leadership and, yes, solid love.
A Polaroid snapshot sits on my desk. A smiling couple, heads close, arms entwined, squint into the sun. The woman is caramel-toned, slender, and very pretty. You can tell by looking at her that she is classy and outgoing. A vivacious and proud Black woman. She has the glow of a diva far ahead of her time. The man stands a few inches shorter than she. Handsome. Ethnic-looking. Strong. Grinning, protective, damn proud of the treasure he holds in his arms. It is a photograph of my parents. Beside it sits a snapshot of my husband and me, embracing in a similar pose. Two complete and colorful pictures of Black Love not only surviving but conquering the odds.
To hell with their statistics.
For us this is Black Love, at its best.
Becoming a Grandmother Becomes Me—Finally
ROBIN ALVA MARCUS
BACK IN MY MID-FORTIES, during a period that was practically crackling with imminent transition and the anticipation of miracles, before I'd even thought about beginningxa imagine how I might feel about being a grandmother or what variation of the word I'd want my grandchild to call me or what kind of grandmother I'd be or even whether I was ready for the whole conversation, I became one. Before I'd cleared out my nest and ascended to my place among the ranks of parents who were done with the raising part of the job, before I could catch my breath from seeing my last son successfully launched so that I could begin the next phase of my adult life, before I was ready, dammit, I received
the frightening news via a strange telephone call from a woman I'd only said maybe six words to in the relatively brief time she'd been in my oldest son's life that instead of coasting away from child care worries for a minute I was actually en route to a kind of Second Coming of it.
I reacted with shock. My jaws flapped open, but I couldn't corral any of the words crowding into my mouth into a coherent or appropriate response. In truth, I wasn't surprised exactly, but I'd shoved the possibility into one of those really deep corners in the back of my mind where thoughts like that reside. Because it scared me, it was unavoidable, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to prevent it. The minute I'd heard my son bragging about this woman, who was older by seven years (!) and had two children already (!!) and a second husband not quite out of the picture (!!!), I'd squinted down the road and seen their baby coming. Her call confirmed my worst predictions about that relationship. When they'd temporarily broken up at one point, I told him, “You've dodged a bullet. If you get back up in that saddle, you won't dodge the next one.”
Maybe I was too metaphoric or naive; evolution, the mating instinct, and the reproductive imperative are far more powerful than any mother's warning. At any rate, they patched their bustup, and I threw my hands up. “It's your life,” I said. A few months later the call came.
It's All Love Page 21