The next morning I told Nisa about the dream. She turned “puke green.”
“Are you sexually active, Nisa?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, are you having sex? Do you have sex with boys? You know, doing the nasty?”
“Mommy, please. I don’t do that.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. When you come home this afternoon, we are going to Planned Parenthood. You are going to get some birth control.”
“Why?” I gave her a look that shut her mouth and sent her to school an hour early.
I couldn’t be still all day. It seemed like three o’clock would never arrive. Then I had a thought: She’s going to run away. I started shaking and could not stop. I told Gemmia to come with me; we were going to pick Nisa up from school. We did and went directly from there to the Planned Parenthood office. When I signed Nisa in, the clerk asked what services we were interested in.
“She needs to take a pregnancy test.” I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard the words come out of my mouth.
“How old are you?” the clerk asked Nisa.
“Sixteen,” Nisa answered. The woman turned her gaze back to me.
“In the State of Pennsylvania, she doesn’t need your permission to have the test done, and she must authorize us to share the results with you.”
“Do you want me to slap the taste out of your mouth?” I admit I was having a very unspiritual moment. “Just do the test!” I stormed away from the desk and flopped down in a chair. Nisa sat across the room until they called her name. It was an hour later when we saw her again. She headed straight for the exit.
“What were the results?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“They said they will call me in a day or two.” I knew she was not telling the truth. I walked back to the desk, to the woman I had threatened earlier. In my sweetest voice, I asked if I could speak to the nurse. She called her immediately.
Nisa and I went back into the office. The nurse asked how she could help us.
“I want to know what is going on with my daughter. She says that her test results will take a few days. I thought the results were immediate.” The nurse looked at me and then at Nisa. Then she sat down and offered me a seat.
“We didn’t do a pelvic exam on Nisa because we think she’s about eight and a half months pregnant. It really isn’t in the baby’s best interest to do a pelvic exam now. But I gave her some brochures on adoption and foster care. I told her if she needed counseling, I would arrange it for her.”
“Eight and a half months?”
“Yes. You mean you didn’t know? Nisa said you were not in favor of her keeping the baby.”
“Eight and a half months?”
I thanked the woman and left the building. I left Gemmia sitting on the sofa, and Nisa sitting in the office. I was walking up the street like a mad woman. Gemmia was running behind me, asking what happened.
“Ask your sister. Ask her what happened.”
“Nisa, what’s going on? Are you pregnant?” Gemmia asked her sister.
“No. I don’t know what that woman was talking about.” I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Are you crazy?” I was screaming now. “Are you out of your mind? You are eight and a half months pregnant! You are so pregnant they can’t even examine you! What do you mean, no? Are you crazy?”
“I mean, I don’t know how it happened. I’ve never had sex.”
“She’s crazy! She is out of her mind! Maybe you never had sex with anybody, but somebody sure had sex with you. You are pregnant, fool. Do you know what that means? What the hell do you mean, you have never had sex? Are you crazy?”
We were standing in the middle of Walnut Street in downtown Philadelphia at rush hour. Hundreds of people were staring at us. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, flailing my arms like a lunatic. The only thing Gemmia could think to say was “Oh my God!” It got worse.
By the time we got home, I was exhausted. I had screamed, cursed, and made a fool of myself. I kept asking Nisa questions, but before she could answer, I was off having another bout of hysteria.
“How?” “When?” “Where?” “Who?” “I have left you home for days. Now that I’m home almost every day, you get knocked up.” “How?” “Where?” “Were you in my bed?” I carried on for hours before I got to the real question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Nisa, you are eight and a half months pregnant. Doesn’t the baby move?”
“No. I’ve never felt anything moving in me.”
“The baby has to move, Nisa. It’s ready to be born.”
Then it hit me. She plays soccer at school. The baby is dead! That set me off again. I didn’t know whether to be happy or afraid. If the baby was dead, we didn’t have to worry. But that meant that my child, my baby girl, would have to deliver a dead baby. Oh my God!
The next morning I called every clinic, every hospital, and every birth center in the city. I explained the situation, hoping to get an appointment for a sonogram. The earliest appointment I could get was June third. It was May twenty-first.
The next week was torture. I tried to stay away from Nisa because, though part of me wanted to comfort her, the other part wanted to end her life. My worst nightmare had come to pass. My teenage daughter was pregnant. I spoke to the guidance counselor at school. She said she had questioned Nisa, but Nisa had denied being sexually active to her also. I told her the name of the boy Nisa said was responsible. The counselor said she would track him down. When she called to say that she had no record of a student by that name having ever attended the school, I went crazy again. It never dawned on me that I knew exactly what it felt like to be pregnant, sixteen, alone, and afraid. By the time it did, my grandson was born.
The first face he saw when he entered the world was mine. He took one look at me, his crazy grandmother, and he cried. Oluwalomoju Adeyemi Vanzant (we call him Oluwa) was born May 28, 1991, at 7:11 P.M. He weighed in at six pounds thirteen ounces, just like his mother. He was the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time. The minute I saw him, I forgot how he got here and I fell in love.
The cycles continue. The patterns repeat themselves. Our children bring our subconscious issues into life. They show us the parts of us that we need to heal. Nisa was my silent cry and search for love. Damon was my irresponsibility and rebellion. Gemmia was my creative genius. It was all staring me in the face. This was not about my children. This was about me. This was about me getting myself together at a deeper level. What my children and my grandson did was push me a little further along the path, a little faster than I would have gotten there on my own. This was my lesson in forgiveness and acceptance. This was my unconditional love. This was my lesson in self-value and self-worth. These were lessons that I had missed and now needed to repeat because I had to teach them to my daughter. She in turn would have to teach them to my grandson.
I knew exactly what was going on in my life, but I did not know what to do about it. I knew that I had been chosen by the universe of fate to create a new and better way of living for my family and myself. I knew that I was not going to die like my mother or my father, broke, desperate, having accomplished nothing, leaving nothing behind for their children. I knew I was not going to end up like Ray, lost in pain. I knew all that I had lived through and survived, and I knew it was for a reason. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to break the cycle. I didn’t know how to recreate the pattern. One of my favorite passages in the Bible is Matthew 11:28, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” I was trying my hardest to get to God, but I was afraid that once I got there, He would be mad at me for all of the things that I had not forgiven myself for. When I tried to forgive myself, I found myself struggling through the millions of fibers of the pattern that had been etched into my soul. Just when I thought I had made it through, I would find myself tangled in another string. I would stumble, and I would f
orget to lie there and rest before jumping up and running out to do something else.
One major mistake I made in growing into my new identity was not giving myself enough time to master what I was learning. As soon as I heard something, I would give it away. I would write, speak, or teach about it. I guess I was so excited, I wanted everyone to know. I did a grave disservice to my delicate psyche, which was so hungry for information. I did not let what I learned settle in so that I could see and understand it at a deeper level. That’s what happens when we use the intellect instead of the heart. The intellect is like a computer. It will process the information in a matter of seconds. The spirit is like a womb. It needs time to develop new information.
Grandma had taught me how to pray, but Nisa taught me what to pray about. I was on my knees so much, I shrank two inches. Dear God, please help me. Please don’t let this baby go through what I went through. Please don’t let my child go through what I went through. What am I going to do? Tell me what to do, God. How is she going to raise a baby? How am I going to raise a baby? What are we going to do with this baby?
I’m sure God felt like Nisa. I was asking questions, but not waiting for answers. I was in a state of panic. It was that panic that sent me running to healers and teachers and books. It was that panic that sent me to meditation classes and more workshops. It was the panic that reminded me of the prayer on the back of the card I had received at my father’s funeral:
In our deepest hour of need, the Creator does not ask us for credentials. He accepts us exactly as we are, knowing that we are His erring children. He loves us and forgives us. Why can’t we forgive ourselves?
I had to learn to forgive. First myself, and then everyone else I believed had ever done anything to me. Lesson 121 in A Course in Miracles begins, “What could you want that forgiveness cannot give?” I read the text of that lesson all day, every day, for at least two weeks.
Every woman I knew brought something that Oluwa needed. By the time he was two weeks old, we had no place to keep all his things. Nisa was walking down the street one day, and a woman called to her from her doorway.
“Do you need a car seat for the baby?”
When Nisa told her she did, the woman gave her one. We didn’t even have a car anymore. I sent Nisa back to school the Monday after the baby was born. Gemmia watched Oluwa during the day. Nisa had him at night. When it was apparent that Nisa couldn’t handle the baby all night and school all day, Gemmia took over full-time. I was on the road a lot more now, and the more I forgave myself, the more work I got. Two months after Oluwa was born, I got the call to write Acts of Faith.
In his book Conversations With God, Book One, Neale Donald Walsch wrote, “When you declare yourself to be a thing, everything unlike you will show up.” I wish I had known that back then. I wish I had known that the minute I declared myself to be a teacher, a minister, a “Great Mother,” everything possible would show up to test my sincerity. I didn’t know it. I didn’t recognize the tests. I thought I was being punished and so I doubted myself. Then along came Acts of Faith. I had a contract with a major publisher. I was being paid more money than I had ever received since leaving the legal profession. Tapping the Power Within was selling extremely well. My ministry had grown out of the front door. My daughter had just had a baby. In the midst of it all, I was being asked to write a book. A whole, entire book. Every fiber of my being was screaming, “You’re not good enough! You’re stupid! You can’t do that. If you do, they will find out. You don’t believe a word of what you’re saying!” I didn’t let that stop me. I wrote it anyway.
When things get bad, people have a tendency to fall apart and stop. I know how to fall apart and keep moving. That has been my salvation. I have been able to move through pain, anger, doubt, worthlessness, valuelessness, and fear without missing a step. If you had seen me on any day during that time, you would have never known that I was on the verge of a complete breakdown. Those close to me knew it. I knew it. I would talk to my best friend and prayer partner, Shaheerah, about what I was feeling. I always told her I felt like I was being dishonest. She would remind me over and over, “You can only teach what you need to learn.” Shaheerah and I have been through some pretty rough times together. Had it not been for her prayers, her faith in me, her words, which were at times like buckets of cold water, Iyanla never would have been born. When she was coming, a breech birth, Shaheerah was like a midwife who knew exactly what to do or say to turn me around. Shaheerah and I knew what was at the core of my struggle. We rarely talked about it, but we both knew.
I was disobedient, and God knew it. I kept getting messages, seeing visions, hearing things, but I would not listen. Every time I prayed the same prayer, I got the same answer. It wasn’t that I didn’t know the answer. It was that I didn’t believe the answer. I didn’t believe it because I didn’t think I deserved to be blessed by God. The answer that popped into my mind, no matter what tragedy, crisis, or challenge I faced, was “Lean not on your own understanding. Honor me in all thy ways and I will give you the desires of your heart.” It was so simple, and yet I chose not to believe it. I chose to do it my way. I would ask for guidance and then make up my own mind. Still, the blessings kept coming. I kept getting the support and assistance I needed when I needed it. Each time something wonderful or tragic would happen, it would force me to a new level of myself where I would ask, “Why me?” When the answer was revealed, I would have to clean up my act a bit more.
Writing Acts of Faith helped me to develop an intimate and personal relationship with God. It was in that process that I met God for the first time. I met the God of my understanding. The God I could feel in my heart. It was in the writing process that I learned there are many paths that lead to one road. I realized that God didn’t care if I was a Yoruba or a Christian. God wasn’t concerned with the fact that each of my children had a different father, and He wasn’t keeping track of who I slept with. God wanted me to love myself. God wanted me to honor myself. God had a purpose for me and for my life, and if I would ask and trust, trust and believe, God would make all things possible. It was in the process of writing Acts of Faith that I discovered God’s love and my love for myself. I gave up the fight. I gave up fighting myself, fighting life, and fighting God.
I had been fighting all of my life. Fighting for attention, fighting for love, fighting for survival. I had been fighting for my children, and fighting for acknowledgment as a human being who mattered. I had been fighting so long that if there was nothing to fight, I would find something or someone to fight. I expected to fight, so when I was confronted with situations, I would pick a fight. I had become defensive, aggressive, and combative. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I didn’t want to fight fear, or doubt, or even loneliness. What I wanted to do was heal. And I wanted to do it peacefully.
Everything I put in that book was what I needed to get through a difficult period of my life. I was coming to the understanding that God is my defense and my defender. Every morning I would pray, ask God what to write, and God would tell me. If I needed information, I was told who to call. When I needed to talk, someone would call me. The members of the ministry fed my family while I was writing. Some gave us money, others cleaned my house. It was as if the entire universe opened up and sent me everything I needed. Gemmia stayed home and braided hair. Nisa went to school. I wrote all day and sometimes into the night.
When I would get tired or frustrated, I prayed. When I prayed, I felt better. In the process of writing, I reviewed every journal I had ever written. I recalled every conversation I had ever had with Balé. I was hearing the same old things in a brand new way. Things that Grandma, Daddy, and Nett had said to me had a fresh, new flavor. Things I had read became clearer, more focused. I put it all in the book. I put my heart and soul in that book. I put the love I was finding within myself in that book.
One day at Kinko’s, while I was printing out my pages, one of the clerks asked me if I was a writer. I told her I was.
“
I do typing work at home when I’m not here.”
“How much do you charge?”
“A dollar a page, but that includes all corrections, too.”
I gave her the pile of papers in my hand, took her telephone number, and left. Now all I had to do was write.
I finished Acts of Faith in about two months. I missed my deadline, but I finished the book. I had no idea how good the book was, because I never read it. I figured out early on that the reason I had been assigned by the universe to write that book was to open my heart to God. When I finished the book, I did my list again.
What is your favorite color?
Orange.
What is your favorite food?
Chicken.
What is your favorite song?
“Order My Steps.”
What is your most valued possession?
Love.
What is your greatest strength?
God.
What is your greatness weakness?
Not trusting God.
What is your best skill?
Prayer.
What was your greatest mistake?
Thinking I could do anything without God.
What is your greatest fear?
I have no fear. I know God is always with me.
What is your greatest accomplishment?
Learning to forgive and love myself.
What is the one task that you are least fond of doing?
Cleaning up China’s crap.
If your life ended today, what is the one thing everyone who knows you would say about you?
That she loved and served God.
What would you want them to say?
She loved God.
Why wouldn’t or couldn’t they say what you would want them to say?
Because they didn’t know Iyanla. They only knew Rhonda.
Shortly after the manuscript was turned in, Gemmia, the cat, and I moved to Maryland. Nisa stayed in Philadelphia to complete a program that was training her to become a home health-care worker. Two years later, on the same date that I had found out Nisa was pregnant with Oluwa, she gave birth to her second son, in my house, on Oluwa’s bed. His name is Adesola, which means “the crown has come.”
Yesterday, I Cried Page 29