gateway women

tonight i discovered gateway women, a blog geared towards childless women.  i think i'll be a frequent visitor.

the author is in her late 40s and from the UK, but i'd recommend it for anyone well into their 30s that isn't quite sure if things are gonna "work out" in the marriage/relationship/kids department.

she's definitely spoken to many of the things i've felt and thought over the last few years, but haven't seen written anywhere else.  in my head, i've started referring to them as single people problems.

from the "founder" page: 

Right now, there’s a whole generation of women who aren’t in the right relationship and can’t afford to have a baby ‘by themselves’ (even if they could face it).  Professional, educated, intelligent, capable, loving, emotionally-intelligent hard-working women. Women who’d be fantastic mothers. But it’s not looking like it’s going to happen. Where the hell are they supposed to take their bewilderment, their grief, their rage at how things have worked out?  They’ve followed the script our culture set out: worked hard at school, gone to university, built a career, tried to build relationships with men based on mutual respect and decency.  And where has it got them?

Gateway Women supports those women in the tunnel: those women still hoping that they’ll ‘manage’ to have a family. They’re just not sure how. Or with who. Or when. Or who’s going to pay for it…

Gateway Women sets out to challenge the ideas around identity and motherhood that are often at the heart of much unhappiness when the ‘baby story’ doesn’t work out, and to help women find their nomo mojo...  It is liberating, empowering, exciting and transformational work.

in speaking with a couple of friends tonight about feeling invisible, they mentioned the possibility of me being some kind of pioneer, similar to Jody referring to us as a group of women that (statistically speaking) hasn't existed before.

i can't say it's an exciting "first", but it's good to know i'm not alone.

Dr. Amos Wilson

i grew up calling this common sense...but it's not always that way...

growing up black

i love tumblr.

when i first arrived there, i barely understood it: a blogging interface designed mainly for artists, photographers, and other creatives who wanted to blog without words. although it's greatly expanded since then, it is still, mainly, that.

tumblr's also allowed me to encounter a fantastic community of insightful, intelligent, constantly questioning women whose thoughts i enjoy reading and, occasionally, engaging with.  i say occasionally because i try to keep the words to a minimum, poetry being an exception. i built my tumblog as a space to take in inspiring imagery, and i've largely kept it that way.

however, i have noticed the stories of {presumably} blackfolks and other people of color who didn't grow up around blackfolks/their folks.  and the deprogramming that has to happen when one grows up in that context. 

by no means were my parents or extended family what you would call "race people".  there's not even a black muslim among us.  i heard few explicitly political or religious conversations, although i picked up nuggets of their philosophies. folks shouldn't go without in a country this affluent. god is love. that kind of thing.

one thing that was explicitly spoken: whitefolks weren't "like us". they weren't raised to the level of angels or reduced to heinous demons; they were just different. and, sometimes, they tried to make us feel bad about who we were. but that was just some bullshit they made up.  and so what? we're still here anyway.

yes, i heard the stories of carrying food with you when you traveled.  all the places we couldn't go to or neighborhoods we couldn't live in.  my great grandmother was a domestic worker. my dad constantly railed against the racism in law enforcement--but he'd also praise those whose love for the city enabled them to do their jobs well and fairly.

and, yes, i got the equivalent of the "don't bring 'em home if they can't use your comb" speech {that might be another entry...}.

on the other hand, they also didn't care if my friends came from roland park or north avenue, as long as they were good friends.  they didn't hang with bourgie negroes, and no one felt the need to sacrifice culture and sense of self to "make it".   

my schools--because they were built around ability more than zoning, property tax, or anything else--were more multicultural than most in baltimore city.  in elementary school especially, i was taught by teachers who engaged us and loved us--race or ethnicity notwithstanding.  i fully understand that for a solidly middle class, urban black girl, i had a charmed public education.  on all levels.

what's all this mean? it means that whiteness--as a social and psychological concept--did not truly enter my life until college. the notion of white supremacy making the world go 'round was something i don't think i had language for until late adolescence, if then.  no one insulted me (to my face) with a racial slur. with family, i only heard the n-word used for someone you didn't like--and when it was said out of that context, it was amongst blackfolks in varied and colorful ways.    

i helped run "sisters for black awareness" in high school, but that wasn't to confront whiteness or make safe space, i've just always been interested in my identity and heritage beyond the "we came here as slaves" narrative. there were times when the organization had to step up in that way, but that's another blog.

whiteness wasn't prettier. it wasn't easier. if anything, it was almost pitiable. it didn't matter if most of the folks on tv, the president, or similar folks were white--probably because the first mayor of my city that i was aware of was black.  the main magazines in our house were ebony, jet and essence. 

blackness was normal.  broad, wide and deep.

and now, i can see how wonderful a blessing that knowing is.   

my ancestors, i tell you...

today i had this strange urge to look through the book of psalms....as someone who was not raised reading the bible, i figured it might have something to do with my ancestors...

i started to pick up the bible i bought for myself a few years ago, but decided to look at the one on my ancestor altar instead. it was my great uncle's--a catholic bible, so it has a few more books than most standard protestant versions.

i went to psalms, and started to flip through, thinking i'd stop on a page with a message. it's happened before.

instead, i found a wallet sized portrait of my grandfather i'd forgotten i put there.

when i turned it over, there was a note:

"to: l---y
from: pop pop
1978"

apparently the photo was taken the year i was born.

*cue teary eyes*

i love you, too.

who was gonna love me? who was gonna make me feel good?

i watched precious last night, alone, at the local indy theatre.

i didn't go in fully sober; in the absence of company, i enlisted a glass of red wine for backup.  i didn't think it'd be personally triggering, but i knew it'd be painful.  i didn't relish the idea of weeping--if it came to that--in the presence of a bunch of art school kids.

that said, one of the many things that stuck with me was mary's (played by mo'nique) breakdown when confronted with the reality of precious' abuse.

{SPOILER ALERT - descriptions of some pivotal scenes follow}

her name was mattie

...my maternal great-great grandmother.

i saw a picture of mama mattie over the weekend and i've been thinking about it ever since.

she looked like pictures i've seen of jamaican maroons and sojourner truth. of harriet tubman and delia.

no one in my family looks like her now, although my aunt, her children and one of her granddaughters have milk-to-dark chocolate skin tones.

she was also one of the last in my mother's line to have many children:

gussie (my great grandmother)
clayton
leslie
emma todd
bubba (bertha)
madeline

now i'm wondering what her parents looked like, what kinds of stories they told.

did they know about their last african ancestor?

did she know about herbs and spells? dreaming? divination?

what did she look like at my age?

and on and on...

and then i thought, i probably never would have known her name if i hadn't asked my mother about her when i started on this path.

the practice of calling on my ancestors made it necessary to clear up the relationships behind the names i heard bantered around in family stories.

for many of us, this is when the pain of the maafa arises, since to many this information is lost. but it is also the power in returning to the veneration of our ancestors.

even if we do not know their names at first, when we call, they come and tell us. they can help us heal relationships with other family members, guide our steps and offer countless blessings.

iba egungun idile mi
ase

what he said.

gay marriage & the black community


addendum: it got QUITE krunk in the comments section, and i started talking to someone who went so far off base i think s/he left the ballpark. don't you just love when people start responding to you on a message board and act like they know your whole life story/ideology/thought process? ay yi yi.

this is why, often, i just write my own blog about something i see on the interwebs and leave the commenting to the flame warriors.

for the kids...

although there are times when i think about motherhood and wonder if i'll have children, i also realize that i do not have a driving desire to be a mother*.

it seems that many women realize that desire relatively early on. i enjoyed my baby dolls like any other girl, but i liked dressing them up and sitting them on a shelf just as much as i liked combing their hair and carrying them around. my true companion was a stuffed dog named ralphie--probably a nod to my early attachment and exposure to animals.

the toys i played with most were boys' action figures, other stuffed animals and legos. i had one good barbie doll and a couple of auxiliary ones. loved my atari, lite brite** and easy bake oven.

when i think about what i wrote in my diaries--which i started keeping in about 2nd or 3rd grade--i wanted a boyfriend, but not necessarily babies. again, like a lot of other girls, i named my daughters (it was always a daughter...i almost never thought of sons...) aloud, but on the pages, i wondered about what i was going to do with my life, tried to make sense of the world.

maybe that's why i took to barbie more so than the babies--i wanted to be grown up like her, be on my own and drive a car.

these days i'm almost grateful that i don't feel driven to motherhood. given some conversations i've (over)heard/had and even some of my own mother's comments, i sometimes wonder if that drive causes some women overlook a lot of bullshit.

if i see the bullshit, i don't wanna procreate.

on the other hand, we all come here to learn lessons and to evolve, and parenting/partnering are perfectly valid ways to do both.

to each her own.


*i do have strong maternal instincts, however, i've always been guided by instinct and intuition, so limiting those feelings to maternity alone is misleading. i also realize that my socialization focused mainly on culture and identity rather than strict gender roles, which probably allowed me to name/claim those feelings in various ways.

**used the wikipedia entry instead of hasbro.com 'cause of the old school photo. my lite brite looked like that. i don't really dig the new ones.

mommy moments

i'm sure we've all witnessed mommy moments.

i came up with the term after seeing my best friend interact with her first child. there were little phrases they exchanged, strings of ridiculous baby talk in the middle of supposedly adult conversations, tearful first days at school (i STILL don't quite get that one...), etc.

mommy moments can happen anywhere and at any time. sometimes they're cute, other times they mean your doom (e.g., the look).

they can even happen once you're grown and no longer living at home...

i was in the middle of the most gangsta shakespeare play i'd ever seen when my mom called. a little girl in a commercial had just reminded her of me as a child. she gushed over how sweet i was, that i was a calming influence on the whole house.

but the sweetest thing was her saying, "i don't know what i did to deserve you."

i basically sat there with my mouth open. i thanked her, but honestly? i was just getting to the good part of the movie, and i can take my mother's sentimental spells for granted. so my reaction was largely, "um...ok...thanks?" and some nervous laughter.

but, i'm gonna have to thank her today, 'cause that was a really nice thing to hear. there are a lot of folks who either wish they could relive those mommy moments, or long to witness one from their own mother.

those moments are how i learned what i was like as a child, and how much of that little girl has remained with me. it's also nice that she's accepted the adult version of me because i was "always special".

she paid enough attention to notice all of that and nurture it, so i'm very grateful.

truthfully, i don't know what i did to deserve her, either.

so, thanks for the moment, mom. love you.

my people, my people (ancestral musings)

iba ara t'orun
we praise those who dwell in heaven/the spirit world

i dreamt of my pop-pop last night.

my general history with grandparents is a bittersweet one.

in previous entries, i've mentioned that i've never been close to my father's extended family and, in fact, only know a fraction of them. my father's mother has lived in virginia since i was an infant, and i saw her maybe once every couple of years growing up. i was a flower girl in her last wedding.

my father's father was murdered several years ago in a random robbery attempt. he was a conflicted man, at best. i never felt the comfort and familiarity in his house that i did in the houses of my mother's relatives. i never became close to him (somehow my younger brother did...), although i was fond of his wife, who passed maybe two or three years ago.

she had six children when she married my grandfather, and they had two together. in her youth, she resembled a cross between salli richardson and dorothy dandridge. she was a pescetarian, black belt in karate, and the neighborhood babysitter. sweet lady--although i'm told she chased one of my grandfather's, um, "friends" with a knife or some such decades ago...

but i digress.

for all intents and purposes, my mother's parents were my grandparents.

i've mentioned my grandma, who passed when i was three years old. another beauty. in the picture i keep on my egun altar--maybe from her prom? i don't think it's from her first wedding, although it could be--she's seated, legs crossed at the knee. her gown is light-colored and floor length; there is a corsage pinned to her left lapel and flowers in her hair. she's smiling in a way that reminds me of my mother. her dark eyes shimmer over high cheekbones and an attractive, but understated mouth.

in later pictures, the ones i grew up looking at, she's an older, streamlined woman with creamy skin, sporting cat eye glasses and the same pretty smile.

i can vaguely remember the clean scent of oil of olay hovering over her. my mother said she used it religiously, so i did the same for a brief period in my late teens or early 20s. i was trying to find some way to feel closer to this woman who so diligently protected me and her family, but that i'd never see, hear, or touch again.

i'm told i have her hands, which is interesting considering that the one concrete memory i have--which is always threatening to slip away--is of her hands reaching out to give me something or give me a hug.

her husband, my mother's stepfather, was my pop-pop. he was a large, gruff-voiced man, often prickly and ornery as hell. he wasn't mean spirited, but he could be nasty when he wanted to be. stubborn. but he was also sweet, loving towards children, and a hoot to be around. my mother is quick to mention that he never treated her or her sister as anything but his daughters. he never had any biological children and was an only child. the women in his family were known for living well into their 90s (sometimes 100s), but not physically aging much past 60-70.

he had debilitating arthritis later in life, so either my cousin or i would go over and help him clean up from time to time. that was the dream--my cousin and i sitting around his apartment talking to him.

i loved those days, despite the work. it's how i learned to clean a house. we also got to talk for hours at a time. he'd teach me about football (or whatever sport, military documentary, or show he happened to be watching at the time), and identify the birds and squirrels who'd come to eat the nuts and seeds he left on the patio. to this day, i don't know how he got the most brilliant cardinals and blue jays in baltimore city (city, not county, y'all. and the back of the apartment faced the subway and freight railroad tracks...) to come and eat on his back step.

in the first dream i had about him after he passed, we were in a supermarket together--he was a cook in the service, loved good food, and cooked wonderful meals until the arthritis slowed him down. he looked like his younger pictures: caramel skin, stern expression, dark hair and eyebrows. he had big circles for eyes, and something about the way his brow settled made him look perpetually surprised or deep in thought, depending on the way the rest of his face was situated.

in that dream, he had come to tell me he was happy and safe and not to worry--i've had similar dreams about just about all my mother's folks when they've transitioned. despite his reassurance, i still woke up with tears streaming down my face. i didn't this time.

i don't think that my pop-pop and grandma are together in the spirit realm; i think that their true loves/soulmates are elsewhere. yet another story. however, they come together to stand by and work for me, which i appreciate more than words can say.

about two years ago during a period where i had some profound spiritual experiences, there were several times when i strongly sensed my grandmother on my right and my grandfather on my left. they let me know in no uncertain terms that if i needed them, all i had to do was call.

so, to both of you:

may you always be well-fed and well rested in orun--you have done your work & then some.
i will teach my children your names.
thank you for all you taught me, for everything you do for me and the rest of us.
we remember you and speak of you with joy and praise.
we love you.
adupe-o.
ase.

for mary elizabeth jackson, a.k.a. jackie a.k.a. bear
for earl major bolden

breakdown

i was resisting writing because i thought it would make things worse...but i think that getting some of this out is the only way to stop the visions in my mind.

so...

i have not had a dramatic life by any stretch of the imagination. compared to many, my situation was idyllic. i never went hungry, i had a parents and family who loved me, my intellect and talents were supported and encouraged, etc.

but the traumas that made it through those filters have stayed with me.

for instance, my parents couldn't stop death--something i learned early, and well.

for several reasons, my mother's family is my family. i look like my father's people, but i was raised with my mother's, almost exclusively.

my father's family is large and always getting larger, but my mother's family is not. and people don't live into their 80s and 90s. being born into a somewhat sterile family full of older folks meant that i had several, loving aunts and uncles, but hardly any cousins or other relatives my age.

i've gone from knowing a house full of people and laughter at christmas to just a handful of us at any given time. we're still close, no beef (modupe olodumare)...just so many empty seats. voices that don't carry across the room anymore.

my maternal grandmother passed when i was three years old, and i can barely remember her face. i remember how much she loved me, and i know her through family stories. she has been an immense spiritual presence, and i know she helped me through one of the most difficult times of my life. thanks to her daughter, my aunt, i have a beautiful picture of her on my egun altar.

over the years i've adopted different grandmothers, but i've never stopped wondering what it would be like to have my own back with me.

both of my grandmother's brothers have also passed on. i was particularly close to my uncle brother. i couldn't attend his funeral because i had to move back into the dorm at school. i have never been able to bring myself to go to his grave...i preferred remembering him as he was: tall, thin, the 80s sunglasses, perpetual drink in one hand, cigarette in the other.

his wife, aunt eunice, treated me like i was her own child. she was one of the sweetest women i've ever known, skin like dark chocolate. she died suddenly of a heart attack, i believe. i couldn't look at her in a coffin, either.

six years ago, my pop pop passed away the day after xmas. we had to have the funeral on new year's eve. to this day, it hurts me to see the christmas lights go up around me, knowing i won't see his gift under the tree or see him at the table. my last visions of him at the hospital, intubated and unable to speak, are some of the harshest memories i have. and every year they come back.

i went to his funeral, but i drew the line at the burial. i couldn't watch them put him in the ground; i stayed in the limo. i cannot find his grave--he insisted on being buried beside my grandmother in one of the oldest but worst maintained cemeteries in the city. i've been there a few times, once with my mother, but neither of us can find them. i'm told my great grandmother is also there, somewhere. i left an ebo for them all, last year i think. the least i could do. maybe i should think about leaving another one...

even being an aborisha doesn't save me from my grief. i know they are still there, watching over me: my grandmother has never left us and often shows up in our dreams. she was with me when i received my owofakan. when i went for my first spiritual reading, my aunt eunice stood with me. two other angels, my aunt emily and uncle jimmy, are also close by, i'm sure.

maybe it's because i lost them (and others)--with the exception of my pop pop--so young that it hurts so much. it wasn't until later that i thought about the things i would have asked, the conversations we would have had, the fact that they missed my graduations from high school or college...

i am grateful that many of them did not linger or suffer.
i pay them homage.
i know that it is because of them that i have some of the gifts i do.
they have touched, blessed and guided me, well and often.
but...i still miss them.

then there are my other memories.

at age five i was violated. not by an adult; more like a game of house that went too far (and even that was, i'm sure, because someone had hurt him). i never forgot it, but it felt like a bad dream my body remembered. i had all kinds of misplaced emotions, urges, and heartbreak that just should not have been.

i think my parents found out soon after, but i downplayed it and hid my true feelings. i never wanted to get him in "trouble", and i didn't want to hurt anyone. i figured that i could get through it, that if i just stayed quiet it would save folks the trouble and keep everyone happier. besides, no one would understand what i was feeling anyway, right?

my mother knew what to look for and watched me, but...well, let's just say that i'm a fairly decent actress--apparently that was my first career choice as a young child, although i don't remember feeling that way.

i don't remember a lot of things. i'm beginning to understand why.

fast forward to age 16 when i slept with my first boyfriend and had to deal with it. even so, i hid it all from everyone until said boyfriend gave me an ultimatum: get help, or consider him gone. this led to a little over a year of therapy and the near constant spiritual intercession of my grandmother, iba t'orun. i'm sure that only she and god kept the knives off my arms and the thoughts of suicide away.

that said, for all intents and purposes, i'm "over" it.

but as anyone who's been here knows, it never goes away.
some days it floods back, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
it's just winds up being one of those "bad" days. or weeks.

i can't remember the last time i had a relapse this bad, but i had a hell of a trifecta going: new job in a new city (i.e., sudden change), relationship issues, and the impending holiday season. i should have seen it coming...

my inner child is powerful, but sad. it's not often that i can face her.

i feel like i don't have the right to complain, to hurt, to suffer--not compared to some of the other childhoods my friends and lovers have endured.

on the other hand, i know my pain is my own, it's justified, and that we all have our crosses to bear, big, small, or in between.

just another way station in the journey.