Lover Of Life

I have read many memes on the internet that state other people should raise their sons not to murder their own. Many women of color share the sentiment and I will never behave as if I do not feel an automatic justification to impose the statement itself. Black men, boys, and children are dying at alarming rates. Those who decide to see Black-on-Black crime and African American rate of incarceration as a point of concern where my worries would be better suited must also be reminded or perhaps educated that African-American men and women and other marginalized people of color have had laws created in order to lock them up that still remain on the books till this very day. Prisoners are utilized to fill positions of almost free wages in state and federal prisons and penitentiaries. Historically, prisoners were used after slavery ended to fulfill a labor need. Additionally, it is historically documented that the current state of Black on Black Crime was intentionally inserted by the federal government at the behest of a xenophobic leader. Intentionally, organizations that were founded for social justice and enrichment were infiltrated with drugs and guns within African-American Communities during the 70’s and 80’s. The Black community never recovered. Organizations like the Bloods, Crips, Black Panthers, social aid, pleasure clubs, and public Black figures were corrupted/murdered. Read it. Research it. The federal government planted and funneled crack to the black community to destroy it just the same way they allowed and may have even had a hand in the bombing and destruction of the Black Wall Street that existed in Tulsa, Oklahoma. After the 70’s and 80’s, coincidentally, the war on drugs started soon after the problem was filtered into and destroying black communities. The logic after breaking us was to fix us I suppose. Then a surreal attack happens. The amount of black people in jail was always significantly higher than any other group but they now made up 80% of the prison population. The government gave prisons a free labor source until kingdom come, given America’s laws. Within decades, African American contributors vanished from families and were left with irreparable damage to their family and communities.

Even still I read a meme that stated that people should raise their children to not murder black people. In a country that has desegregated after years of attempts for integration. Those raised a certain way took flight from schools and communities that tried its best to amalgamate our institutions.  After years of desiring to be seen equally as human and as contributors to society, same as any other Race, we find ourselves still begging for another hue of human being to see black ones as human.

Reading the meme again, I asked myself, why do I even have to ask? It is no secret that there is no America, without the African-American. It has been proven for centuries now that we are a dynamic people. Survivors, good Samaritans, great doctors, capable lawyers, wonderful teachers, and so much more. Can we be more than mythical? Instead of attempting to abduct our joy, fashion, cadence, and rhetoric can we, all of us, be human same as the rest. Not strange, but merely disenfranchised.  Literally, for centuries, we have been taken advantage of and left to figure it out for ourselves. Years’ worth of effort should have been poured into a people who continue to experience trauma for the horrific act of slavery even until today.

Receiving news of another Black person’s death because of vigilante justice in America was hard for me because my children had birthdays in our midst. Typically, parents survey their minds of all the benchmarks hit by our children, all the memories made with triumph, vigor, and all those tender moments in between.

Specifically, I thought of how proud I was the moment I started realizing that my oldest is proud of being a Black boy. For those of you who read and aren’t Black, you may not know or understand, but there is a plethora of books that support positive self-images of African Americans written by many Black authors. One of my children’s God Parents gave them a book for Christmas named, The Joys of Being a Little Black Boy: written by Valerie Reynolds and illustrated by Chris Turner.

Beautifully illustrated and written, they requested for me to read it to them every night for months. Of course, I obliged them. I find myself changing my voice when I read to them so that they understand that reading can be both exciting and fun. They loved it. The evening was always followed by positive affirmations spoken over their lives, prayers, plenty of hugs and kisses. Then off to bed they went. Thinking on it now, it still warms my heart when I think of the morning, I received a phone call from their father…

“Yea G, I just want to let you know, your son is standing at the top of the Jungle Gym screaming at the top of his lungs that he is a smart Black boy. Eyes closed; head high.”

Instant, I burst into laughter. Apparently, my lover arrived at the school early enough for my darling terrorist to play on the playground for a little while and his behavior appeared to come out of nowhere. I knew all the while that it was not out of nowhere. It was from his heart.

With knowledge of how the world will view our children, many mothers like myself place a great deal of our energy preparing our sons with self-love and positive self – images so they will have the confidence to combat negative thinking about who they are culturally later in life. In addition, we are aware of what is expected to compete in a capitalist world. Armed with this information we throw our sons into Art, STEM, Football, Baseball, Basketball, and Band camps to enrich their lives. Not to mention the busier they are the less likely they will be involved with criminal elements. Some women tour the country and the world. Giving their sons the ultimate competitive edge of being worldly and influenced by multiculturalism. We keep their minds filled with positive information and teach them constantly to show others respect, behave with humility, and take responsibility for their actions. The stress that comes with teaching our children to make good decisions cannot truly be placed into words.

“I need some damn coffee!” I think randomly as a side note to self. It is hot in the car but it isn't outside. Aggravated by it all I crack my window to catch a breeze. The air is crisp with a chilling breeze and it’s sunny out. Finding moments where I can to write and draw is getting harder with the children’s schedule but I choose to push forward and not dwell in that thought. 

The scenery outside is precious. I am watching fathers coach.  No where to sit so I watch and type from the car. I’m going to kill some birds with some stones today. I saw the coaches lay out the bases all while noticing the field we have the children practicing on today. The field is clear of debris and the grass freshly manicured. I always thought that baseball fields looked pretty. I played softball in high school but it was not my sport of choice. I ran track. My children and husband, however, are great at the game. Now there is a special place in my heart for the game forever. 

The Mutineer pounds the glove and positions himself just right, just like dad and big brother showed him. Fielding ground balls and being stubborn simultaneously is something of a scene to watch. It is hard to work with someone so young and willful. The Mutineer is no longer a baby, but desperately clings to his baby hood. There appears to be a struggle to keep controlling his parents' will because he used to get away with murder when he was smaller. Yet I watch him want to do everything his older brother does. Often forging his independence into existence even when all we want to do is help him button his shirt so that we can leave the house on time. Jeez three-nager make up your mind already.  

Thanking God that today we are right on schedule. First we went to the Terrorist’s basketball game, now baseball practice for both of them, and then finally a slumber party for them, while their dad and I get a date night with friends at a house warming in another city. 

Months like these sneak up on us. It's a lot. We are tired as hell. It is worth it. It is a great kind of tired to be. 

We are tired because daily we are busting our asses to make the shortest ends granted to a normal family in America meet. Daily, we hustle with one car to our drop off points. First, the Terrorist gets picked up for school. Second, I get dropped off for work. Third, the Mutineer gets dropped off for day care. Then off to work my husband goes. We ask for very little from one another. We stretch out conversations in the car. Day to day is thoroughly exhausting when we find ourselves lunch dating for 30 minutes during a car swap because it looks like one of us have an evening that will run later than expected. We work hard for 8 hours then rush off to provide our kids with an activity so they wont be attached to the television or a video game everyday. If we don't have weekend games or practices we find a restaurant, a park, or museum to show the children. Hey parents, it was the most amazing feeling to pack a meal and watch my sons fly kites for free while we watched ships pass by on a bluff. 

At the end of today and every day of this week this month, we’ve been tired. But, we are tired from sacrificing daily for our children to have their needs met, we are tired because we are attempting to provide our family with some sense of a life style, we are tired because we are attempting to chase our dreams when we could be sleeping.

Again its a good tired. The un-regrettable kind. Even now when I look up from my keyboard and I catch a glimpse of the Mutineer attempting a swing at a ball and finally nailing it. I get to see his smile, his celebration, and his thumbs up in my direction because he knows for a fact, I’m watching. 

Jades Dewalt said ‘...sleep deprivation is physically miserable and creatively cathartic, as internal landscapes rise up from their dormant ashes’

The chickens are gone. Morning rays of sunlight are slipping through the blinds of our windows. Luring me from a deep sleep. Silence during this time of the morning has shifted to be quite an oddity now that the chickens no longer cocka-doodle us awake during dawn. They were a daily reminder that I have become a New Orleanean.  A benevolently spiritual city that pours the culture of its art, food, and music into the resident’s soul. The chickens roam freely and sometimes seem to be every where. 

I don’t hear our children. Consciously, I decide to fight back the day light and attempt to hold on to the Sandman a bit longer. There is no telling the amount of time that passed by but the sleep I greedily chased was over. I felt them. They slipped into our bed. They wanted breakfast. But they didn’t say anything. Their mother is known to everyone who knows her intimately as Cruella Deville in the mornings. Showing great intelligence, neither one said a word. Wrapping their arms lovingly around me, I sensed their love for me. One at a time they kissed my eyelids until they opened. Just as I did to them when they slept as babies. Once awakened, more hugs and kisses are exchanged. That settled, laughter, and smiles subside. 

Doe eyed as ever, one says to me, “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

I realize I’ve been finessed long before I start cracking eggs for scrambling. I got up and participated in taking care of our boys. Doing what I have only affectionately heard in central Louisiana as a ‘Mommy Ting.’ After all, it’s Saturday morning. The cleaning routine will pick up shortly. 

Half way through the morning, the boys should  be cleaning their rooms but I’m certain I hear a  basketball being dribbled in their toy room. I’m enroute to Banaville because I am 1000% sure that I have asked the boys to stop wrestling, put the balls down, and clean up their room! I’m half way up the stairs and the youngest lets me know that all he want is “hugs and kiss.”

Receiving the stalest of faces, he gets hugs and kisses. 

‘Finessed again,’ I recognize. 

Before we can continue our Saturday morning ritual, I catch a glance of their Father shaking his head with perched lips. He knows they finessed my ass too. I shake off my distractions, turn up the music, and finish what ever is in front of me. 

Fast forward. We have a babysitter. Mommy and Daddy are going on a date night. I spent an hour getting ready for it and looked at myself a million times in the mirror. Was my lipstick smudging; was my bra slipping out and showing in this dress; do I like my hair like this? All questions I asked in my head repeatedly as I headed to check on it again in the mirror.

Both the Terrorist and the Mutineer watched me closely as I checked the mirror constantly. They stared at me for a moment then walk away and amused themselves however they wanted in the next room. 

Finally I figure, ‘it is what it is.’ Mr. Wonderful has been waiting “patiently.”  Making sure I have on the the triple P’s (perfume, purse, and pumps), I left our bedroom to go out with my love. 

I was met with gasps. 

“Wow mom,” mouths agape. “You look like a Queen.”

“You look perfect mommy!”

Often, I found myself fatigued. In my fatigue, I notice that I get bored and boredom can lead to dissatisfaction when you are caught in the routine of day-to-day living. I can also admit that I’m not sure what success is supposed; thanks to social media. When do you make it? How do you know that you have arrived at the footsteps of success? Is it based on the amount of money in your accounts? Is it based on the number of stamps you receive on your passport? Is it when you finally settle down and have a house, family, and yacht?

Answers to these questions vary widely by an individual’s idea of what they choose to define it as. I cannot go without notice! Everything that I have mentioned is largely based on quantity. Conviction grapples my spirit because I too have measured my life’s worth by the number of things that I have. However, should I not have any of those things? Would I be a success in my own mind enough to create happiness for myself? People are living and thriving in amazing ways; but I cannot help but change the narrative in my own mind about what people are doing with social media when we air out some of our most heartfelt intimate moments, we’re privileged to experience with one another. During those commercial breaks of life, you can capture a piece of others happiness and joy as our associates, friends, or family create memorable moments that constitute success merely because they are above ground and trying to make it.

I see graduations, proms, and babies’ births. I see dances and celebrations. I see excursions and romance both home and abroad. The more I think on it, success the other day was getting children to experience something new and sit properly at a table. They did not whine for an hour and a half about there not being any mac-and-cheese or grilled cheese on the menu. The My Darling Terrorist requested the kid’s menu twice. Success was not complaining about how long it took their mother to decide if she should wear the damn wedges that would make me look like I was tall and model-esque because let’s be honest… I don’t go anywhere. So, when would I wear them anyway? Bump it, I’m going all the way hard and being extra tonight! They were great today. It did take me 30 minutes to decide whether the temperature was right for me to even be bothered with makeup. Success for me was having only three tiny arguments with Mr. Romantic that ended as quick as they started. Awe progress! Success was when The Mutineer told a lovely couple to have a good evening and goodbye when they were leaving the restaurant.

How difficult is it to be with a person whose will is iron clad?

Opinions that roll off of their tongue with total disregard as to whether or not you are happy or sad

Mad or Glad

Rain or shine

How hard is it to be with an individual with a spine?

We made promises to be together for better or worse

At times we’ve realized that we should have asked that they go into detail before we repeated that verse

Is it hard to love an ever evolving human who strives for perfection?

When she can’t stick the landing instantly she is eclipsed by depression?

For richer or poorer rolled off our tongues unconscious as to what that really meant

Had we known, would the money we paid for our marriage certificate had been spent?

Daily reminders that love isn’t JUST a four letter word

It’s an incredulous action verb

Monotonous routines that often lack luster

Performed with human inconsistency that will leave a person flustered

How happily ever after is your forever??

We traded our I’s for Us

Left the concepts of other lovers in the dust

As we embarked on this journey of love, friendship, and family

Merging homes, finances all in an attempt to create our own dynasty

Is it what you thought?

Sickness, health, and death don’t show up

I’m not ready to depart!

This dream is not deferred

Our eyes aren’t wide shut

I never ran from a challenge in my life!

Savagely we swing at all the odds

Trickery, life, she blind sides us

Leaving bruises

I offer no excuses

Tag teaming strategically until her will can’t help but bend

I am a warrior sworn to defend

I ask you my King