The Prodigal Daughter's World

I love this book because the chapters are short enough to inform and not overwhelm. I live in my head so when something needs to marinate it can often be competing with the million other things that I’m considering.

This concept of wax and how it was used to hide flaws is a new one for me. Wax is a major part of my history. It covered the things that we weren’t supposed to discuss. You know if your melanated, what happens in the family/house stays there. Outsiders aren’t supposed to imagine that there are imperfections in the life we’re living. We present a perfect united front, no matter the extent of the brokenness and lack of happiness we exist within.

What happens when you decide that the weight of the wax isn’t just cumbersome but suffocating? You end up on a therapists couch searching for truth and clarity. You begin to discuss the things that are beyond the scope of what you initially sought therapy for. Becoming an open book that someone else reads so they can annotate and highlight the aspects of you that are harming you.

Leaving lighter doesn’t necessarily mean that everyone is going to support your healing. It doesn’t even mean that you won’t fear what the wax removal can expose. It just means that it’s easier to live in honesty and transparency. The hard decisions to separate from wax collectors become necessary for you to continue to unburden you.

Just finished reading chapter 5 of The Missing Peace: How To Be Held Together When Your Falling Apart by Tim Ross. I’d you haven’t read or listened to it, you should.

Back to the point. So I’m thinking about the times I cried in church because I was experiencing pain or discouragement. I intentionally waited until they worship part of the service because people cry at that time and it doesn’t draw attention to them. My thought process was the other people in the room would assume I was crying tears of joy or gratitude when I was actually in a state of brokenness.

I should have felt safe crying in church no matter the reason for the tears. I didn’t though. I am still certain that I’m not safe to express certain emotions or thoughts in places where people assume I’m strong and have it all together.

The last relationship outside of my circle where I knew it was okay to be vulnerable and transparent didn’t last but it did precipitate seeing a therapist so I’ll forever be grateful for it.

Had an interesting lunch. Ummm who puts mushrooms in a mayonnaise sauce? The rest of the meal was tasty because God is good.

My bills are paid, my children are healthy and doing things they love. I’ve encountered some pleasant people today because God is good.

While I was driving to my self care appointment in another city. (Yes, I actually left my bed and my city). So I’m driving to a place where a young Nubian queen is waiting to facilitate my self care and I’m listening to Quasim II, when it hit me.

It’s possible that my fascination with words stems from the fact that according to those of a lighter hue, our language was stolen from us. Was it really though? When you listen to us talk, we are complimented for our language proficiency if we are articulate. That’s cause y’all assume we’re uneducated and our parents don’t speak to us. That we in some way shape or form are intellectually deficient, so there’s no way we understand the words coming out of your mouths. The other reaction is we are just so ghetto because you don’t understand what you refer to as slang/ebonics. Actually we’ve taken colonial English, I said what I said, prove me wrong, and masterfully created a secondary language that allows us to communicate with one another uncensored.

Think about it, our “slang” is constantly changing to fit the period of life and history we exist in. It’s intentional and has protected and saved us when nefarious shenanigans are afoot.

We didn’t lose language, which was the intent of changing our names, forbidding us to speak in African dialects, oh and my favorite conspiring to keep us illiterate, so we’d buy into your warped presentation of Christianity. Sucks to wake up and realize, we can read, still have our own language, and still name our children with intention.

I don’t remember a time in my life that hasn’t been immersed in words. Books existed in our home as a part of the environment. My parents definitely had what qualifies as a library. From Stephen King, to Harlequin Romances, to Toni Morrison and any other preeminent black author there was my parents owned it.

They also owned a diverse collection of reference materials. That allowed my sisters and I to dig for the meaning of a word, or to research whatever topic we were reading. All of the provided material wasn’t historically accurate, but without it, there wouldn’t be an insatiable thirst within me to not just be entertained but to consume all of the knowledge my brain can absorb.

Chapter 1 thoughts and observations

The book commences on Tati’s birthday weekend. March 1995. The author sets the foundation for the family’s dynamic. A mother and grandmother who are at odds over Tati’s upbringing. Nadia parents the way she was parented as many of us do.

I feel like she’s defensive when her mother criticizes her parenting because it was good enough when Mimi, her mother raised her. I also feel like she chafes at her mother’s disapproval. It’s a mixed message, one that creates friction in families.

This first chapter uses a lot of phrases I’m familiar with. The mindset that single motherhood is a forgone outcome for the two 14 year old girls is mind boggling. Life and death is in the power of the tongue, yet many older women sexualize young women who have reached puberty. There isn’t an acknowledgment of the young woman’s personality, just the assumption that her bodies natural functions transform her into a “fast” girl.

Who or what causes you to dim your light? Maybe a better question is why do you dim your light? Is it because you’re doing your best to remain invisible? There are many reasons why people will diminish the light within.

My reason is fear of rejection. A fear so potent that I plan my own celebrations, controlling the guest list, the venue, menu, and time frame. The people that should have encouraged me to let this little light shine only had room in their world for one bright light. A lot of energy was spent reminding me that my best wasn’t good enough. I didn’t possess the right pedigree. My personality was trash. Heck I was not the right body type.

All of these things play on repeat in my head like a broken record. One group of relatives went so far as to imply (when I was barely more than a toddler), that the only accomplishment I would be known for was being a baby momma of numerous babies by different baby daddies.

If you hear that young enough. You live that life or you prove them wrong. Either way it becomes a stain on your expectations of yourself. The older you get the more you realize that from their perspective you weren’t worth pouring into. Nurturing you and handling you with care was pointless to them.

My walls began to erect at a very young age. Starting with not caring to be feminine or viewing myself as attractive. Subconsciously, I saw myself as a person that men would only use as an outlet for their physical needs. A bad girl who didn’t deserve the good guy. There would be no upstanding, college educated husband for a girl like me.

The more I was told what I lacked the more I rebelled. Making relationship choices and decisions that were beyond questionable, seeing my fathers disappointment grow and the possibility of receiving words of affirmation from him become non-existent.

I became so convinced that the assessment of others was so accurate, I made myself invisible. It was easy to do. There were no attentive ears waiting to hear my voice. No encouraging words to support my dreams of becoming an author. The people I encouraged didn’t reciprocate when I doubted myself or wanted to throw in the towel. It was easier for them to capitalize on my insecurities, my mistakes, their desire to see me fail instead of succeeding.

Even this space was born because my younger sister and I needed an outlet to voice our opinions because no one we championed cared enough to do the same for us. They wanted to silence our voices. Make us small.

For the last week, people who had no skin in the game, chose to celebrate me. They’ve loved on me. The well wishes and gifts keep coming. Hearing I’m valued brings tears to my eyes. Knowing I’ll be missed makes the heart I take great pains to protect, fill with warmth. The crazy thing is I specifically said I didn’t want anyone to acknowledge the end of this season as I embark on a new one. I made the choice to celebrate myself on my terms out of fear no one would care to acknowledge me.

That’s real talk. Old habits die hard. My need to protect my heart is as strong as it’s ever been. At this point it’s a reflex. I don’t know any way to live. What’s crazy is there are family members waiting for me to arrive and support me. I am finally in a circle of sisterhood that won’t hesitate to show up and show out for me…..

I still withdraw. I continue to dim the light. I prefer to sit in a corner and watch those “more deserving” shine.

Healing isn’t for the weak or faint of heart because it’s more painful than the wound that necessitates it.

My presence speaks for me more often than not. I’m not affectionate. I’m not mushy, but if I’ve got it, so do you. If I can be there for you to vent, I’m there.

I will pray until the praise report comes through. I’ll shuffle shift stuff around so you don’t have to stress. Showing up for you is so I am.

I’m grateful for the people in my life who show up for me. I know I need someone who isn’t larger than life but their presence brings comfort. Their presence shows their solidity. Their presence means I don’t have to panic.

This Father’s Day hit different. Talked to my sis. Checked on the ladies in my family whose fathers are resting well. Started a new tradition to celebrate. Drove and picked up some Senorità bread because I wanted to indulge in something new and sweet. Trying new foods isn’t my forte, but my Dad was courageous. The tradition will be doing something I’ve never done before because life is meant to be appreciated, experienced, lived out loud, as I love out loud.

I learned that from a man, my Father. The first man who loved me. The man who modeled manhood. The man who embodied what loving your wife looks like. He wasn’t affectionate but his provision and protection for my mother were his love languages. The way he taught us the power of knowledge and how to wield it lives on as we do the same for our children.

Instilling in us a sense of pride in our gender and ethnicity, he raised us to recognize our humanity, we never considered either to be the thing that made us less than or unequal. That wasn’t allowed.

Mediocrity isn’t in our vocabulary, you see he expected nothing less than excellence. Success is our birthright. The world is our canvas to create lives that mirrors that.

His vision carried us to another state to build a new life. One where he could heal the wounds his decisions made. Resilience, determination, grit, and creating a yes to defy the no’s that resounded as he rebuilt our lifestyle, the comfortablilty we were accustomed to. Three melanated upper middle class girls who had never struggled but learned that there was no such thing as the other half, when struggle briefly entered our lives. At any moment you could have and then have not. Daddy was a haver, so that didn’t last long. 🥹👏🏽

It’s in his honor that I embark on my own rebirth. My own healing from the wounds left in the wake of my decisions. I will love out loud and bravely, laughing at myself as I encounter new experiences and cultures.

Today I honor him with these words. Tomorrow I embody the legacy he created.

The word blessed is defined as blissfully happy or contented. While the word assurance is defined as full confidence; freedom from doubt; certainty:

So this week’s transparent post has to do with knowing that I’m blissfully content and happy with the way life is lifing, because I’m confident that God has me. He always has and always will. Today he answered a question for me that I’ve stopped audibly asking. It made my heart swell and the tears cascade down my rotund cheeks.

I didn’t expect that today. I converse with linguistically gifted individuals daily who drop knowledge like Pac dropped bars. It’s not their intent to mesmerize me with their words. We are just conversing. I’m privileged to be schooled in life, love, and happiness. I receive exceptional life-coaching free of charge during these conversations.

Along with the answer came the assurance that my behavior in that season of my life spoke louder than any words I wanted to use to plead my case. The saints that crossed my path to encourage me to develop a more intimate relationship with the Trinity were the antidote to the aints who made it their mission to annihilate me spiritually, not realizing how futile their efforts were.

The tears were shed. The darkness descended. The walls closed in as God destroyed what would have been detrimental to the plans He’d made for me. Hope may have retreated to the recesses of my spirit occasionally, but faith resuscitated it so I could receive peace that surpasses understanding at a time when grief and loss are present. God would not be outdone by the weapons that were formed. Instead He reshaped them into a blessed assurance that won’t ever forget Jesus is MINE🪷

Healing has been as complicated and complex as grieving. No rule book. No expectations from myself now that the journey has connected with the healing journeys of others. Just an awareness of when something is no longer an open wound or a trigger. I am certain I wasn’t aware that I needed these miles markers until today’s crossed my mind.

What do you need to heal from some may say, while I respond what don’t I need to heal from. As walking in tandem with others, wounds are exposed, but simultaneously that healed mile marker appears. It’s bizarre. My peace grows as the healing manifests. There isn’t a time line here. Another aspect of my healed impatient self that I’m loving because the impatience and the urgency I felt to be okay when I ran to therapy is no longer a necessity. I’ve exchanged my place in the race with the turtle, content to take it slow.

There’s no made up trauma to keep me in a state of limbo. One where healing manifested years ago, but the comfort I’ve found in my brokenness compels me to resist peace and healing. I’m just living my best life.

It’s been a good week so far. Some of my conversations are heavy while others are extremely light. No matter the conversations I’ve appreciated them. I love that I’ve shared thoughts, ideas with my favorite people. My musings are still locked up tight.

Some of my hardest seasons produced the greatest blessings. In them I learned that God never leaves, he never forsakes. He’s there when you don’t feel His presence, comforting you and strengthening you. He doesn’t allow you to experience soul crushing defeat. He’s there, hand out, ready to wipe the tears, listen to the words uttered in frustration or desperation. God wants you to know matter what your experiencing He’s constant and consistent. Have a blessed Sabbath. Don’t allow anyone or anything to keep you from the intentional rest this day affords you.

So tomorrow is June 1. The first day of Black Music Appreciation Month. It’s inception was June 7, 1979. President Jimmy Carter decreed that we would celebrate the music that has carried is from enslavement to present day. We didn’t leave behind our ability to speak our emotions through beats and words. We’ve transformed it from chants, to Gospel, Blues, R&B, Hip Hop, Metal and Alternative. There isn’t a genre we didn’t create or influence. Music has shaped my life.