grief

Winter’s Wisdom

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Perhaps it’s being the daughter of a school teacher. Maybe it’s because I just passed my 41st birthday. But I always feel a bit nostaligic around the end of August and September always feels like a chance for new beginings. 


I was told by an Akashic reader recently that, actual calendar date aside, I’m in a season of Winter. And that in this season, I should rest and eat and play and decide what I’m ready to let go of so that when my Spring comes I feel ready to bloom.


My 2021, like yours, was and is a shit show. There are lots of things working and each morning I thank the Universe for what is. But I also think it’s toxic to not face, and sit with, the things that broke my heart.


Racism isn’t new to me. I remember being called an Oreo in the 3rd grade. I was called a Nigger, by a teacher, in the 5th grade. “You’re so pretty for a Black girl” , “you speak so well“,  and “She’s not really Black” (after racist joke has been told to group) were all phrases I heard reguarlly by the time I was in high school. 


For the sake of education, or greater opportunities, my mother like most in the 80’s and 90’s perceived White spaces to be better spaces. And I spent most of my formative life becoming more palatable for White people so that they were more comfortable in my presence. I straightened my hair and wore weaves because my natural hair made your hands reach for my scalp and your eyes widen. I allowed you to say things around me, that shook the ancestors in me, because when I stood up for myself you got red and called me angry and difficult. I’ve been the only brown spot in more brunches on Park Ave than I care to mention because the idea of Harlem seems to make your skin itch and suddenly you’re not so hungry anymore but I am and so I acquiesce to calm your nerves and I’ll just laugh about it later over martinis at Red Rooster with all the other brown girls who did the same that day.


I reflect this Winter, and I think about all of the things people of color have had to grieve this season. All of the ways in which the trauma tied to our hue is triggered every day and yet this grief is also so new because so much of our loss now is tied to people who are still here…


My early grief, after losing my parents, taught me that there is a box for everyone. Some people showed me they should be put in the “call me for a drink” box cause their emotional band- with was low but they made me laugh and joy was necessary! Some got put in the “see only at public functions” cause grief made MY band- with low and they were exhausting. I got lucky though and a few made it to the “ride or die for life” box and with them i knew that i could show up sobbing and clutching my cat at 3am and i had someone to sit with.


Grief showed me that there were people that sent texts and then there were people who drove in snowstorms to hold your hand. My parents dying drew a line in the sand and some will do what’s hard in order to show up for you.
But this Civil Rights Movement drew a line in the sand too, and what I’ve realized is, very few people are willing to do what’s hard when race is a factor and that those boxes needed to be revisited again.


You see… when you tell your family that you’re taking care of your grieving friend. You look like a saint. When you tell your friends that you sit with me while I cry and we travel together and share our pain you look like an incredibly selfless person and, whether you realize it or not, it makes you feel good about yourself and your ego is fed. On top of that, grieving or not, I’m a great fucking time so what exactly is the sacrifice here?!?  


Being anti- racist means that you have to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. It means you have to sit at dinner tables and go against people you share blood with, for those with whom you do not. It means you might lose other friends who didn’t realize how “political” you are. It means your job, and your clients, might see that you’re not voting for the candidate that gives them tax breaks and you might not be as busy as you’d like to be. It demands you having to admit that your life was designed to be easier than others and not everyone can sit with that truth.

These are the hard truths I faced:


If I am writing a Blog post about being chased from THREE towns by racists cops and having to hide out in a stranger’s driveway, it’s not okay to repost my blog but not actually reach out to me. Reposting makes other people think you’re close to the movement and those harmed. (PERFORMATIVE) Picking up a phone or messaging me and saying ” I saw your Blog, what can I do to help?” is being a friend. (ALLY)


When I write an article about the phrase “I don’t see color” and even after you’ve heard THIS Black woman explain why it’s so offensive, it is SHOCKING to send me an email explaining why YOU’RE hurt that you can’t say that anymore and that YOU’RE offended as a White woman. It’s also confusing as to why you decided I was talking to YOU. It’s called White fragility and I’M offended that you thought the email was acceptable. I’m also horrified that in your defense of said email on why you are “clearly” not a racist , (insert eye roll) you cited, the black boys that you help in your school district. My jaw truly dropped on that one.


If I only had 1 White friend, and every day arrived with headlines about White people being killed by cops, or young White girls getting acid thrown in their face at traffic lights, or yet another protest demanding rights for White people, you can bet your ass I’d remember to check on my White friend. It’s not okay to say things like “I was busy” , “I got tied up” or “You don’t usually like to talk on the phone“. We’re talking about my civil rights and those of people who look like me, not what I had to eat for lunch that week. I am not being needy. I am terrified.


So why am I sharing this?

Because I’m not alone in this. I stand alongside countless people of color who were forced to end friendships with people they loved because those people weren’t ready to make “good trouble”. I sit with all the Black women who figured out that some of their girlfriends weren’t the allies they believed they had in their corner. I walk in the sadness of grieving not just the widespread attack on people that look me but the awareness that I am still too Black for some that know me intimately. I am irate that when White people find out that we’ve ended these friendships, that many still say “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on her?” as if we are being silly about demanding that people see ALL of us. I’m sharing this because I hope my White readers think about their own friends of color and re-evaluate what kind of friend you’ve been to them. Believe me when I tell you, it doesn’t matter that you’ve been friends for years or had drinks or cried together 10 years ago. How did you show up during the Civil Rights Movement??? If you find out that she’s moved YOU into a different box, do the self work. SHE is not the problem here. SHE is not too sensitive. YOU are not sensitive enough.

There’s something to be said for Winter and it’s bitter hold. A sort of refining happens. A release of what’s not longer necessary. And I hope, those that look like me, are doing to the same. Let us lick our wounds if we must and then gather our strength so that we can do what WE have always done. Rise again… and this time, let them choke on all of this melanin magic. We are not here to be palatable.

Bloom LOUDLY my friends.

My New Brother

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I’m not sure where to begin, with Grief Camp or with finding out that my dead father gave up a son in 1978 and my family knew?! I’m not sure why I haven’t made my life into a book by now, or at the very least a pamphlet, because you can’t make this shit up!

On October 26th I watched as people, in their 20’s and 30’s, flew in from as far as Dubai and as near as Chicago. I was there because I work as a Community Manager for The Dinner Party. But I was also there because I lost both of my parents a few years apart to different forms of Cancer.

Before camp, TDP staff got together for a night of preparing and pizza and talking about our own goals as grievers for the weekend. I wanted to leave having let go of anger towards my father. The morning camp started I made a list of the 4 biggest things I’ve been carrying around.

  • When I was 10 my father’s mistress called our house, on Thanksgiving, and told me details about their relationship. I didn’t see my father again for 4 years. He lived 20 minutes away.
  • I called my father once from outside my mother’s hospital room and begged him to help me. He told me she deserved it and hung up. He then showed up at her funeral, late, sat in the front row and 2 days later asked me to borrow money. Which I gave to him. I wouldn’t hear from him again.
  • A year or so later, I was walking to Union Square to meet a friend for drinks at Blue Water Grill. I see my father, and a woman walking towards me. And as the Universe would have it we are the ONLY people on the street. I stopped and waited for him to stop. She was blissfully chatting away and he mouthed for me not to say anything, shook his head and walked past me.
  • The next time I saw him, he was in a coma. The same woman was sitting bedside. And still. I stayed. And held his hand. And told him I loved him. The weeks and months to follow until his death uncovered more lies and more secrets from the lives he had invented with so many different people. But he was my father. And my first love and so I stayed.

After he died, I did what I do. I wrote. I cried. I meditated. I traveled and drank too much. I burned candles and sage and I came out years later feeling like I was GOOD! And then I had a Reiki session. I was fresh off of casually dating a man I knew damn well I shouldn’t have and laid on this woman’s table at The Turnberry Resort in Miami, FL. After the 1 hour silent session, and my being STUNNED by her mastery of the skills, she turned to me and said “You need to heal your relationship with your father or you’ll always have difficult relationships with men.” Ummmm. “You got all that from waiving your hands above my liver?!? ” But I never forgot what she said.

Well now it’s 2019 and I’ve realized months before camp that I was still fucking pissed. Falling in love will do that to you. I pride myself in being able to recognize my own shit. No one deserves your pain. After I threw the 2nd fan in his direction I realized it was time to take a step back lol

So AGAIN I did the work. I realized that half the time, I wasn’t arguing with John. John had simply triggered a memory and my response was to that emotion that was never healed. John is the only man, I’ve ever really loved, and the little girl who wasn’t loved right is a wee bit bananas when she gets mad. And here’s the thing. Other dudes might have deserved my crazy. He doesn’t.

So I made that list. And I burned it at camp. And I cried and hugged and did all the things. I also watched as all of these other beautiful people moved through their own pain and I was reminded that my pain was not specific to me. There were people sitting in that room who I wouldn’t trade my story with. There is always someone who is dealing with more than you. I left feeling lighter and I came back to John feeling proud of what I had released.

And then this shit. I’ve always known my father had had children before I was born. Unfortunately, we didn’t grow up together. I’ve never known the full story but from what I gathered, he had “chosen” to be a dad to only 1 of us and I’ve spent most of my life avoiding them because I’ve felt guilty. We’re in contact on social media but that’s about it and after my dad died I think it almost got weirder for me to begin a relationship. They are older and more mature than I, and have never stopped reaching out. One of them reached out this morning to tell me we have a brother. Thanks to ancestry.com he took a DNA test and found her. He had been given up in a closed adoption in 1978. I was born in 1980. He’s lived in NJ. I grew up in NY. I don’t know the chain of events yet, but my uncle has known. At least 1 aunt has known and so had my grandmother.

My world has been rocked before. And when it has I call on everything my mother and Yoga have taught me. As a teacher myself, I know and believe that there is a lesson here. I think about what I would tell my students and I remind myself to BREATHE. I am good at stepping back and trying to determine what future me needs, because present me is down the rabbit hole. And so I tell myself that there is a blessing here and to not be guided by anger.

But. I’m also a 39 year old woman who deserved the truth. I also don’t believe that family secrets should prevent you from having a moral compass. I am steadfast in knowing that I could have used a brother when I found myself with no one at 31. And that toxic is toxic. Family or not. When I think about what future me needs? I think about a healthy marriage. She needs to be in a loving partnership. She no longer passes down what has been YEARSSS of generational disfunction. She trusts whose around her and love is poured honestly at the table where she sits.

So, I AM pissed. But I’m also done doing the work for now. Sometimes anger aint so bad. I’m deciding, (for my own health) “not my circus, not my monkeys.” sometimes family are the people you choose rather than your blood. I’ve got some AMAZING blood ones (that sounds gross lol) and they know who they are but my chosen ones deserve only the best of me. And sometimes walking away is the best “work” you can ever do.

Home

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Blogging on Sunday nights is working out well for me huh? lol

I’m sitting in one of the classrooms, here at Yogaville, writing this post. This room is beautifully lit, carpeted, and has an altar at the front. I can hear the birds outside, people blissfully walking from Meditation to Sivananda Hall for breakfast…I can smell incense and the smoke from candles nearby. It’s a peaceful morning and quite the difference from the Planet Fitness I posted from last Monday.

Yogaville brings up a lot for me. My mother had been a Kitchen Mother when the ashram was in Connecticut in the 70’s. At the time, she was on the path to becoming a Swami. When her mother was diagnosed with ALS, she left and went home to NYC to take care of her as she died. She met my father not long before she passed and soon after I was born. Imagine… if my grandmother hadn’t gotten sick, my mother would have been a Swami and I would never have been born!

I’ve spent my entire life traveling here. Living here for brief stints as a child, running here when life became too much as an adult. Grieving here when my mother died and then my father. I’ve spent most of each year, since then, trying to make it back here. Because here is home. The only place I’ve ever called home. I love New York but it was hard and it was hard on my family.

Yogaville is where my mother was happiest. It’s the place where all of my best memories live and the “why” behind the life and career I’ve created. Yogaville taught me everything. And now, Eula Mae is parked outside my friend’s dad’s house. Ana- Mae is playing on the fields where I went to Summer Camp, and John and I took a walk down to the lake I never learned how to swim in as a child lol My worlds are colliding in the best ways… My memories and my future running along side of each other in the Virginia sun.

If you’re anything like me, then you spend a lot of time second guessing yourself. It’s hard not to question your choices in life. But then there are moments, like this one, where you know without a doubt that you’ve made the best decision for yourself.

Next week I’ll tell you the story about the drive here because HOLY HELL it wasn’t exactly seamless. Today I just want to walk outside and eat good food. I want to laugh and nap and watch my family play where I once played. I want to hear stories about my mother and just feel really fucking grateful that we did it!

Till next week y’all. Take care of yourselves. You deserve it all.