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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.

I Thought I Knew Her

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I thought that I knew who Grief was. She and I have spent so much time with each other. I’ve been intimate with her cousin Death for over a decade now. I know how they look and sound. I know what they’re like when you love them right and I thought that I knew the levels of distruction that they were capable of.

But she’s been sneaky this last visit. I’m not sure I know her as well as I thought I did. I didn’t realize how many faces she has. I didn’t know how far she could reach or how loud her voice was. She’s become a bit of a leach and I wasn’t prepared for her wrapping herself around my people for so long. She seems stronger this time. I’m pretty sure she’s been doping in the offseason.

I’m serious when I tell you this bitch refuses to sleep. She just paces and waits… With this look on her face that I can’t quite figure out. I watch her walk the floors at night and I wonder what happened to her cousin in my absence… I’ve seen Death be so gentle. I’ve watched her lay down and like soft sand, caress the skin of those she loved. If we’re being honest, then yes I knew she had daddy issues. They both do. I’ve watched her be spiteful and vindictive and I’ve seen how quickly her anger can blanket a room. But since when did she start hating people that looked like me??  When did she start allowing herself to be used by people who hate me? When did these two get so mad?

I used to be able to explain my relationship to them to other people. It’s not like I was the only one who knew them. They could be A LOT to handle and you had to be crafty to manage them sometimes. They were exhausting and usually too chatty for me but some days, strangely enough,  I really loved them. I had learned a lot from those two. Our history has been complicated but something about them changed me and I actually liked who I became after getting to know them. 

In the old days, when they became too much, I could vent to my other friends about them and they understood. I’m not sure when that ended. But I can tell that things are different now. They act like these two are my problem. When I tell them that Death has become truly nuts and that Grief won’t stop following me around, they roll their eyes and tell me I’m exaggerating. When I tell them that I don’t think my people can handle much more of Death’s nasty attitude and that we’re thinking about burning down her house, they look at me like I’m crazy and tell me to calm down. I don’t get it. Why don’t they see what I see?

Yesterday was bad. Grief and Death have been on a bender and while Death was sleeping one off Grief went nuts and now everyone who looks like me is trying to figure out how to clean up her mess. Why won’t someone come get these two? We keep trying with them but enough is enough already. 

I thought that I knew who Grief was. But today feels different. I think Death went too far this time.

The Tug

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As a Black woman this Civil Rights Movement, and all of its micro traumas, has become a tug of war on my soul.

People wonder why George Floyd? Why this time? Why this moment? When the truth is, it was simply the final straw. I don’t know of a Black person who is surprised by what some are so shocked by. I think people see the black and white images of our former Civil Rights Movement and convince themselves that it’s from a time long ago. It wasn’t. I’ll be 40 this August. Those are images of my uncles and aunts and cousins and as I watch the images in the news today it feels like tiny cuts each time a man is murdered who too closely resembles my own blood line.

I watch our White allies fight alongside, and for, my Black community and my heart soars! Hundreds of thousands of us marching in the pursuit of righteousness and I can almost see roads being paved for future generations who will never again have to walk this struggle. 

And then John and I pull into Morris Illinois, and I watch 2 pick up trucks box us in. I watch 2 cop cars pull up and talk to them first. And I see a white woman, emboldened by her own ignorant righteousness, and with her teenage daughter in the truck, point to our bus. My home. With 3 cops at my door, and Mrs. Pick Up recording on her phone, I was told that our bus had been reported as looking aggressive. I was told that we were reported as looking menacing. And I was asked when we were planning on leaving. 45 minutes later, the cops pulled off with our promise to pull out of our public parking spot in the morning. And then the pick up trucks peeled off one after the other honking their horn, yelling words I chose not to listen to. And in that moment, I’m reminded that everybody aint happy that Blacks are being heard.

With my ancestors stirring and dancing in my bones, I sign petition after petition and I can almost turn cartwheels when Tamla Hosford’s case is re-opened and Rayshard Brook’s killer is charged. And then I talk to my family and we can’t help but think back to the decades of cases where charges are lessened or dropped entirely and while officers collect pensions our community is left to mourn a lie. And we all mumur something like, “We’ll see…” and go about our day.

After Morris, John and I pulled into Paw Paw Michigan. Just days afterwards. We parked, I walked the dog, and the 3 white people watching me from their front porch started taking pictures. Not 5 minutes later, 4 white teenagers pulled along side us taking pictures of our bus. And right behind them 2 cop cars flashing lights and sirens. This time, the deputy wanted my first and last name. When I told him that I didn’t find it necessary to give my full name to a police officer for sitting outside of a public park at 2:00 in the afternoon (in my nicest “please don’t kill me” white girl voice) he called me Miss and told me to calm down. He wanted to know why I was there and this time, he didn’t give us until morning. He told me that “racial tensions are high here” and he told us to go. And we did. And those 3 white people kept watching and those 4 white teenagers laughed and took pictures of us driving away. 

A day later, I sobbed on a work call. I knew this country was racist. I’ve been dealing with some version of it as far back as my memory allows. But I had underestimated just how angry some become when we ask to live free. When we dare to demand equal treatment. I had underestimated how threatened they become by the sight of my skin. I sobbed and I told my team that I didn’t think I could do this anymore. Within 10 minutes, my boss and one of the founders of The Dinner Party, had texted me an address of a safe house. It was 20 minutes down the road from the rest stop we’d slept in. Within a half hour I was being hugged by 2 white women I’ve never met and told we were welcome to stay as long as we needed. We’ve shared meals and wine and gardening tips. We’ve shared stories and laughs and for the first time in weeks John and I slept without fear. We’ve been here for over a week and will be here until July. Mantra Magazine, having read my last post, and without being prompted sent cash via Venmo just in case we needed it and a promise to bail us out of jail in case my cop ass kissing ever fails.

The ACTION of my colleagues. The ACTION of a brand. The ACTION of these women here in these Michigan woods is what allows me to sit here and again feel my soul being tugged towards joy.

They understood, and understand, that this moment requires a sense of urgency. We didn’t need a text, or a phone call or a fist emoji. We needed help. And we needed it immediately. There is immense happiness to be felt when we see progress being made but don’t let it distract you from the fact that our happiness incites a level of hatred many of us can’t fathom. 

This fight is exhausting. Each day is begging something new out of all of us. If you’re like me and feeling the tug? Let go… let it pull you… There is a place for our anger and our sadness and our fear. But there is also enormous room for gratitude and hope. And there is a brief moment in the middle where someone will spring into ACTION and remind you that there is such beauty in our collective humanity when we try. And you’ll be ready to pick up the rope and begin again…

Just keep going.

Please feel free to comment below. I welcome all good energy!

WICKED

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Up until a VERY embarrassing, but hilarious, audition for The Lion King in my 20’s I was convinced I was going to be a Broadway star. I started singing in Church around 5 years old, and spent most of my life in performing arts schools around NYC. I’ve long given up that dream, and I only sing at home now,  but to this day WICKED is one of my favorite musicals.

“Wicked” was translated from page to stage through Gregory Maguire’s novel “Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West”, and takes place some years before that tornado brought Dorothy from Kansas to the great Land of Oz.

Doctor Dillamond is an animal professor who tragically faces discrimination at the school. He finds friendship in Elphaba, who wants to help him fight against those trying to oppress him. 

Doctor Dillamond, Elphaba and Galinda go to visit the almighty Wizard of Oz, with the hopes he’ll put a stop to the intolerance. After a tragic mishap and a spell gone wrong, the Wizard frames Elphaba as a ‘wicked’ witch, and Galinda is cast as the epitome of goodness.

WICKED is about a lot but it’s also the backstory of how we come to believe Glinda to be the good witch and her sister to be wicked and deserving of her fate. The backstory to why there was so much rage that a town was ravaged. It’s the explanation as to how the wizard allowed his lies to turn the world on Elphaba so he would never have to be held responsible for his mistakes.

2020 is the year of pulling back the curtain. Some of you are very sad about what’s happening in our own version of Oz but I’m wondering why some of you aren’t ANGRIER  that the wizards thought you cruel enough to never question their motives? Why aren’t you irate that they took bets that you would be too busy profiting from your privledge to wonder why it existed in the first place? They assume that your drive to be seen as the symbol of goodness will  prevent you from ever truly defending your sisters.

Be sad but get angry! Use it to fuel your fight. Prove to them that you are on to them and MAKE THEM HEAR YOU!

I love men but it’s women who bring about change! It has always taken the bravery and courage of a woman to make a man listen. 

10 years from now, we will still be talking about this. People will ask you what you did and where you stood. Decide now if you want to tell them you were busy being Glinda. Or do you want to hear your future self proclaim that she stood up for her sisters and helped to dismantle OZ? What version of you do you want to face?

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better. Maya Angelou