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My favorite time of the year is probably the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I usually put my Christmas tree up the weekend before Thanksgiving, but this year I did it the weekend after. I do, however, start playing Christmas music at the beginning of November. There’s just something about it that shifts my attitude. I’m more tolerant and try to be more forgiving. I know…I hear you! I should be like this all the time, but the truth is I’m not!

As a kid, I remember the traditions my mother set in place so that we could have a sense of normalcy since my dad had left us when we were very young. My mother lived paycheck to paycheck, but somehow, someway, we woke up on Christmas morning to a plethora of gifts all over the living floor, under the tree and displayed on the furniture. Mother was the best Santa ever! Regardless of the circumstances, she pulled it off every year. Each year we’d have our traditional Christmas dinner: a small turkey/ham with cornbread dressing, greenbeans, potato salad, cornbread, and sweet tea. Every year she would bake two cakes: coconut for her and my sister and chocolate for me! That’s love!

Now that I’m older and mother now resides in a nursing home, Christmas just isn’t the same. As I aged, I slowly saw the value of my family Christmas traditions slipping away. I saw the “reason for the season” being dismissed as I observed the greed and thoughtlessness around me. It was then that I decided I would no longer buy anyone (except my mother) in my family Christmas gifts, as I felt I was getting duped every year…gifts with no meaning or any consideration giving in selecting them. I would prayerfully consider the gifts for family, in hopes that they would be elated not only to receive it, but also that it would be useful and desired. However, with my gift that I got…not so much thought or value. It was a slap in the face and I know! I hear you! “It’s not the gift, but the thought that counts.” I’m sorry, but I do not agree with that at all! I’d be better off if you just had not gotten me anything. So with all the money I was dropping on family members, I decided that going forward, I would buy myself my own Christmas gifts. Call me what you like, but I was determined to never have another disappointing Christmas, and I haven’t. That decision was made almost 13 years ago.

I love still love Christmas, but the reality is that it is forever changed for me. That part with my family has lost its appeal, and I find other ways to embrace the season. Sly Stone, said it best. “It’s a Family Affair.” I have often wondered what it means. The lyrics are:

“It’s a family affair, it’s a family affair
It’s a family affair, it’s a family affair
One child grows up to be
Somebody that just loves to learn
And another child grows up to be
Somebody you’d just love to burn
Mom loves the both of them
You see it’s in the blood
Both kids are good to Mom
‘Blood’s thicker than mud’
It’s a family affair, it’s a family affair
Newlywed a year ago
But you’re still checking each other out
Nobody wants to blow
Nobody wants to be left out
You can’t leave, ’cause your heart is there
But you can’t stay, ’cause you been somewhere else!
You can’t cry, ’cause you’ll look broke down
But you’re cryin’ anyway ’cause you’re all broke down!
It’s a family affair
It’s a family affair.“

Family is family. You can’t choose them. You just love them the best that you can. It’s demonstrated all throughout the Bible. Cain slew Abel all because of his jealousy of his younger brother’s sacrificial offering. Abel gave God his very best and Cain tried to short-change God. He obviously forgot whom he was dealing with. Then there was Noah and the shame his youngest son, Ham, tried to bring on him when he saw his father naked. Firstly, I don’t see how he was going to benefit from exposing Noah’s nakedness. Secondly, I don’t want to see either of my parents naked, unless I’m caring for them in their old age (and not even then). Fortunately, Noah’s older sons, Shem and Japheth, had the good sense to cover their father’s nakedness without looking upon him. In any event, there was David and his family. Not only did David sleep with another man’s wife but he also had the man murdered. You should know this story well. David, Bathsheba and Uriah. David was king at this time and instead of being where he should have been which was at war with his men, he was goofing off back at the palace. Then it happened! He was looking off his rooftop and onto the rooftop of Bathsheba and Uriah. Well, Uriah was off fighting for David. In the meantime, David was eying Bathsheba who was bathing and minding her business (or was she?). Anyway, David got greedy. He wanted her. He sent for her and he had her. He was the king. What was she to say? “No, Buster!” would have worked. While David took matters into his own hands, God still knew the outcome. Later, David received word that Bathsheba was with child. His child. Not wanting to be exposed, he sent for Uriah and basically encouraged him to spend time with his own wife. He has some nerve! Don’t get me wrong, I really like David, but he was a hot mess! David underestimated Uriah’s loyalty. The plan backfired on him. Uriah was so loyal that he would not lie with Bathsheba, but instead opted to watch over his king and lord. The man slept at the door of David’s palace! When that plan fell through, David instructed, one of his right-hand men, Joab, to “strategically” position Uriah on the battlefield where death was inevitable, at the forefront of the hardest fighting. Uriah was “successfully” murdered. David should have just swung the sword himself. After Bathsheba mourned for a while, David married her. This drama didn’t just stop here. David’s sins became the sins of his children, also. The baby David and Bathsheba had died. Mind you, David had other children. Absalom, Amnon and Tamar. It seems that Absalom and Tamar had the same mother and Amnon had a different mother. Don’t act like you’ve never heard of a blended family. Humph….they existed before we came up with an official name for them. Amnon was in love with Tamar, or so he thought. He wanted her desperately. So a conniving friend helped Amnon trick Tamar. Amnon sent word to Tamar that he was sick, but would feel better if his sister would come and care for him. Guess who the messenger was? It was David. He unknowingly fed Tamar to a wolf. As David commanded, she went to Amnon. One thing led to another and he savagely raped her. He no longer loved her, but hated her with great hatred. So much that it was greater than any love he once felt for her.

All of us have family dysfunction and sometimes we write it off as “normal.”
No family is perfect. You know how it goes, “Ain’t no drama like family drama ‘cause family drama don’t quit.” Now that is the truth! It’s always something! How many times have you felt like you were in the wrong family? That God made a mistake? That you were adopted? That you just didn’t belong? I felt like that often as a child and even more so as an adult. I just never fit in and I still don’t, but let me assure you that God didn’t make a mistake. He has placed me in the family that I’m supposed to be in.

My childhood wasn’t turbulent…at least no more than anyone else’s. I really had a decent upbringing. Other than my dad leaving us, it was good. My mother didn’t display affection, but I knew she loved me by the things she did such as feeding me, clothing me, and providing my basic needs. I had a very strong support system of women. Of course there was the Queen Esther, my grandmother, my aunties and their husbands. I had four aunts, my mother’s sisters. My one aunt, Magdalene, was married 11 years before she and my uncle had a child. So, up until then, my sister and I were their surrogate children. Then there is Maxine, the aunt who never married and never had children. She also has deemed herself the matriarch of family since my grandmother’s passing. She worries about everything. She is a hypochondriac. She has had every sickness that ever was, to hear her tell it. I have three other aunts: Helen and Rosemary. Helen was the eldest of the Queen’s children and Rosemary is the baby of the family. Helen passed away in November 2003. Magdalene passed away three months prior in August. What a tragic blow to our family in such a short period of time. Helen was the spitting image of the Queen, so much so they could have been sisters. They had the same posture, stance, height, nappy red hair and green eyes.

I would be remiss if I did not tell you about my beloved grandfather, George Staton, affectionately known by mother and her siblings as “Pa” and by me as “Grand-Da” (The “a” in Da is a short “a” sound…like the “a” in cat). Grand-Da was shorter in stature than the Queen. He was dark-complexioned and had sleepy looking eyes, which my mother inherited. I remember him always wearing a hat. My granddaddy would shave with one of those straight-edged razors. You know the kind I’m talking about. Did you see “The Color Purple?” Well, remember the scene where Celie was shaving Mister and she was contemplating cutting his throat? Old Shug Avery wondered where Miss Celie was and when the children told her, Shug took off running across the field. You hear this wild music that seems to be building up to something getting ready to happen. The scene keeps jumping back and forth between Celie with the “look” in her eye that says, “I’m gonna cut his throat,” and Shug running as fast as she can across the field to keep Celie from doing anything she might regret. If you want to know the rest, rent the movie. Anyway, Grand-Da would shave with that kind of razor. I loved to watch him shave and it would be a close shave. His face would be as smooth as a baby’s bottom. My Grand-Da didn’t do things the easy way. He just didn’t. He had this shaving lather mixture that he would use. I never saw him spray it out of a can and had no idea from whence it came. He would apply it to his face with one of those barber/shaving brushes like you saw on the “I Love Lucy” show. Remember the episode when Lucy wanted to sing with the barbershop quartet and each time she attempted to sing her part, someone would stick the brush, with the shaving cream on it, in her mouth. Yes, I know. I watch a lot of television and movies. Grand-Da would apply this shaving lather and all I saw peeping out from the nose to chin were those two fully Black lips. I sat there and closely watched him. He’d sharpen that blade very carefully. Then he began the slow tedious process, which her performed almost daily. I watched him nick himself. He wouldn’t miss a beat. Grand-Da would wipe the blood and keep going. Then came the best part. He’d dash on the Old Spice, and I’d rub his face between my two tiny hands. Boy, he spelled good! Let me tell you, I loved me some George Staton! I loved my granddaddy!

Grand-Da was the very opposite of the Queen. He was quiet. You never knew what he was thinking. He was a hunter. I never thought he worked, but that’s because he had become disabled by the time I came along, but he used to work on the rail cars from what I was told. Grand-Da could do no wrong in my sight. I never heard him speak a harsh word to anyone, except the Queen on this one occasion when she raised her voice at me because she thought I had made my baby cousin cry. Thank God that Grand-Da witnessed the whole thing and was able to come to my defense. You know, people think I’m very hard-hearted, but I’m actually quite tender-hearted. For the Queen to falsely accuse me, it crushed me. It didn’t damage my relationship with her, but I knew I was no longer her “baby” granddaughter. My cousin, who was six years my junior had taken my place. I would vie for my grandmother’s attention until the day she died, but it would never be regained. So, all I had was my Grand-Da. I only had him for six years. He died when I was in the first grade. I didn’t even remember him being sick, but mother told me he had been so much so that he had to be hospitalized. And that’s where he died. For me, Grand-Da was my father. If I keep talking about not having him, it’ll make me cry I’m just thankful that I had him for as long as I did. As I told you before, Grand-Da was a hunter and he loved catching wild game and he’d have my grandmother prepare it after he killed the animal and cut up its meat. I saw him pull that black leathery skin off catfish. I saw him de-shell and kill a large snapping turtle. I loved the ruggedness of Grand-Da and back then, my stomach wasn’t queasy and I could just sit out back and watch him kill, gut and drain the blood out of anything. There were other rituals that I had with my grand-daddy. I would let my nails grow in order that one of those rituals would be fulfilled on a weekly basis. Each week, Grand-Da would take his pocketknife, pop out the always, sharp blade and clean the dirt from under my fingernails. Lord, sometimes I would just go wallow in dirt so he’d have dirt to clean from them. Remember before when I said he didn’t do things the simple way? Well, this was no different. Instead of taking nail clippers and cutting my nails, he would take the blade of the knife and start and the outer part of the nail and cut the nail off. Our other ritual was the “Boogedy-Boo Man.” This was a ride that he made up for me. I sit on his knee and he’d buck that old arthritic knee like a wild bull trying to throw me off. Truth was he was holding on so tight to my shirt because he wanted to make sure I never fell off or got hurt. I don’t know if my cousins or sister rode the “Boogedy-Boo Man,” but I didn’t care. When I wanted to ride, he never said no, even if he didn’t feel well. I loved my granddaddy. I just can’t say that enough. I never realize how much I missed him. When he died, I began biting my nails until they would be bloody and all chewed up sometimes. I didn’t realize it until after I started the journal that I bit my nails as an outward display of my missing our routine, our ritual, him. I bit my nails until I was in the 11th grade and then one day I just decided to stop cold turkey.

My paternal grandparents were good also. I think they always felt guilty about how my dad just left us. Sometimes I would find them trying to cover for him by trying to come up with a reason as to why he hadn’t done what he said he would do. Grand-Da Bill and Grandma Bert. That’s what I called them until my maternal grandparents died and then I dropped their names. I saw them daily, too but I always felt closer to my maternal grandparents. Grandma Bert was an excellent baker. She could bake anything. She would bake me, my sister and mother a cake for each of our birthdays and sometimes she would just bake a cake or pie for us just because. Grand-Da Bill was lame in his feet and legs, but he could walk. His legs were twisted and it seemed as if his spine were, too. He had this old Ford LTD and he had it customized so that one foot could reach the gas pedal. For the brake pedal, he had to have a hand-controlled stick connected to the brake and installed. Grand-Da Bill had this old chair that he always sat in right in front of a crackling fire in the fireplace, and whenever I went in the house, I’d plop myself right down on the arm of that chair and curl up beside him. He always called me “Old Blue Eyes.” When I was a baby, I had gray eyes, but they also looked blue or green or hazel. He thought they looked bluer and that’s just what he called me. My grandparents were very generous. They didn’t have much, but they tried to make up for an absentee father and his shortcomings. Bless my grandfather’s heart, as I got older, I knew he had covered for my father. I soon began to distance myself from them because I could no longer take the cover-ups and I knew my father could not keep his word. I just didn’t want to be disappointed anymore and I didn’t want to be cruel to them.

This has brought back very fond and very painful memories of my relationships with my grandparents, maternal and paternal. Let me be very clear, if you still have your grandparents, cherish them. They are such a blessing from God. Grandparents love you in a way that’s different than your parents. They spoil you, but they also discipline you and they keep your parents from beating the mess out of you! I never knew how much I missed them until now.

This is the line from which I descended, and all that to say my life, my journey is a family affair. No matter how flawed, how hurtful, how difficult, my family has played a part in shaping the woman I am today and the one I”m still becoming. They may not like the end result, but I do.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this thing called life.  All it really is are just a series of journeys.  In October 2005, I asked God for a sign for a new beginning.  Firstly, I remember that date because I keep a handwritten journal and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I’m able to recall specific events by when I recorded it.  In any event, I asked for a promise, but not just any promise.  It would need to be so special and specific, that I could only, without any reservations, know that God had answered it.  

I was living in Charlotte, NC at the time and working at a high school.  I had experienced many heartaches and disappointments.  I was not dating, but was in-love with someone who was not good for me or to me.  I desperately needed the reassurance that God had not forgotten about me and that He knew my desire was to be married and have children.  I wanted a new beginning…a fresh start.  While recording that particular entry, I had a conversation with God and said, “Lord, I need to know that you still care; that all of this has not been in vain.  My hope is diminishing and God, if that goes, I don’t have anything.  I need a sign of a new beginning.”  As I pondered this, I know the Holy Spirit spoke gently and quietly to my soul, whispering, “A yellow rose.  That will be the sign of your new beginning.”  We can ask God for something, but it may not necessarily come in the form we think it will or from the person we think it will.  I thought He meant the “yellow rose” would be in the form of my husband.  So I waited and waited and waited.  I grew impatient with God and kept reminding him of the promise.  In December 2005….January 2006…February 2006…March 2006.  In that impatience and waiting, I wasn’t really listening to Him because my focus was on the husband.  In any event, I continued to seek Him and draw closer to Him.  Even in that waiting, God was preparing me for a journey that I could not have fathomed.   

Let me back up a bit.  I had worked at Bank of America for about 4 years. I hated that job and that environment. In April 2004, the Lord revealed to me that He was bringing me out of my Exodus, which was BofA.  It had been my Egypt and I was its slave.  On May 3, 2004. I resigned from my position at the bank.  I didn’t know what I was going to do and I didn’t have a plan.  I didn’t even want to work with kids, but six months later, I took a job at a high school and ended up realizing that I loved working with kids.  It was also a difficult time, because I had a house and it was foreclosed.  I was certain that God had told me to leave BofA and I continued to turn to Him for reassurance.  I began to question His plan.  Once, when I was in worship, I told God that I love Him so much that I’d be willing to give up everything.  Well, He called my bluff.  When I questioned the plan, He reminded me in a question, “Didn’t you say you love Me so much you’d be willing to give up everything?”  “Yes, Lord, but I DIDN’T MEAN MY HOUSE!”  I broke down and wailed the most earth-shattering, heart wrenching cry from the pit of my very being.  Humiliated and ashamed. I could not believe this was happening.  I felt like a failure in this, as I had in so many other areas of my life.  I yielded to His plan and moved out of my house three months later to rent a condo.   

It was during that time that I began to sense that God was going to move me from Charlotte.  I did not want to leave.  I was very content at my church and being near my family.  I guess I resisted on some level…I’m sure I did, but God was relentless in making me aware of that portion of his plan.  I tried to assume control by deciding where I would go.  It wasn’t up to me.  God was the pilot of this vessel and He had other plans.  As time passed, that sensing or knowing became stronger and stronger.  In January 2006, I yielded and told the Lord, “Okay God…wherever you want me to go, I’ll go.”  When God calls, all we have to do is answer. We could save time and energy by just yielding.  While I know I’m very stubborn (even with God), I also wanted to please Him.  I had to give up control because what I was doing wasn’t working.  I applied for jobs in the southeast corridor of the USA.  I had already lived in Seattle and knew I never wanted to that far from home again.  I began to apply for jobs in Virginia, Florida, Georgia and Alabama.  Yes…Alabama!  Then I applied for a job in Austin, Texas!  I was thinking to myself, “Lord, you have got to be kidding me!”  The position was at a KIPP charter school.  I was thinking I didn’t stand a chance.  In any event, I applied and waited. That was March 2006.  Then at the end of April 2006, I applied for a job at a school in Houston, Texas…another charter school.  How about I got an interview for that one!  Go figure.  I was still struggling financially and had not really recovered from the foreclosure.  God orchestrated it so that someone I knew worked at an airline and I was able to get a buddy pass (which I will NEVER fly on again) the Houston interview.  On the weekend of Memorial day, 2006 I flew to Houston and stayed with friends who had come out a year earlier from Charlotte.  Do you see how God orchestrated that?  So I flew out and had the interview that Saturday.  I remember thinking, “That sucked!”  It was a horrible interview and school location was in the “hood.”  Unh-huh!  I wasn’t feeling it. When that interview was over, I went to airport that Sunday morning for an 7AM flight.  However, because I was on that buddy pass, I got bumped from flight after flight after flight.  I ended up sitting in the airport for over 12 hours.  My hope of returning home was very dismal.  Finally, after getting bumped from the next to the last flight, I decided to pray.  I told God, “Let me tell You something.  I’m not going in that bathroom and get on that nasty floor; I’m not going to get on my knees at this seat; I’m going to sit my Black behind here and this is what I know.  I’m going home and I’m going home tonight!  Amen!”  I kicked back, put my feet up on my luggage and proceeded to continue reading my book.  Then it hit me!  I sprang up from a slouched position in my seat and said, “Oh my God!  It’s Texas!  Texas is my yellow rose!  The Yellow Rose of Texas!  You’re bringing me to Texas! Did anybody hear that?  Oh my God, You’re bringing me to Texas!”  My nerves were shot!  Then I was like, “Lord, why did it take You all day to tell me that?”  He said, “You weren’t ready to hear it until now.”  Wow…that’s the kind of God I serve!  He didn’t just stop blessing in that instance because with that revelation came the announcement of my name for a seat on the last flight out for the night.

I boarded that flight and come the Tuesday morning after Memorial Day, I was contacted by the consultant the KIPP school in Austin, Texas hired to help with the job search.  By Thursday of that week, I had a phone interview, and not 3 minutes after the interview, I received a call back inviting me to fly out for an in-person interview.  I came; I saw; I conquered!  While sitting in a restaurant for a meal, I inquired of God, “Why Austin, Lord?”  He said, “It would be too easy to go back to the places you’ve already been.”  

So, within three weeks of that interview, I found myself relocated to Austin, Texas.  I haven’t always known my purpose for being here, but I know I’m supposed to be here.  When I stop and think about the goodness of Jesus and all He’s done for me, my soul does cry out!  Everyday is a new beginning….a yellow rose promise for me and I’m so thankful that God did not forget about me.  I can’t tell you I haven’t had struggles because I have, but I can tell you that God is faithful and He doesn’t leave anything unfinished.  Whatever He says He’s going to do, He will do!  My “yellow rose” promise has not come in the form of a husband, but in the form of firsts experiences, great friends, restoration, and peace.  

I know!  I know!  I know!  This is a necessary evil, but can’t we just put them down for one minute; an hour; half a day; an entire day?  We have become so desensitized to etiquette and just common courtesies.  It’s bad enough I’m asking teens to take their phone calls outside the library, but why do I have ask grown ass people to get off their phone in a library?  IT’S THE FREAKING LIBRARY, PEOPLE!  Really?  I remember when I got my first cell phone.  Back then it was called a “mobile” phone.  Back then would have been in like 1993 for me.  I don’t care about technology.  I care about convenience it can provide, but I certainly don’t have to have the latest, hottest, newest anything.  I DON’T CARE as long as it works.  It took me forever to get a DVD player.  What did I need it for?  I was very content with my VHS player.  But then some genius decided to start making videodisc.  What the heck was I supposed to do with all those VHS tapes?  Then, as if the good old videodisc wasn’t good enough, we had to get the BluRay disc which I still don’t own because that would mean I need to buy a BluRay DVD player and I wasn’t trying to upgrade anything.  Hell, I own maybe 75 DVDs.  I’m not getting rid of them even if I have to watch them on the computer.  

Sorry…that was a tangent moment.  My bad.  Okay…back to the phones.  I purchased my first one from Alltel Mobile.  Who remembers Alltel?  It was a big bulky bag and you had to plug it into the cigarette lighter in the car.  Wireless didn’t even exist..not the way we experience it now!  I felt like a soldier in the field, in the midst of battle, trying to radio for help.  After about a year with that, I cancelled the plan and did not have another phone until about…..wait.  I can’t even remember.  Maybe it was late 90s or maybe not until the 2000-something.  That’s how important it was to me.  I do remember getting a Cricket phone/service around 2003 or 2004.  I am very frugal and hate to spend money on things that don’t necessarily matter to me.  The Cricket phone was cheap and that was the first time I heard of the Kyocera brand of phone.  Plus, Cricket had the flat rate phone plan, and I truly had a flip phone.  I didn’t even know what texting was until about 2004 when this guy I liked sent me a text. I was like, “WTH was that!”  It took me a minute to figure out how to retrieve it. Little did I know that I was paying for those incoming and outgoing text messages.  

So over time, I’ve come around.  I can’t tell you how many phones I’ve had and I take care of them!  They are too expensive to treat any kind of way and since I don’t have anyone replacing it for me, I know it’s going to last.  

Here’s my beef about cell phones:  the cost of the phone; the cost of the phone plan; the cheap hardware; the short length of battery life; and lack of cell phone etiquette.  The price of the cell phone is ridiculous!  Do these service providers really think I’m going to pay $700 for a phone? Now they’ve tried to take away our choice to have a 2-year contract and buy the phone for a lot less.  They’re trying to force us into having “leases.”  Really?  Who wants to  lease a doggone cell phone or pay as you go?  They seem to have the upper hand (or do they?). Either way, I need a phone because I refuse to pay for a cell phone AND a landline at the same time.  The cell phone plans (I don’t care who the provider of service is) are CRAZY!  I pay almost $100 for my plan and the leasing of the phone I got suckered into.  My first smartphone was an HTC.  I had had a flip phone forever and kept saying to self, “I don’t need no stinking smartphone!”  Well, I got that HTC and realized I could no longer live without a smartphone.  The battery kept dying on the phone within the first 6 months and it wasn’t because I had not charged it.  Sprint, who was my provider at the time, was worthless and would not honor the agreement or try to fix the phone.  Finally, I contacted HTC directly and guess what?  They sent me a brand new battery for the phone and I had no more issues.  The next smartphone I got was a Samsung Galaxy S3.  Still with Sprint, I didn’t think there was anything spectacular about the phone, and I did like it better than the HTC.  Now onto smartphone #3.  After over 2 years with the S3, I upgraded to a Galaxy Note 4.  Not only did I upgrade the phone, but I left Sprint and found myself with AT&T.  I can’t say I’m crazy about them, BUT I was sick of calls being dropped with Sprint.  I do think the Galaxy is a well made phone in terms of hardware, but I’ve been wanting to switch to an iPhone and I keep asking myself, “Why do you need an iPhone?”  I see lots of cracked screens on iPhones, but please take into consideration that the users of those phone are mostly teens who have no regard for their parents’ finances since they’re the ones who buy those new phones.  All that to say my biggest peeve with the cell phone is desensitization to real people, real conversations, real manners, and real interactions. Students come to the desk all the time and have their earbuds in, music blasting and simply hand me their ID card.  While I know what they want, I look at the picture and say, “Nice pic.”  They’re like, “Oh, computer.”  My response is, “Would you like to put that in the form of a question with perhaps a please or thank you tacked on the end?”  Student responds, “Sorry.  May I have a computer, please?”  Abso-freaking-lutely!  

All I’m saying is people who can’t tear themselves from their cell phones need to be more aware of other people and their surroundings.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been walking down a hallway at the school and had a student run into me, even as I’m attempting to veer to the right, out of harm’s way, they veer with me to their left because they are not paying attention.  Finally I just stop moving and wait for the collision.  They look up as if it were my fault they weren’t watching where they were going.   Boy, bye!

It’s the day after Thanksgiving and I’m sitting the Volkswagen dealership.  I’m observing all the people around me on their devices.  I see laptops, eReaders, and cell phones.  While I sit here with my phone on vibrate, so I don’t disturb anyone, I’m typing from my Chromebook and listening to Pandora.  Of course I have my earbuds in!  Duh!  Now to my right is an elderly gentlemen who is watching some sort of video on his phone with NO earbuds!  Seriously? As if that wasn’t enough, he just made a phone call, and must be hard of hearing because I can still his his conversation even with my earbuds in.  Then to my left, there is a middle aged woman who is watching a movie on an iPad mini with NO earbuds.  WTH!  Really, people?  

We are so desensitized to our surroundings because of these darn devices.  I don’t want to hear your conversation.  Hell,  I don’t want to hear the video you’re listening to, especially since I’m not watching it!  I certainly don’t want to run into you because you’re not watching where you’re going.  Would it be too much trouble to ask you to turn them off and turn on to people?  Yeah, probably, but could you just try to be more aware?

A.Redbone

I am speechless, still, even after almost 4 full days have passed since the election results.  I don’t know what to think about this country or the people I thought I knew.  As a Black woman, I can only share how I feel.  From the beginning of this election 2016 season, I have thought it unnecessary to spew hate filled propaganda. I still cringe at the displays of hostility towards Blacks, gays, women, Muslims, Hispanics, and other minorities.  In all honesty, I’m more disappointed in the statements of “friends” who profess Christianity, and don’t question the tactics used by Trump.  Even if we disagree, there is a way to do it that is respectful and peaceful.  Of course, I’ve had to check some people and honestly, I don’t really care if you speak to me again.  I’ve unfollowed some folks on FaceBook.  Consider yourself lucky that you’ve been removed.  I’m trying to rise above your backwards thinking.  Last time I checked, right is right and wrong is wrong.  Sometimes we have to stand up to the wrong.  I do not agree with the manner which Trump ran his campaign or the bullyish and brutish tactics he used. It was as though he planned and executed a hostile takeover.  I pledge allegiance to the Un-United States of America. We are more divided than ever before.  It’s “us” against “them.”  I look at my white counterparts with suspicion and distrust.  I wonder (and always will) if they supported him; if they believe his ideals; if they really feel that way about me.   I know none of this is rational, but my mind is all over the place right now.  

In my shock and disappointment, it has been a great struggle to maintain my own decency and composure, while holding my head up and silently grieving for this country and the backwards mindset of many people.  This campaign was never about policy, domestic or foreign.  It was about the fact that we’ve had a Black man in the White House for the last 8 years; that working class white America thought they lost something; that America was somehow tainted.  I’ve had to disconnect from Facebook for a while since the supporters of the President-Elect are saying how “we” aren’t even giving him a chance.  Well, if memory serves me correct, those same voices did not (and still don’t) give President Obama a chance during his 2-term appointment.  So, I do not give a rat’s ass about those feeling you’re having.  Our democracy worked the way it should even if Trump used fear and ignorance to sway right-wing conservatives, rural America, working class, hate groups, etc., who have resisted and fought every advance for this country President Obama tried to make.

That’s how I feel about it and I’m moving on because at the end of the day, Donald Trump doesn’t have a heaven or hell to put me in.  I serve the One, True King:  Jesus the Christ.  He is the author and finisher of my faith.  My hope and trust are in Him.  Even if the Trump doesn’t fulfill one promise he made, I have the assurance that God doesn’t lie as man does.  I have the assurance that He will do just what He said He will.  I have that assurance that presidents will come and go, but God is always faithful, always here, always and forever My King and Lord!  

When the Holy Spirit dropped the title on me for this post, I began to think about what that word, “trump,” means. It’s a little bit ironic, but in any event I thought it meant to have victory over or to defeat.  According to the Urban Dictionary, it means, “to have superior power over; to surpass or outdo.”  However, I do believe I like the definition at Vocabulary.com the best.  It states, “To trump is to outrank or defeat someone or something, often in a highly public way.” The title of this post also led me to think about the positions in this way.  Again, I deferred to Vocabulary.com.  When I looked up the word “president,” it is defined as “the chief executive of a republic” or “an executive officer of a firm or corporation” or “the officer who presides at meetings of an organization.”  Think about that for a minute.  

Done marinating on that?  Now marinate on this.  A King, on the other hand and according, again, to Vocabulary.com, rules until death.  Do you see where I’m going?  Not yet?  Okay, so what I’m saying is that Jesus is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.  He reigns over a kingdom and that would be the kingdom of man, greater than any republic or CEO of any company.  Jesus came and died for us that we would have life and have it more abundantly.  Who, but a King, has that kind of power?  His dying on that cross meant that He lives forever, which means that He is my King forever.  By dying on that cross, He inherited an eternal throne that man can’t touch. In John 18, Jesus has been brought before Pilate and questioned.  To paraphrase, Pilate is basically saying, “These people want to kill you and I really can’t see that you’ve done anything.  They tell me you declare yourself to be King of the Jews. So what have you done to make these people so mad that they want you dead?”  Jesus was real smooth.  Sometimes you can feel dumb in His presence and He hasn’t done anything except ask a few questions.  So, He asked Pilate if his opinion was his own or had people talked about Him.  He went on to say this in verse 36 of John 18 (The Message), “My kingdom,” said Jesus, “doesn’t consist of what you see around you. If it did, my followers would fight so that I wouldn’t be handed over to the Jews. But I’m not that kind of king, not the world’s kind of king.” So Pilate comes back, “So you are a king?”  Jesus responded like this is verse 37,  “You tell me. Because I am King, I was born and entered the world so that I could witness to the truth. Everyone who cares for truth, who has any feeling for the truth, recognizes my voice.”

With that being said and that reassurance, I know who I serve and to whom I belong.  If you are a believer, what should you fear?  I do not have the time nor the energy to be walking around and living a stalled existence because of fear.  Who is man, or Trump for that matter, that I should be afraid?  When the World Trade Center was attacked on 9/11, everyone became afraid to fly.  I’ll bet you my happy behind was on an airplane within 6 months.  Some of you may be looking at Trump as a Goliath, albeit, an untempered Goliath.  Nonetheless, God allowed David to defeat the giant. That right there, along with the great battles the Lord allowed His people to win, should be enough to give you the utmost confidence in Our Lord.  The only way to defeat a giant (or bully) is to stand up to him.  It doesn’t mean there has to be physical violence.  Fight back with your mind, with knowledge, with proactivism.  God will do the rest.  My destiny will not be left in the hands of Donald Trump, his constituents, republicans, democrats, or anyone else.  My destiny is what God says it is.  The King trumps the President!

Shady children are possibly the result of a shady environment, and dare I say the result of shady parenting.  I work at a community college library part-time.  Slim Shady-Daddy came in the library and tried to get over on the “system.”  Really?  What the hell is wrong with people?  If we don’t live a life of integrity, do you not think your children will inherit that same skill set or lack thereof?  Disclaimer:  This does not apply to all parents or parenting styles.  I am not one nor can I relate.  I can just tell you what I observe.  Some people have this “get over” mentality.  Always looking for a shortcut or a quick fix.  So this man of about 50+ years came into the library and asked for a study room.  Study rooms at the community college are for ENROLLED students (paying tuition, NOT faculty or the general public)!  I asked him how many will be in the study room and he said, “Two.”  I followed protocol and asked for his student ID, which he willingly provided.  In the meantime, I had another group of students ask for a study room.  I had no vacancies…there was no room at the library.  Shortly thereafter, Slim Shady-Daddy came up to the reference desk and asked how he could print something out.  “Ding-Ding-Ding” went the bells in my head!   An ENROLLED student would have a college login ID and password.  I said to Slim Shady-Daddy, “Sir, if you’re enrolled, your college login and password will work on any campus computer.”  Then it all comes out.  “Oh (heh, heh, heh), I’m not enrolled this semester.”  My eyebrows raised and to the best of my ability I tried not to give him the “You tried it,” slow, prolonged blink look, but to no avail.  So in my most professional-trying-not-to-make-your-ass-feel-stupid voice I respond, “Sir, some services are limited to enrolled students only.”  Dumb ass responded, “Well, I thought this is a community library.”  The intelligent librarian responded, “Community college and public libraries are not defined the same.  This is not a public library.  The general public may use the our library as a guest and you must complete required paperwork in order to do so.  Also, by signing in, with a valid driver’s license, I am allowed to log you into a computer with a guest login should you request one.”  He continued to play dumb.  No worries.  If that is the example he chose to set for his daughter, who appeared to be in middle school, then so be it.  Now get this!  Initially, I was not aware that the party of two included his middle school aged daughter.  That was the beginning of the deception.  His deception.  I know where it began,  but where does it end?

This is why students at the high school come in the library with that attitude. You need to be honest and kind to people in a service industry.  Heck, just be kind…PERIOD!   No one owes you anything.  I am here to assist and serve, not to give stuff away  or pucker up and kiss your behind!  You may be a prima donna or head honcho at home, but not at school, or other public places. My world does not revolve around you.  There is something called integrity, a lost art that our society has forgotten.  It is not a learned behavior.  It is taught.  Now,  I will say that some parents do some serious, on point parenting, but to no avail when they have a child who just refuses to apply the values that were instilled in them.  

I’m not a shady person.  First of all, it’s not in my genetic makeup.  Secondly, the Holy Spirit will not allow me to lie.  I’ve never  been able to do it,and I am easily convicted when I do anything wrong.  Lastly, my mother worked too hard to provide a good life for my sister and I.  She is one of the few people I’ve ever met who has truly walked her talk.   Her honesty and integrity caused her to struggle in providing for us.  In reporting her actual finances, it caused our receipt of public assistance to be drastically cut, while young teen mothers reaped benefits from the local Department of Social Services with WIC and other assisted programs.  In any event, in doing so, she showed me the kind of person I want to be. I don’t try to get over on people.  I choose to  live with the consequences regardless of what they will be, even if it means going without.  Sometimes, if you’re honest, the consequences may not be as bad  just because you demonstrated some integrity.

Again, my disclaimer is:  I. Am. Not. A. Parent.  I can only tell you what I observe.  I see it in situations with parents like Slim Shady-Daddy, and I see it in the students that work with daily.  Lately, I’ve gotten to the place where I have to call them out on their lack of integrity.  It is, after all, part of my responsibility to help cultivate productive members of society…our future leaders of America.

 

 

 

If I had a nickel for every time someone had a discussion with me about some Black trend or aspect of Black culture, I’d be a wealthy woman. I can’t tell you how many times White and Hispanic people, even Middle Easterners, have asked me something about being Black, i.e., hair, skin, eye color, big booty, mood, attitude, love, etc. I live with being Black every single day. There were actually times that I wished I was white. I thought if I were, my life would have been easier. If I had straight, silky hair, my life would have been easier. The life lesson I’ve learned up to this point is that life is what I make it. My destiny and the outcomes are up to me. Race has nothing to do with it.

In any event, I believe that we are the most misunderstood and feared race of people who walk the earth. I can not express who I am without being labeled “militant” or the “angry Black woman” because I tend to be extremely verbose, especially in the workplace. I can not be my happy ass self because the expectation is that I can not be happier than your white-self if your home life is falling apart. I do not understand how that is my responsibility. I simply want to come to work, build relationships with students and enjoy my job! I am not here to be your friend. We don’t even have to like each other, but one thing is for certain and that is that I will respect you as long as you respect me. I am a professional above all else and I do not need you lurking around a corner to hear what I’m saying to another co-worker because you feel excluded. I do not need you butting into a conversation because you can not stand not knowing what I’m talking about. My reality is that I am not going to share all of my business with you. You may not even be invited into my circle of close friends. So, do not take it personal when I tell you to mind your own damn business and leave me the hell alone! Sometimes I just want to be the heathen and not give a damn about people. I’m not built that way, but I am only going to take so much of the crap. Keep on doing the crap you do, because I don’t give a shit and if the truth be told, you are the VERY reason I write so that I do not have to retire from a career that I love!

You don’t know anything about my “blackness.” So please stop pretending to care or give a damn about it. I don’t give a damn about your whiteness. I already know your ass is “Coo-Coo for Coco-Puffs!” Your craziness is not going to become my craziness.

I have a few non-Black acquaintances  who have said, “I wish my hair would do that.” I even had one white friend stupidly say, “I wish I could walk in your shoes for a day.” Of course you can imagine the stupid look I gave (Mess like this is why I can’t excel in this area). Anyhoo, let me tell you something! If you had to have my hair or walk in my shoes, you wouldn’t make it until 10:00AM. You’d hate it! You wouldn’t know how to deal with the brillo-ness or dryness of my hair. You couldn’t stand the texture or smell of the hair grease that I sometimes have to apply to hair and scalp. God forbid if you were Black for a few hours. You’d be trying to pull that flesh right from your bones, because you’d always be identified by “that Black woman with the light skin…dark skin…big ass..big nose…big lips…” My plight is my plight. Don’t think for one moment that by walking in my shoes you can ever begin to know my daily plight. You can fake it all you want to, but you will not make it.

It never fails. Each morning I wake up, I am reminded that I am Black. I look in the mirror and the reflection peering back at me is that of my own: light complexioned skin and nappy dreads. When I turn on the TV and watch the news, I am reminded that I am Black. A violent crime has been committed by or against a young black man or black woman. In some cases, that person may be the perpetrator and in some cases, the victim. Shot down senselessly by the people we are supposed to trust, the Po-Po, or that self-appointed citizen vigilante who has shot that black man, boy, woman, or girl who looked like he/she was reaching for a gun or knife. When in actuality, it was nothing. Trayvon Martin. Michael Brown. Eric Garner. Tamir Rice. Aiyana Jones. Yvette Smith. The list goes on and on.

As a little girl, I was reminded daily that I’m Black. Kids don’t see color. Racism is taught in the home. My mother worked at Belk Department Store for over 20 years. When it was still at the downtown location, my auntie would drive down to pick her up. We’d be parked out front and I would always hope we’d get there early enough so I could run across the street to Wilson’s Drug Store and get a strawberry ice cream cone! Back then, a scoop was like two scoops! As, I’m standing there waiting in line, I see a little white girl clinging to her mother’s dress and peeking around her mother at me. I’m sure I was in elementary school and that little girl looked to be no more than 4 or 5 years old. In any event, as I’m standing there waiting, she looks at me and says, “Look at that nigger.” She stated it very matter-of-factly and I was thinking to myself, “What is she talking about?” You see, I didn’t even know what a nigger was. I had not heard my mother use that word, but deep in my soul, I knew it was directed at me. It broke something in me. I never thought I was inferior to white people until that little girl said that to me. Her mother looked straight ahead and pretended not to hear what she said nor did she acknowledge me. I got my ice cream and walked back to the car. I told my auntie what happened. Back then, Black folks didn’t want no trouble, so the canned response was, “Don’t pay her no attention.” The truth was, I did pay her words attention and they did hurt. Don’t ever let anyone tell you words don’t hurt because they do and they stay with you for the rest of your life. Stop lying to yourselves and to your children. Be honest with them about life. Wouldn’t it be better to hear the truth from you than some hate-filled person in the streets?

When I get in my car to drive to work, I am reminded that I am Black. When I pull up beside a car, or it pulls up beside me, and it happens to be a police cruiser, I am reminded that I am Black. I sit there looking straight ahead, with both hands on the steering wheel and wondering if the officer is running my plates because I am Black. Recently, I was in Round Rock, Texas on Gattis School Road. I passed a vehicle because the driver was driving below the speed limit. Upon signaling and passing to the right, I then looked over my left shoulder and checked my side mirror so that I could move back into the left lane, as I needed to make a left turn at the upcoming traffic light. In doing so, the next thing I see are blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I move off to the left shoulder of the road and a Round Rock Police Officer pulls up behind me. I stop my car and keep both my hands on the steering wheel. I let the window down and he says, “Ma’am, I’m Officer Hernandez. May I see your driver’s license? Do you know why I stopped you?” Of course I don’t know why, but I can’t even risk responding with a smart ass crack because he might yank me out of the car and proceed to do a beatdown. When I reply that I do not know why because I was certain I was not speeding. He said, “It’s because you cut that car off when you proceeded to move back into the left lane. The driver had to slam on her brakes. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere? Where are you heading?” Is he shitting me? Really? I am astonished. I say, while trying to remain calm because I’m not allowed to be angry with the police or question them, “Officer, I am a very cautious driver and I looked to see if I had room to move over. That driver had been constantly pumping her brakes, for no reason, when I was riding behind her. So, I passed her.” It was then that I knew he was not on my side; that I had no side; that because I was Black I was not going to “win” this position. I just shut my mouth and let him say whatever he needed to. I guess I tuned out. He finally said, “Ms. Hall, I’m not going to give you a ticket today. I’m only going to issue you a verbal warning. Just be mindful of how you’re passing.” Really? Is he shitting me? He didn’t have anything better to do and because Round Rock is notorious for profiling Blacks, he chose me since the driver of the other car was a white woman. I am always subjected to the carelessness of other drivers: cutting me off, pulling out in front of me, not giving turn signals, etc. I could go on, but guess what? Where are the cops when I need them to right my wrong? Nowhere to be seen! Officer Hernandez obviously needed to usurp his power on that day. I am reminded that I am Black. Thanks for that Officer Hernandez, my fellow minority member of society.

Before I walk into a retail establishment, I am reminded that I am Black. I have to make sure that my hands are not in my pockets and that I have everything I will need out of my purse. My phone. My shopping list. My debit card or cash in my hand so they can see I am intending to make a purchase. I am reminded as the eyes of the white associates fall on me. I have become profiled because of the color of my skin. I want to make sure they see me when I walk in and I try to stay in their view. I am certainly no thief, and Black people aren’t the only people who steal. I recently worked in one of the nation’s largest home improvement stores as a cashier. Guess what? In my eight months there, I only witnessed one Black man stealing an expensive drill and one Black woman attempting to run a con on the store at self checkout, where I happened to be stationed that day. All the other scams were committed by white men and women. Heck, one guy was so bold that he printed up his own product label with UPC code. When it was scanned, the item price rang up as $299 when it was actually $699. Then this other group of white shoppers, were piling all this shit in their basket. They had been in the store for a couple of hours. Now let me tell you that home improvement shopping is to me what Neiman Marcus is to other women. I can stay in there for hours. The thing is that I knew this group (two trashy woman and one trashy man) were together even though they were shopping separately. My intuition spoke and I listened. You see, if a woman is in a home improvement store, she is there on a mission. These people were randomly throwing expensive shit in their basket. When it came time to checkout, I offered to scan the merchandise for them with my trusty little scanner at self-checkout. The female began to act all surprised regarding the prices of the items. I asked her if she still wanted it and she said no. So without letting her handle the merchandise, I moved it out of her reach. Needless to say, this went on for about 15 minutes until finally, my head cashier took her to another register. Still running the same scam, the head cashier was finally able to total out the purchase. It ended up being about $300 and that heffa only had $28 in her pocket. WTF! BUT they were white. Of course white people don’t do anything underhanded. NOT! All people have the potential to do so. Never overestimate someone because of the color of their skin.

I am a professional Black woman with an undergraduate degree in business administration and a master’s degree in library science, but I am reminded daily that I am Black. I have been a librarian for 21 years working in public, university, special and school libraries. It never fails that someone will ask the ridiculous question, “Is there anyone here who can help me?” I look around, bewildered, as if to see who they are looking for. Without giving them my “stupid” look, my canned response is, “This is a library reference desk. Anyone at this desk is professionally trained to help you AND has a master’s degree in library science. Please don’t ask that question again. Now, how may I help you?” They look all stupefied and are left speechless. Insulted, perhaps, but no more insulted than I am. I guess to them, the position looks too “complicated” for a Black person. Maybe I don’t look smart enough or sound smart enough. I know I’m Black, but I don’t speak slang. It doesn’t even sound right coming out of my mouth. You see, I grew up in a single parent home with only a mother. My mother didn’t speak slang and she really didn’t allow us to. We spoke English in our home, and so do a lot of other Black families/homes. I am quite intelligent and never dumb down my conversations for anyone, regardless of how intimidated he/she may feel. However, when I was in high school, I didn’t know that it was okay to be smart and embrace it. I was very shy and usually in the classes I took, I was the only Black. There may have been one or two others in there, but they didn’t really talk to me. It wasn’t until I went to library school that I realized it was okay to be smart; to walk into that; to embrace it. I loved knowledge! I still do and I refuse to let anyone challenge me in such a way that they are trying to use their knowledge to make me feel stupid or inferior. That would be me giving you too much power and you do not have that kind of power over me.

Whenever someone mentions that they have a great relationship with their father, I am reminded that I am Black. You may be saying this is not applicable to only Blacks but for me, I always wrestled with (and still do) those feelings. You see, I have Black friends whose fathers were very present. I always felt unloved and unwanted by mine. It’s hard to even refer to him as “my dad” or “my father.” You see, God is the only Father I’ve ever known. This is in no way an opportunity to bash the person who contributed to my being. It’s just merely my truth. In fact, there seems to be an epidemic of absentee fathers in our homes and in the lives of our children. Once I was talking to my mother about my feelings and she said she never knew how much that hurt me. I guess she thought her provision and love were…should have been enough. For a girl, that image of that father shapes how she sees all men in her life, constantly looking for that provider; that rescuer; that protector. Even in my deepest relational hurts, the contributor didn’t do that for me. The most important relationship a girl will have with a man is the one she has with her father. How he loves her and chooses to be a part of her life will forever affect her beliefs about love, men, and herself. For a long time, I didn’t even believe Black men could love. I think all of us just do the best we can with what we have. All of us are a little bit damaged and a little bit jaded. After many years of pursuing a relationship with my contributor, I have come to the conclusion that it is a dead-end. For many years, I wrestled with buying Father’s Day cards and birthday cards. I would stand in front of the greeting cards, toiling over the right card. I could not buy a card that said, “dad” or “father” or “daddy.” I didn’t know who that person was. So, it was easier to purchase a light-hearted funny card. It was safer. Then once I decided I was over my “daddy’s little girl issues” (You do know you never get over them, right?), I stopped chasing him. I was done. I was over it. He’s never worked to know me, and I’m just over the pursuit.

When I strongly disagree with a co-worker (who happens to be a white woman), I am reminded again that I am Black. When I reprimand an employee (who happens to be white) because she undermined my authority and I call her on it, I am reminded that I am Black. I am labeled the “angry Black woman” because I don’t have time to deal with her passive-aggressive bullshit and insecurities because I might just know a little more than YOU do, but YOU are determined to prove me wrong and make me look bad, while shutting down the lines of communication with me. Sneaky. Underhanded. Devil. If I look at you like what you said is absolutely crazy, then I’m intimidating you? Well, guess what? That’s your shit….not mine! I will not own it nor will I stop being who I am. Is this all white women? No! I know great women who are very secure with themselves. I tend to find this with women who have no control over their personal lives or they have relational issues with their spouses and children. Sometimes I look at women I work with and can only imagine what they’re like at home. D I F F I C U L T! Better yet, C R A Z Y! Well, I have enough crazy of my own, I won’t be taking on yours, too!

On April 18, 2015, I made the BIG CHOP! I decided to separate myself from my dreadlocks after a seven-year relationship. I am reminded daily, that I am Black. I know the white folks are looking at the loss of dreads and gain of an afro…wondering if I’m going to be the “angry Black woman” with militant and radical ideas and voice. Or will I be the “toned down” Black woman (if there is such a being) who will keep the peace at all cost to herself and her very existence. Why can’t I just be who I am and not my hair? How come my hair just can’t be an expression of who I am becoming? Why can’t my hair just be about me looking cute? It is their issue not mine. They equate my hair to my personality. If it has a look of wildness on a particular day, then my attitude for the day can be misconstrued as “wild” and “aggressive. I love it when white women declare that I am aggressive simply because I have a voice and I choose not to hide what I am thinking and feeling. I don’t want to communicate in any other way than I have. I don’t want to be less of a threat to you because I sugar-coated my words to make you feel less intimidated. The truth of the matter is I AM a threat to you! I am an intellectual, spiritual and emotional threat to you and all your insecurities. I’m sick of working with the white woman who hides behind a power she doesn’t even have while all along trying to slap a bridle on me and get me to bow down to her way of life. I meant what I said and I said what I meant. I didn’t stutter nor did I hesitate. I said it and I meant it.

When I get passed up for that job promotion, I am reminded that I am Black. I know fully well that I have the experience and the qualifications for the job, but because my skin isn’t light enough and my afro is a little too ethnic, I’m reminded, but wait! The human resources department hasn’t met me so they don’t know what I look like, but because I believe in Affirmative Action, I complete the AA questionnaire. Does this tip them off? Maybe. Maybe not. The competition comes to me for help with her presentation for her interview for the job I applied for, but she needs help because she’s never had to do an interview like this and her only experience for a director position is elementary school. Never mind that I’ve been a librarian 21 years and have worked in academic, public, special and school libraries. Unfortunately, Dr. King, the day has not arrived in which we “are not judged by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character.” I’m not light enough and just a little too ethnic looking. Another reminder that I am Black.

When I want to have a conversation about the injustices and plight of Black people, I have to discuss it in hushed whispers so my white counterparts don’t think we’re “plotting” against them, to “overthrow” the government, the schools, our jobs. When the truth is I just want to be able to express my “blackness” in a way that doesn’t offend or threaten you. When two or three Blacks are gathered, we must disperse because the suspicious gazes fall upon us. “Watch those niggers! They’re up to no good!” What about the white niggers or the Hispanic niggers or the Asian niggers or other ethnic niggers?

EVERY DAY! I am reminded. I. Am. Black.