A different terrain

In the evening of June 17 2015, the devil walked into a church and killed nine people as they went about their business of bible study.   As I read the news of the shooting deaths my mind started to bleed.  I could not discuss or speak at length about the pain and sadness I was feeling so acutely.  It was akin to someone reaching inside of my chest and stripping my heart out.  It was an ache so intense, one I could not describe.

The victims ranged in age from 26-87 and were described as active members of Emanuele AME church one of the oldest African American churches in the South.  Yes the victims were all black.  They were sons, mothers, husbands, friends and grandmas.  Their only crime according to the devil was being born in black skin. When the devil came to church, he came with a mission.  The devil was a 21 year old white man alledgedly with a penchant for hating black skin.  According to all accounts he entered the church and sat in bible study for an hour before standing to open fire and reloading 5 times.  Now in my mind I can imagine the church members must have welcomed him with open arms.  I wondered if they were suspicious of the young white man sitting amongst their ranks.  I think of my own church of childhood, a southern black church in a tourist town. Had a stranger come to join bible study on a random evening there would have been suspicion, especially a white stranger.  Of course he would have been welcomed in love and friendship as that is what true Christians do but the curiosity would have been present.  I wondered if the devil opened his bible or if he made eye contact before he unloaded his weapon.  While he sat for an hour, did he feel anything other than hatred for any of the victims?  Some will talk about his mental state and argue his mental capability at the time of the crime.  Others will say he was not insane as insane people don’t carry out a plan with such intricate details over months. Many will be angry. All of us will grieve.

For centuries, the church has been a source of refuge and comfort for the black community. It has been a pillar and source of strength to a race that has labored long and hard to gain equal footing in an often hate filled environment. Black people have a long and deep love affair with the Lord. The act of the killing is hurtful but to come into a place where for so long African Americans have found solace makes it even more heinous. No one expects to be murdered in church. This hurts but it not only hurts me, it hurts us all. It hurts and tears at the core of our being as humans. No matter our race, color, religion or other beliefs it has damaged us all. Evil is with us and breathes our air but it will never win and will never steal our collective humanity. I still believe we have that.

I have two friends who are nearing death.  I stand in awe of their tremendous courage and positive outlook.  They understand that death comes to us all and realize fear is a waste of time.  I have always feared death as many of us do.  I think it is the unknown that scares us.  We have no idea what it feels like to die.  We wonder “is it like sleeping”?  It is my understanding when death comes, the soul knows and is ready for the next journey. Perhaps the soul leaves the body at the time of death no matter the cause. We have all read stories of the soul being present as its own funeral and watching as loved ones grieve.  As a hospice nurse, I have had the pleasure of being with others as they have made that final transition.  What is a normal process can become very frightening for family as they try to hold their loved ones in the here and now.  I have witnessed the moments when the dying are departing.  Their mind and eyes are clearly heading somewhere else.  I do not know why I chose to do hospice work.  One would think a fear of death would preclude that occupation.  Maybe when we stare down what scares us, the fear lessens.  One can only hope.

Some of us handle our impending deaths and the deaths of others with great imagination, creativity and the understanding of its normality.  I had lunch with a friend whose mother had recently died.  She talked of being with her mother at the moment of death. She spoke of the in depth conversations they had prior to the event.  They had made closure.  My friend talked of the ritual of oiling and dressing her mother’s body and how much joy she felt in the process.  She was ready to let go and felt a sense of relief at how well her mother had died.  As she spoke, I had a difficult time with how matter of fact it all was.  I expected tears or at least a cracking voice.  My friend had made her peace with it all.

It made me sad when I read my friend’s writings of his impending death.  It made me sad because he knows his death is imminent and his words of wisdom touched me deeply.  He tells us all to touch the ones we love and to treasure every moment as it all goes so quickly. I am blessed to have friends and loved ones but one day they too will die as will I.  One day if I outlive my parents, I will be an “orphan.”  I do not know what will happen to me when that happens and it is something I loathe to think about.  We all survive loss.  As much as it hurts, we somehow survive.  I give thanks to my friends as they face their fate with such courage and dignity.   They remind us to cherish and value what we have and where we are for one day we will all be someplace else.

As I sit here in a posh Los Angeles restaurant having just consumed 23 courses, my mind naturally thinks about the act of eating. I regress back to my early years when eating was seen as a form of torture. I hated to eat and the only thing I found in any way appetizing was covered in chocolate or encased in sugar. I think about those frequent trips to North Carolina,the land of my birth where eating every thing on your plate was the ultimate goal and one was labeled a “good girl” once that had been accomplished. I too was given the speech about all the hungry children in Africa that would give anything to be able to eat my food. At that time, I wanted them to eat it too. I got to the point where I developed a technique of scraping food from my plate when no one was looking to hide it in a napkin waiting in my lap or merely rake it from the plate to hide it under the plate rim. Food to me had become my prison and one I wanted to escape. My younger sister had become resistand and adamant about her eating behaviors. When faced with a threat “unless you eat those peas, you will not leave the table,” she chose to go to sleep at the table while my brother and I were excused for play. She hates peas this day. For some of us the sight, smell and texture play a part in what we eat and what we enjoy eating.

As I sit here in this restaurant, I am served a small piece of crab floating on a foamy liquid. It taste good and limey. I eat the piece of crab but I cannot bring myself to drink the foamy liquid. Having worked in hospitals in my last life, it reminds me of something I prefer not to drink. I am repulsed by its appearance as my hubby comments on how good it taste. I have issues when the waiter brings me pork cheeks. It too taste good but the thought of eating something’s cheeks just does not sit well and makes it difficult to swallow. I have learned throughout the years that the thing I am eating has to be just right in order to enjoy. It must be the right color, texture, temperature, smell. This day and age, I love to eat but I am still a picky eater.

When the thin white woman in the yellow dress asked me for another glass of wine, I thought I had not heard correctly, so I turned to her “excuse me” I said.  She held out her empty glass “I will have another glass of white wine please.”   As I felt my ire rising, my glare probably gave her the hint that I was not working but attending the same party as a guest.  I recently heard a similar story recounted of a black man standing in line at a dinner when a white woman behind him asked if there was more asparagus in the back.  Many are making assumptions that are not only ignorant but also inaccurate.

Everyday assumptions are made solely based on appearance, behavior or our own ingrained biases.   We have been given images  of blacks serving as maids, cooks, nannies and in the present day there are those that cannot see beyond and continue to believe what they have been fed.  Society judges all.  There is no escape no matter our race, sex, age, sexual orientation there is an assumption made about you.

I recently had a conversation with a friend regarding the appearance of three African American women.  She had seen the photo of these women and had assumed they were of a lower income bracket.  I thought it fascinating that from looking at only their manner of dress and their faces, she was able to make the assumption.  The women were not real they were pieces of art.  They were dressed in clothing one would wear in the privacy of their home amongst friends.  One of the women wore pink hair curlers that many of us wear every day.  I wondered had these women been white, would that same assumption had been made.  Did their skin color help make that assumption?

We all have been guilty of assuming based on our mental conditioning. It takes the ability to open a mind and an eye to look beyond what we think we see and know. I once had a friend who often said assume makes an ass of u an me.

It is time.  It is time to take the stage, to claim our space.  It is time to be big, to think big. Instead of our shoulds, it is time to start living our coulds.  So many times we shrink from ourselves, our possibilities.  We live according to someone else’s wishes.  In other words, we are living someone else’s lives.  It is easy to do, as the rules have already been written and the road has already been traveled.  Sticking to the tried and true can eliminate the “what ifs.”  From the time we are born, it benefits society if we follow that road, if we are easy to mold.  We are told either conciously or unconciously how we are to act, to dress, to perform.  We are told what we are to wear, which jobs we are  to aspire.  We are told to retire at 65 and collect our pension.  We are given labels telling us we are good, responsible citizens.  If we balk at the conventionality of it all or stray from the path, we are also given labels but this time we are called selfish, immature or rebellious.  We are called foolish or unrealistic for having the courage to follow our dreams.  Peer pressure is a mighty powerful force and one that often keeps folks walking the straight and narrow.    Many forget it is the dreamers and the risk takers that make our world exciting and new.  It is because of so many who have dared.  Where would we be without Amelia Earhart or Jonas Salk or the likes of BB King?  We are on this planet to be big.  To be the best self we can be. We are here to explore, to try and to fail.  Often we stay stuck out of fear of being ridiculed. “What if we fail,  won’t others laugh?”  Crabs in a pot will always try to pull the one trying to escape back to where they belong.  So today friends, risk to be big.  There is only one you and in all likelihood there will never be another.

Yesterday we celebrated mothers. There were tributes, cards, flowers, dinners, you name it there it was. I know how big many mothers smiled as I saw with my own mother. I was with my mother just 3 weeks ago flying in from New Mexico to her home in Virginia, I felt I needed to be with her on this day. I have always been a firm believer that mother’s day is every day. I balked and groaned about the commercialization of the day and raised my fist to those who subliminally forced us to march in mass buying cards and flowers. I realized that is me and my belief. For some, this is the one day they take a moment to think of mom. Whether with relationships fragmented or non existent, this day brings a memory or thought.

I have been blessed by the mother gods. Over the years My mother and I have developed a relationship based on love and respect. Of course it has not been easy as throughout my young years there were moments when I could have put a knapsack on my back and run off to places unknown. Growing into a teenager, our habits differed. My mother disliked clutter and had the habit of emptying my dresser drawers onto my bed knowing that I would need to reorganize. “When you have a house of your own, you can keep whatever you want in the drawers but in this house I do not want things living in there.” She had a point,I felt violated but it was her house and she was going to know everything that went on there. This is a woman who knew my movements. She kept her finger on the pulse of where I was and who I was with often demanding to call the parents of my friends whose parties I wanted to attend. At the time, I could not imagine having to check with the parents, I was 16 years old and actually thought I was grown. I did not go to that party and learned later that my friends parents were not there and the police had been called. Mom knew better than I. I am glad that my mom cared and I am glad she was strict. She asks me now if I think she was too strict. She often tells me that parents do what they think is right and maybe she would have done some things differently. Hind sight is 20/20. I tell her she raised me with love and I thrived. I think I came out pretty good.

It has always been hard for me to accept criticism.  I feel I need to know everything and do everything right.  Obviously that is not a very beneficial way to see and live in the world.  For whatever reason, perfection has sometimes stalked me like a horseless headman.  It is hard for me to admit that in all likelihood, there are some things I am just going to get wrong.  Afterall, I am human and humans make mistakes.  Perhaps it has something to do with my Virgo nature.  From the astrological books I have read, virgos tend to be perfectionist but they also happen to be extremely neat of which I am not.   Perhaps it stems from being raised by parents who were teachers and expected the best of their students and of their children.  Whatever the case, I dislike being subperfect.  With that being said, I also realize it is a trait that will hinder my explorative growth.  If one fears mistakes, the safest course of action is to stay home and do nothing but how much fun would that be?  Since I hate boredom more than mistakes, to stay home would not be an option besides plenty of mistakes can be made in the comfort of one’s own home but no one would see.

Putting myself on stage for the world to see is a scary prospect and one that I have taken on as of late. Fool that I am I enrolled myself in a class for solo performance.  Yep, that means spilling my guts on a weekly basis to a room full of folks who seem to enjoy the vulnerability of it all.  Sometimes I get it right but sometimes I fail and fail miserably. Throughout this process, I have come to realize there are worse fates that can befall me than making mistakes and looking like a fool.  Being eaten alive by a python comes to mind. Fear of failure is something many of us have in common.  It can paralyze us and steal the moments of what could have been.  Just think, if only we had been brave enough to take a risk and plunge into the unknown who knows what might have happened.  Well my friends, I have taken the plunge and I will see whether I sink or swim but at least I got wet.