Renaissance man.

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His eyes were distant, in lands unreachable by planes or trains or automobiles. Years of troubled waters from as early as he could remember made those far away places his refuge. I could tell.

There was weight loss. There were symptoms that fingers had tried to be placed upon but couldn't. So he'd just been living his life, doing the best he could. Until eventually those slippery symptoms crystallized into findings pointing toward a real diagnosis. Perhaps there would soon be answers but those answers weren't the kind people like hearing connected to themselves. His waters would soon be troubled even more.

"We need to admit you to the hospital," I said. "I think that's the best thing. What do you think?"

His response was delayed. Like he was returning from those distant lands to join our conversation again. I could tell I needed to repeat myself.

"There's a lot going on with you. Your blood count is low and your body is weak. It would be easiest to manage this for you in the hospital. We want to admit you to start getting you feeling better."

That time he heard. "Now? This morning?"

"Yes, sir. I'm concerned that with your body so weak and your blood count so low that it would be too much if you went home."

His eyes welled up. No words, just wet eyes. I reached for his hand. He let me.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm afraid."

"Where is your family? Can I call someone to be with you?"

"It's just me. Just me." When he said that, he somehow pulled those tears back just before they fell onto his cheeks. Off his eyes went to those secret places. I squeezed down on his hand to bring him back.

"What can I do to be of support? What would make it easier for you right now?"  This is what I said, and I realize that this was loaded. Lofty, big and full of all the Pollyanna-ness that I have inside of me. Hoping and somehow believing that I could provide something that might make this a little better. Realizing that, from my experiences at Grady, that many times what human beings need isn't as unattainable as I originally thought.

His eye wandered upward then eventually landed upon me like soft raindrops. He thought for a beat before speaking, and then he asked me something that completely took me by surprise. "Do you know of Langston Hughes?"

"Sir?" I asked for clarification. "You mean, the poet Langston Hughes?"

The tiniest hint of a smile began to creep across his face. A twinkle glimmered in his eye for the first time during that encounter. "Yes. The poet Langston Hughes. His words always comfort me. I feel a connection to them. I often recite them. Do you know of his work?"

My heart leaped a little because I do know of his work. I do. I even know some of his poetry by memory and, actually, have felt connected to those words myself. I got lost for a moment, recalling the day I stood on a stage in eighth grade, speaking a piece of Langston Hughes' Harlem Renaissance truth in front of a large auditorium. I still count that experience as one of the most pivotal moments of my life. "Yes, sir. I know his work well. I do."

His eyebrows went skyward. "Is that right, doctor?"

"I'm not even kidding. I was pretty into the Harlem Renaissance movement as a kid. Especially Langston Hughes' poetry. That guy was my go-to biography report subject--for sure." I chuckled at my own confession. Because that was true.

Now he really was smiling. "Wow. . .that's great," he said while sitting a little taller in his chair.  His eyes were dancing so much that I thought he was going to start clapping and squealing in delight. "So tell me. . . do you have a favorite of his poems? You have to have a favorite, Dr. Manning."

"Definitely. It'd have to be 'A dream deferred'," I quickly answered. "Oh yeah! I also love the one that starts with . . .'hold fast to dreams.''"

He tilted his chin upward, closed his eyes and lifted his voice, smooth and sweet like homemade ice cream. "Hold fast to dreams. . .  for if dreams die. . ."

I joined in and we spoke in unison. ". . .life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly. . . .Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go. . . .life is a barren field frozen with snow.'" 

And then just silence.

It was. . . just. . .yeah. I felt my face getting hot and my eyes stinging. This moment, this connection with this human being over a poem I'd learned as a sixth grader was . . . surreal. I wanted to sear it into my mind forever; it felt as dream-like as those words. I needed to break up the emotion so I asked a question. "Which one is your favorite?"

"Aaaah. That's easy. It has to be 'The Negro Speaks of Rivers.'"

I thought for a second and tried to remember it. I knew it was a longer one, one that seemed deeper than my middle school mind could get around back then so I never learned it. But now I was older so I was ready. "I don't remember that one very well. Will you . . .recite it to me?"

I kept my eyes on his after asking and then just waited. Waited to see what he'd do next.

And you know what? He recited it. He did. Cleared his throat and then eloquently, beautifully, perfectly he did.

Yeah.

So after that, he got admitted to the hospital. And, I think, he was just a little less scared. Or at least had found solace in the words of Langston Hughes. In fact, I think we both did.

Yes. His eyes were distant, in lands unreachable by planes or trains or automobiles.  Now I know where he was during those mental journeys. He was thinking of rivers--ancient, dusky rivers and, perhaps, all that had been overcome by those who stood at their banks. Today I imagined him among them. . .feeling those cool waters lapping at his feet and embracing the life that rivers bring.

***

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world
and older than the flow of human blood in human veins

My soul has grown deep like the rivers

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it
I heard the singing of the Mississippi
when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans,
and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset

I've known rivers
ancient, dusky rivers

My soul has grown deep like the rivers

~ Langston Hughes

***
Happy Friday, y'all. Those who work here know that this, too, is Grady. The real, beloved piece of Grady that we are so fortunate to know and love--and that now you are, too.

 For my patient--a little piece of the Harlem renaissance--the works of the poet Langston Hughes. 

Always loved this one. . . .


Mos Def pays homage to one of the original "def poets" at Def Poetry Jam.. . .


And a little lesson on the Harlem Renaissance. . .


Think I might teach my boys to recite a little Langston Hughes. Yeah, I think I will.

Special.

Kindergarten me

"Gonna use my arms
Gonna use my legs
Gonna use my style
Gonna use my sidestep
Gonna use my fingers
Gonna use my, my, my imagination

'Cause I'm gonna make you see

there's nobody else here

No one like me

I'm special

so special

I gotta have some of your attention

give it to me."

~ The Pretenders "Brass in Pocket"

 ______________________________________________________

Last night I was talking to my sister, Deanna. Because she is an awesome sister, she picked up the kids for me yesterday evening since I had to teach late at the medical school. Deanna is an educator and, like my parents, is hard-wired with that patience for teaching kids and, especially like my parents, has that special ingredient for making them feel good about themselves.
 
She was also a rock star student growing up.

I'd say that I was definitely a more-than-decent student growing up. I won't go so far as to say that I achieved rock star academic status, though. But my sister Deanna? Man. When we were in school, she was valedictorian-salutatorian smart. She was straight-A-no-not-never-a-B smart. And me? Eh. . .not so much.

I still think this rock star student thing involved some kind of genetic coding that I didn't quite get. Like Deanna and our baby sister JoLai were those kinds of students for as long as I could remember. I spent half of high school in shared classes with JoLai because she was just too damn gifted to be in the ones for her grade. My brother got the luxury of experiencing the same with Deanna, which for him was slightly worse since she was two grades below him instead of just one like JoLai was to me.

At some point, my parents would barely even look at their report cards. Especially JoLai's. Even though Deanna was brainy, she has always been a social butterfly. The only times she ever got in trouble for anything on her progress reports related solely to conduct. But by the time my parents reached JoLai, it had been perfected. She was smart and knew how to close her mouth and do her work. Imagine that.

Me and my rock star sisters

And so. Last night Deanna and I sat at my kitchen table talking. She'd stuck around after I got home to hang out with the boys as she often does and was gracious enough to finish up homework and such with Isaiah. I smiled as I watched her teaching him about people like Rosa Parks and Dr. Daniel Hale Williams, who she may have had to remind me was the first person to do successful open heart surgery.

Just maybe.

Anyways. After all that knowledge she dropped on the boys, we started talking about what it was like for us growing up.

Deanna squinted her eyes and said, "I think I always believed that I was smart, you know? I really did."

That made perfect sense to me. I can't say that during those years I felt that way. I did always know that my parents had high expectations. But I'm pretty certain that I didn't feel quite as strongly as she about my ability to deliver on those expectations.

"I'm not sure I felt that way," I replied. "In fact, I'm sure I didn't. I didn't think I was dumb or that I wasn't able. But I'm pretty sure there wasn't a dialogue going on in my head telling me how smart I was--at least not one that was coming from me."

Deanna stacked up some papers and slid them into Isaiah's folder. He gave her a quick hug and ran off to the playroom with Zachary.  She looked over at me and started chuckling to herself. "Girl, one time when I was in the third grade, this boy said to me, 'I'm the smartest boy in this whole school!' I looked him dead in his face and said, 'So what. I'm the smartest person in this whole school!'" We both cracked up laughing.

"I don't remember you being such a jerk about being smart."

"Naaaah, I wasn't. But I did know I was bright. I'm not sure how it happened but I really did."

"Hmmm. . . . I wish I had felt that way. Ugghh! Especially in middle school. Now that? That was rough."

Deanna teaches middle school so we both nodded knowingly.

"You know. . funny you should mention middle school," she spoke with a nostalgic smile. "Daddy had warned me about middle school and how tough it could be. He told me that kids from other schools would be there and I may be challenged by the fact that a lot of other smart kids were there, too."

I nodded and listened as she went on.

"And you know? I distinctly remember it. Three weeks into being there it dawned on me. 'I'm smarter than all these kids up in here. I get stuff that they don't get. Damn.'"  We both laughed out loud.

But even though we were laughing, it was true. She was smart like that. She did always seem to "get" hard things and master hard concepts surprisingly better than her peers.

I thought about her words and what they meant. I thought about the fact that we had grown up in the same house and that despite all of those things, I never really felt that. Not about being smart, per se. "You know, Dee? That's a powerful thing for a student to have, don't you think? An internal belief that they are smart and capable. I want my kids to feel that way." 

She smiled at me from across the table. "They will."

We sat in silence for a few moments. I reflected some more on our upbringing and how different we all were as kids and even as adults. My mind began to wander and a scene from many years ago popped into my head crystal clear.

Middle school me.

I was in 8th grade and I was preparing to audition for this drama club. Essentially, I'd gotten interested in acting and drama mostly because my best childhood friend had been involved in lots of theater. She was the one with the acting chops, and I had just sort of come along for the ride. Eventually, I started having fun and since it allowed us to spend more time together, I stuck with it for quite some time.

Anyways.

This particular situation was different. This drama company, though for children, was based out of Loyola Marymount University--so the children auditioning were from all over Los Angeles. These kids had headshots and composites and video demo reels and experience. They had training and resumes and all kinds of swagger that me and my just-got-dropped-off-by-my-Inglewood-mama-and-that's-it butt didn't have AT ALL.

And so I sat. And I watched. Kid after kid. Projecting their voices from their well-trained little diaphragms and waving their jazz hands. Some even having the ability to bring themselves to tears.

Tears.

For a few moments I felt nervous. Me with my skinny, underdeveloped body and awkward, oversized glasses. Up against them with their shiny curls and high-end clothes and gleaming braces and glossy photographs. But then. . .  something happened. I remember it like it happened four seconds ago. A voice. In my head. But instead of this voice in my head telling me that I was smart or the smartest or bright or the brightest, it told me something else.

"Kimberly, you're special. You have something that is uniquely you. And not one of these kids has what you have. Not one. Even if they are awesome and talented. You have something else that can't be duplicated. You're the only you there is. And you? You're special."

Now. I know that sounds crazy, but I swear to you it's true. I stepped up onto that stage knowing that every single one of those children and their stage mamas was watching. I ignored that bright light beaming in my face and felt all of those anxious nerves connected to knowing that nearly a hundred plus eyes were focusing on me in that dark theater trickling down into a puddle at my feet.

And so. There I stood. Ninety pounds soaking wet with a body that rivaled Olive Oyl hearing that word over and over in my head. Special. Special. Special. I pulled my narrow shoulders back as that giant spotlight blinded me from anything and everyone in the room. And in that moment. . . .I believed it. I believed that I was special.

Damn, I did.

So without the jazz hands or the forced tears, I lifted up my voice and my ah hah moment over that entire auditorium.  Langston Hughes. Yep. I recited a poem by him that I had learned a few years before. Nope. No special scene from some well known play. Nope. No Romeo and Juliet or MacBeth or any such thing. Just a short, simple and meaningful poem by the poet Langston Hughes.

Special. Special. Special.

My heart was pounding and I could hear it because that room had fallen unusually silent. I paid close attention to the intonation of my voice and the meaning of those words as I spoke. Not overdoing it or trying to be someone I wasn't. Just. . . .doing me. Special me. In that moment I convinced myself that my uniquely me way of doing this would work and that even though I didn't have a headshot or a composite or a demo reel. . .that I wasn't competing with them at all. I told myself that . . I know it sounds silly but. . .I told myself that I was special. I really did. And . . . .I believed that what I had to say was worth every single person in that room hearing. I sure did.

Then something funny happened. Everyone in that room believed it, too.

Reciting that poem that day was a pivotal moment in my life. It's bizarre because although the people in that room stood their feet and gave me thunderous applause. . . . .what I remember the most is that. . .for the first time, I had already given it to myself. That felt better than anything else. Even better than their standing ovation. It really did.

Yeah. . . .

I snapped out of that daydream and looked up at Deanna. She listened intently as I told her that story. Then I finally said quietly, "You know? I don't think I really thought I was smart. Maybe later on I did. . . .but not back then I didn't. But what I did believe was. . .  was that I was special. I. . .I really did." I patted my chest but then immediately felt a little embarrassed for saying it.

Deanna was so gracious. "I know you did."

I was so glad that she understood. But then she always has gotten things fast.

I let out a big sigh. "Man. . . . I hope my kids feel that way, too."

"They will," she replied softly, "They will."


***

 As spoken by an eighty-eight pound eighth-grader:

"Democracy will not come

Today,
this year

nor ever

through compromise 
and fear

I have as much right

as the other fellow has

to stand on my own two feet

and own the land

I tire so of hearing people say,

'Let things take their course.

Tomorrow is another day.'

I do not need my freedom when I'm dead

I cannot live on tomorrow's bread

Freedom 

is a strong seed

Planted

in a great need

I live here, too.

I want freedom

just as you."

~ Langston Hughes

***

Happy Wednesday. And be special, okay? I tell my children--and myself--that often.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .