Music Lyrics Monday: Only brokenhearted.

I'm young, but I'm wise enough to know
That you don't fall in love overnight
That's why I thought if I took my time
That everything in love would be right

But as soon as I closed my eyes
I was sayin' to love goodbye
But I guess I'm only

Brokenhearted, life's not over
I can start again
While I'm only brokenhearted
It's a hurting thing to get over

No more empty conversations
Next time I will be totally sure
Don't want the pain of falling in and out of love
It's more than my poor heart should endure
 

So I listen to all advised 

And remember each time I cry. . . . 

That I guess I'm only brokenhearted

life's not over
I can start again

While I'm only brokenhearted
It's a hurting thing to get over
starting all over again...

~ Brandy "Only brokenhearted"

 _______________________

You are trying to shake things. Bad things. Like addictions and toxic relationships that have ruined your young life as you know it. But you took a step to shake those things. Trying your best to spin your merry-go-round hard enough to throw them off. Shake them off. For good.

"Hey there," I said to you on rounds that day. I picked my words carefully. Hoping you'd hear them as nonjudgmental ones opening the floor to you. And ones that would make you feel like you were healing.

You looked up and nodded.Your eyes were swollen from crying. Your lip quivering. In the tiniest voice you answered me. "Hey."

"What's wrong?" I asked. Simple enough. I asked because you were upset. Not just the regular upset that I'd been seeing since you'd been trying to shake the things you need to shake but a different kind of upset. Too upset to ignore.

"I'm okay," you answered.

"Hmmm. You don't really look okay."

And when I said that you started to weep. Your young face twisting into a desperate snarl and your chest shaking rhythmically. Turning into your pillow you tried to muffle it but the way your shoulders vibrated there was no hiding it.

Instinctively I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed your back with my hand. I wasn't fully sure what was going on today but I was sorry. I'd been doing this long enough to know that people who are shaking things often find a world filled with harsh realities when they step out of that cloud. Those things are hard to shake, too.

"I'm sorry."  I left it there. I had already checked your vital signs and lab work. Yes, I needed to do the technical parts of your examination still, but it could wait. The idea of searching a heavy heart with my cold stethoscope right now just seemed wrong.

"I'm just. . . . so . . . .sad." And with that word "sad" the tears came harder, stronger. I kept my hand on your back and watched you. You took in a big sigh and sat up and then pressed your stubby thumb and fore finger into the corners of your eyes--freezing there for a beat. Then, like a light switch flicking, your breathing increased to a pant and the tears came on once more.

And just then it clicked.

I wanted to be sure so I stayed silent and studied you a bit more. Uncontrolled bouts of tears and despair. I knew what this was. Yes, of course I did. And this diagnosis didn't call for a medical degree at all.

"Your heart is broken?"

And when I said that you dropped your hands and looked at me intently confirming the answer.

"Damn. I'm sorry."  And I admit that I did use that word--damn--because being a twenty-something with that kind of a broken heart is the kind of thing that word calls for even if it isn't exactly the most professional one.

"He's going to find someone better. Someone different and prettier and better than me. And I'm going to be all alone and feeling like this." Now you were just talking but those fat tears were still rolling down your cheeks.

I felt bad for you. Bad because you'd taken huge steps toward recovery and moving past certain things and people would be necessary for it all to stick. A broken heart would be one of the casualties of war.

"I know you feel that way now," I finally spoke, "but you know? It can and will get better. The broken heart part. I know this from experience."

"I don't think it will. This was the love of my life. I know some part of me will always be wishing we were together."

I raised my eyebrows and turned one corner of my mouth upward. "Hmmm."

You bent your elbow over your eyes and wept some more. "I hate feeling this way. I hate it."

"I know." I rubbed your back and said it again. "I know."

Because I did know. Not about shaking the chemical things you were shaking but yes, I did know about being a twenty-something with that kind of heartache. And damn, I wish I had some kind of panacea to make it better. But if I did, I'd be a very, very rich woman.

"Why do I have to feel like this? How do I even start feeling better?"

I looked at your face and smiled. "Time."

You glanced over at me and I could tell that you hoped I was right.

"Can I tell you a story?" I asked. You looked intrigued. "Okay. Let me tell you a story about when I was a first year medical student." You propped yourself up in bed and, for the first time since I'd been there, I saw the teeniest flicker of a smile.

"Once upon a time, there was a first year medical student named Kimberly. And she met this boy and it was love at first sight. For reals. Love at very first sight. And so they sort of fell in love. Yeah, they did. So they spent every waking hour together. Like, every waking hour. They studied together. They hung out together. They ate together. You name it, they were together for it. But there was just one very slight problem."

"What?" you gasped.

"Oh. Well, turns out he sort of had a girlfriend. See, she was out of town and he had kind of made it seem like she was . . .uhh. . . .black history."

"Black history?"

I laughed. "Black history. As in, not his girlfriend anymore. But turns out that that part was a lie."

"And boys never, ever lie to us."

"Oh noooo. Not when we're twenty they don't."

You chuckled at that.

"Okay, so the girlfriend comes back and -- did I mention? She was older than this first year medical student named Kimberly. And she made it quite clear that she was not EVEN black history but instead modern art. And she told me that our little affair would someday be no more than a 'blink on the radar' in their lives together."

"Ouch."

"Ouch is right. It didn't end pretty. The boy--who I was convinced was the love of my life back then--ended our relationship. And you talk about sad? Baby, you think you're sad? No. You're happy compared to how I was."

You smiled at the analogy. I did, too.

"So, I climbed in bed and cried for no less than 72 hours straight. And then my best friends came over and told me that I would have to eat and drink because without it, I'd die. And I told them that I was already dying. But they made me eat and drink anyway. And finally, after eating something, I had enough strength to predict my future."

"You did?"

"Yep. And my future was pretty bleak." I laughed at the thought. "I told them in the most pathetic voice ever, 'I just have to accept that my life is going to have an empty part in it forever. And that I will always, always, always be in love with someone that I couldn't ever be with. And some day I will meet someone and get married but it will be sad because that person won't even realize that my heart is really tied to another person. That I'm in love with. For, like, ever."

Now all of the tears had dried on your face and you were giggling. "So? Is that the case?"

"What?"

"Did you ever get over him?"

"Who?"

"The boy that you were in love with!"

"Oooohhhh! Him? Girl, please. He was black history not even three months after that."

We both cackled out loud, slapping hands and knees while sitting on your bed.

"Really? Three months?"

"Yep. And ask me when was the last time I worried about that guy."

"When?"

I looked at my watch and squinted my eyes. "Uhhhh. . . . nineteen hundred and ninety three." Out came the laughter again and that was good. Good because you felt better. And better was my goal all along.

"You know what, Dr. Manning? This is the best I've felt since I've been in the hospital."

And I reached over the bed and gave you a big hug because it just felt called for.

After that, I examined your body and reviewed the medical parts of the plan with you. And then, as I prepared to leave, I took your hand and told you things would be okay.

"I hope so. No, I think so," you replied.

"You know? Everybody can't go."

You looked puzzled.

"My husband always says that to me. Sometimes when your life is moving in a certain direction, some people have to get left behind for you to move ahead. Everybody can't go."

You repeated those words. "Everybody can't go."

"No, they cannot."

You sighed hard and gave a strong nod of affirmation. "I got it."

"You got it?"

"I got it."

We sealed that with a fist bump and I went on to seeing the rest of my patients.

I love this job.


***
Happy Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .perfect for Music lyrics Monday.

Music Lyrics Monday: Colorblind.

Colorblind

I am colorblind.
Coffee black and egg white.
Pull me out from inside.
I am ready I am ready.

I am taffy stuck and tongue tied.
Stutter shook and uptight.
Pull me out from inside.
I am ready I am ready.
I am fine.

I am covered in skin.
No one gets to come in.
Pull me out from inside.
I am folded and unfolded and unfolding.

I am colorblind.
Coffee black and egg white.
Pull me out from inside.
I am ready I am ready.
I am fine I am fine.
I am fine.

~ Counting Crows

___________________________________

I was running to this song recently and somehow it made me feel like I could fly. Like literally leap up into the air, churning my legs into the atmosphere like Elliot on that bike in E.T. 

I just find this song to be so hauntingly beautiful. Kind of like. . .I don't know. . . like it puts me in a trance when I hear it. Like I could run to it forever. 

Crazy, I know.

What does it mean? I don't know. But it is poetic. And like a lot of good poetry and good lyrics it means something different to me every time I hear it.

You can decide what it means to you. . . . .

***
Happy Monday.

Now playing . . . . 

Music Lyrics Monday: Spinning wheels.

Spinning Wheels

Looking around all the places
Familiar spaces
Brings me back home to you
Cause love keeps on traveling
Keeps on traveling
Makes me feel like no matter how far
I'm still with you

So love
Will you try to slow down
I cannot keep up
With the speed of your sound
Cause this love keeps on

Break it down
Turn around
And depend on something that's new
Chase the miles that I'll drive
It'll eventually get me to you
I'll keep you locked up
So tight
In my pocket
Till you decide to slow down
I'll keep spinning wheels
Spinning wheels

Moving alone the weathers changing
My hearts rearranging
Every little doubt in my mind
Oh so I'm coming to find you
And nothing can stop me
I'm driven by this feeling inside

But love
Can you try to slow down
I can't keep up
With the speed of your sound
That this love will keep on
Break it down
Turn around
And depend on something that's new
Chase the miles that I'll drive
It'll eventually get me to you
I'll keep you locked up
So tight
In my pocket
Till you decide to slow down
I'll keep spinning wheels 

Angel Taylor

________________________________

Do you ever feel like you're just spinning wheels? I do sometimes. Not so much with my day to day life, but sometimes with writing I do. I kind of do periodically.

I know.

It's terrible, really. To write something wondering as you're writing it what another person will think or how it will make them feel. Or if it will make them think or feel anything at all. You wonder this sometimes when you write things down that others read. At least I do.

It's true.

So yeah. This song got me thinking about that. I heard this morning like a song coming from my lips to my own writing. Weird, I know, but that's where I was when I heard it. Wondering sometimes if I'm just spinning wheels or being indulgent to use this forum, you know? Yes, that's the little voice, I know. But really, I'm just being honest. And so, I dialogue with myself and say "no, you do this for you" but then, lately, I've followed up with things like "but you're human, you are." Which is true. So that's where it sits now.

Does this even make sense? Probably not. See, this is when I go back to my writing mantra to shake these thoughts away. These thoughts of spinning wheels and questions on publicly sharing inside-my-head thoughts so liberally.

Yeah.

Like. . . .  there are times when I just need to get the thoughts out. Some observation is swirling rapidly through my head and like some carpenter bee caught in a jar and I must let it out. Into the world and into some written form. And so I do and the pressure valve is released.

But then, there are times, many times, where it is more of a dialogue. Or rather, I'm hoping it could become one. One where I say my piece and then someone who has read it responds with their thoughts on the topic. No, not so much praise or anything, but just something that says, "You know? Here is what I felt when I read this. Or thought. Or was reminded of."

Some days I feel that more than ever. And it's so funny when I do that because it makes me annoyed with myself, wondering if I do this for all the wrong reasons. I sure hope I don't.

Yeah.

I'm rambling, I know. And I also know that I am terribly hypocritical in the fact that I am not so great about consistently chiming in on the rich and wonderful things I read that have been written by many of the gifted writers that I know. Part of that is because I read things in "chunks" as my time between work, play, love permits. So sometimes I'm LOL-ing or marveling at something somebody wrote last week. The comment feels a bit anti-climactic then.

But sometimes I read and just don't comment. Then I tell myself that they, unlike me, are caring far less about whether or not someone has something to say. Which is silly, right? Because the ones I love to read are almost always meant to be more multidirectional than unidirectional.

Okay. So I'll say it. I like knowing what people think. Not as much about me but about what they are reading and feeling and seeing. Feel free to gag here. Ha h ha.

But if that's not your thing, know that I still appreciate you reading when you get a "chunk" that allows for it. I really, truly do.

That's all I've got for this morning. And don't worry, I'm fine. It's just one of those mornings.

***
Happy Monday.

I am a fan of this woman and her singing. Very much so.

Music Lyrics Monday: Seasons of Love.

Seasons of Love.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear

 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
 

How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets

In midnights, in cups of coffee

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife

In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, a year in the life?

How about love?

How about love?

How about love?

Measure in love

Seasons of love
 

Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned
 

Or in times that he cried

In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

It's time now, to sing out
Though the story never ends

Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love
(Oh, you got to, you got to remember the love)

Remember the love
(You know that life is a gift from up above)

Remember the love
(Share love, give love, spread love)

Measure in love
(Measure, measure your life in love)

Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Measure your life in love.

 

***

This song has become a mantra that I hear over and over in my head. At home, at work, at play, and at rest. It makes me ask myself that simple question:

How about love?

Then I smile because that's what it's all about, man. Measuring your life in love.


***
Happy Monday. Again.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

Music Lyrics Monday: Sea of Love

My favorite real sea--the Caribbean one.

Sea of Love

Come with me my love
To the sea, the sea of love 
I want to tell you
How much I love you

Do you remember when we met?
That's the day I knew you were my pet
I want to tell you
How much I love you

Come with me
To the sea, of love

Do you remember when we met
That's the day I knew you were my pet
I want to tell you
How much I love you

Come with me
To the sea, of love

Do you remember when we met
That's the day I knew you were my pet
I want to tell you
How much I love you

I want to tell you
How much I love you
I want to tell you
How much I love you

~ Originally performed by Phil Phillips

***

This is just a great song. Sure. The lyrics are pretty simple. And somebody is being called a "pet" as a loving affirmation. But still. Who can argue with a dude who's inviting you to a sea of love?

Not me.

Yep. This is a great song if you ask me. And the only thing better than a great song is a great remake of a great song. I love this mullet-ociously delicious version by Robert Plant in the post-Led Zeppelin days. Complete with this one-hit wonder group called . . . wait for it. . . .The Honeydrippers. So, so 1980's corny.

I love it.

And what can I say? Since my reference in an earlier post to all of the people who came to support our family over the past few weeks as a "sea of love" I haven't been able to shake this song from my mental iPod. Now you won't be able to either. (Or Robert Plant's mullet.)

*You're welcome.*

***
Go mullets. Happy Monday, y'all.

Mr. Plant and the Honeydrippers circa 1982 . Y'all don't know nothin' 'bout this!


And Mr. Phillips singing the original circa 1958. Good times, man.

Music Lyrics Monday: Something in the Way She Moves.

Something In The Way She Moves

Something in the way she moves
or looks my way, or calls my name
that seems to leave this troubled world behind.
And if I'm feeling down and blue 
or troubled by some foolish game
she always seems to make me change my mind

And I feel fine anytime that she's around me now
she's around me now almost all the time.
And if I'm well you can tell that she's been with me now.
She's been with me now quite a long, long time 
and I feel fine.

Every now and then the things I lean on 
lose their meaning
and I find myself careening 
in places where I should not let me go 
She has the power to go 
where no one else can find me 
and to silently remind me
of the happiness and the good times that I know
and then I just got to know then.

It isn't what she's got to say 
but how she thinks and where she's been 
To me, the words are nice, the way they sound
I like to hear them best that way
it doesn't much matter what they mean
she says them mostly just to calm me down

And I feel fine anytime she's around me now
she's around me now almost all the time.
And if I'm well you can tell she's been with me now
She's been with me now quite a long, long time 
and I feel fine

- James Taylor

***

Perhaps this was written as a romantic love song. But for me, it's simply a love song that makes me think of her.

She's love. So she's still with me almost all the time. Laughing out loud. Reminding me to give bountifully of my time and talents. Encouraging me to do things, try things, and hope things. Always and forever. That won't change.

It won't.

These words from JT are speaking to me. Explaining how I feel lately. . . .in ways that my own words can't.

So. . . as of this morning. . . .

I feel fine.

Yeah.

***
Happy Monday

Sing it, JT.


And this one for good measure. It's a favorite that the kids and I sing regularly at bedtime. Now it's hard to think of it and not think of Deanna. I can never, ever hear this song too many times. Ever.

Music Lyrics Monday: Lifetime.

Lifetime

I was reborn when I was broken
I wouldn't believe, I wouldn't believe, no
been thru a storm, no use in hoping
that you would come rescue me
somehow your love set me free

And I, I can let my life pass me by
or I can get down and try
work it all out this lifetime
work it on out this time
I can let it all pass me by
or I can get down and try
work it all out this lifetime, lifetime

There was a time when love wasn't chosen
now I'm just open for more
now I'm just reaching out for something better
that I had before, girl
there ain't a bottom line in your world

Ooh and I, I can let my life pass me by
or I can get down and try
work it all out this lifetime
work it on out this time

I can let it all pass me by
or I can just try and try
I can move to the light
oh if I take it one day at a time (oh I)
oh spread my love out and fly
oh I (I can move to the light)
I can just make you understand
that love is not a fairytale in a melody
if you want it you can have it, girl
maybe you will see 
maybe you will see 

ooh oh oh wo oh
lifetime 
lifetime

~ Maxwell

***

These lyrics have been speaking to me in recent days. I love the idea of feeling so secure in being loved that you feel okay moving forward. Okay living without second guessing everything.

I know that feeling. I am so glad that I do. So that means I can let my life pass me by. Or I can get down and try--to work it all out this lifetime. So yeah. I'm just trying to work it all out, you know?

That line -- "I was reborn when I was broken" -- just socks me in the chest every time. I'm learning that pivotal experiences lead to rebirths of sorts. If you're lucky, those ways that you're reborn are good ways. If you're lucky.

As my friend Sister Moon once said to me, "Family is all. Love is all." Such a good word, so very true. With love you can move to the light. One day at a time.

Yeah.

Oh, the other thing I love about this song is this video. The BHE would NOT be pleased if he knew the thoughts that enter my mind while watching the big afro-era Maxwell. Woo LAWD, chile.

*fanning*

That's all I got on this today.

 That Big Afro Maxwell is a sight for sore eyes. Woo LAWD.


. . .and one more since I'm sitting here watching his videos. As Deanna used to say, "Girrrrrl, he could get it." Ha ha ha. . . 

Music Lyrics Monday: I like the sunrise.

I like the sunrise

I like the sunrise 
'cause it brings a new day
I like the new day 
it brings new hope they say
I like the sunrise 
blazing in the new sky
Night-time is weary
oh, so am I

Every evening I wish upon a star
That my brand new bright tomorrow isn't very far
When that heavy blue curtain of night
Is raised up high way out of sight

I like the sunrise 
so heavenly, so heavenly to see
I like the sunrise
I hope it likes poor me

Here comes the sunrise... 

~  Originally performed by Duke Ellington

_________________________

I like this song. The hopefulness of it. The simplicity of it. I love every version I've heard but something about the sweetness of this artist's voice singing it puts me in a quiet, meditative space.

I am hearing this song differently now. The hope even stronger, the promise greater. Night-time is weary. But the sunrise brings a new day and, with it, new hope.

They say.

Yesterday I was driving on highway 78 toward my mother's house. As I passed Deanna's exit, which came two exits before Tounces', out of habit I picked up my cell phone and started to call her. Doing what I always did. Letting her know that we would be at Mom's and to come over and meet us. And I swear to you, as sure as I am sitting here--in that tiny split second it seemed like none of this had happened and that she'd pick up the phone and say, "Hey Sissy!"

Yeah. So that. That punched me in my chest hard. And I let it. I drove and wept as my kids watched Pokemon in the back seat. Because at that moment, I wanted nothing more than that mundane act of sitting at a kitchen table with my sister. Talking about what we liked to call "a whole bunch of nothing."

The other hard thing I've been noticing is tense. Like, I struggle with tense when it comes to my sister. The finality of past tense doesn't feel right. Saying, for example, that I'm "one of four" isn't so hard. But I can't get my mind around words like "had" and "was." This is one of those things that people who have experienced loss close to home probably nod their heads over as they read this.

So. I carefully choose those words. I dance around tense and push my mind to straddle them all. Past. Present. Future.

In response to a question about my family this weekend:

"I'm the middle girl of four. Eldest son, three daughters." 

Because I still am.

While straightening my niece Olivia's hair yesterday:

"Your hair reminds me of Auntie Deanna's. Fine and soft."

Because it does.

To Isaiah before he left for school:

"Your project looks amazing. Remember what Auntie said? 'We always do more than is asked.'"

Because we do.

That takes some forethought. I admit that I'm still struggling with things like "would have" and "could have." I'm sure it sounds a little crazy but it's just me trying to process through this bumpy and sticky reality. The one that involves me passing Mountain Industrial Boulevard and not calling Deanna to meet me.

Sigh.

But, see, that's why I like the sunrise. Because this morning it brought me happy thoughts and rich memories of my funny, creative, amazing sister. And hope that I will eventually adjust to this new normal.

You know? I know that I will, too.  Because the sunrise brings new hope.

They say.

***
Happy Monday.



Now playing.

Music Lyrics Monday: One of us.

 
One of us

If God had a name, what would it be?
And would you call it to His face?
If you were faced with Him in all His glory
What would you ask if you had just one question?

Yeah, yeah, God is great
Yeah, yeah, God is good
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home?

If God had a face, what would it look like?
And would you want to see?
If seeing meant that you would have to believe
In things like Heaven and in Jesus and the Saints
And all the Prophets and... 

 
Yeah, yeah, God is great
Yeah, yeah, God is good
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home?

Tryin' to make His way home
Back up to Heaven all alone

Just trying to make his way home
Like a holy rolling stone

Nobody callin' on the phone
'Cept for the Pope maybe in Rome

Yeah, yeah, God is great
Yeah, yeah, God is good
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make His way home

Just tryin' to make his way home



- As sung by Joan Osborne (lyrics by Eric Brazilian of The Hooters.)

_______________________________________

I hear this song on my mental iPod often. Especially when I am walking through the hallways and corridors at Grady Hospital. The part that always resonates with me is the part that says, "What would you ask if you had just one question?" Because I always entertain that query.

No. I don't have an answer. But I would definitely have some questions.

I don't think the guy who wrote this was trying to be religious when he wrote it. I think maybe he was just being provocative, trying to make people think. When I think of strong positions guided by different faiths--especially the ones that alienate people--I always hear this song in my head. I know my questions would be things related to the world and the people in it.

Yes. I am a woman of faith. I do believe that faith is super personal but I have never hidden the fact that I am of Christian faith on this blog. But. I do try my hardest to create spaces in my life for everyone. Not just those who pray to Jesus, but everyone. In fact, I believe that this is the best thing any person of any faith--or even those who don't subscribe to any organized religion--can do.

Something tells me that if God were one of us, He'd appreciate that.

***
Happy Monday.

Here you go. . . 

Music Lyrics Monday: Comin' from where I'm from.

A low income housing community, Atlanta, Ga. (image from Atlanta Journal Constitution)

Comin' from Where I'm From

Sittin' here guess I didn't make bail
Got time and a story to tell
Started when I was nine years old
Woke up, my daddy was gone

I started hustlin', they couldn't tell me nothin' 
Frontin' in the hood tryin' to be somebody
My soul was on empty
I was searchin' for something 

Tried to be good 
Tried to keep from trouble
Livin' too fast
Tryin' to make good on a hustle

Sometimes it gets rough
Comin' from where I'm from, I'm from
Times got hard
Comin' from where I'm from, I'm from
Some times you gotta walk to work, yeah
Comin' from where I'm from, I'm from
Sometimes you gotta do a little dirt
Comin' from where I'm from
 

Wasn't really lookin', guess I found it
Five foot three, light brown skin
Comin' from the university
Nice style, lookin' kinda lovely
Didn't know she had much game
Down to ride out, even take the train
Even took her to a poker game
She's top notch from fried chicken to sushi

Tried to be good, (I tried) 

Tried to treat you like a lady
Tried to be a friend, turned out that you were shady 

Sometimes it gets lonely
Comin' from where I'm from, I'm from
Thangs ain't what they seem to be
Comin' from where I'm from, I'm from
Sometimes you get a little angry
Comin' from where I'm from, I'm from
Sometimes you get the best of me 

The now demolished "Grady Homes" public housing project, formerly around the corner from Grady Hospital.

Well, tried to be good (I tried)
Wanted nothing but to love somebody
Didn't wanna die young
Steady hustlin' tryin to feed my family
Too scared to have kids
And do like daddy did 
'cause I'm so scared of failin' 

Sometimes it gets hard
Comin' from where I'm from

Mmmm hmmmmm.

~ Anthony Hamilton's "Comin' from where I'm from"

___________________________________

I love any song that tells a story. This one has always moved me because it begs and pleads for understanding and empathy. In the most soulful way, it eloquently explains generational failures and the dysfunctional aftermath of not having a strong foundation upon which to build.

'Cause a strong foundation is important -- as hell.

I'm a black woman who was raised by two college educated parents that loved each other right in front of me. They cared what was on my report card and set very high expectations of me--ones that they, too, worked to live up to. I wasn't confused by their behaviors and they shielded my innocence until I was old enough to understand what it means to lose it.

One of my parents also had parents and even a grandmother that had college degrees. My mother saw other continents as a child and had books read to her at night. Someone was tucking her in and telling her she was wonderful from 1947 until forever. Because when you hear that from very early on, it sticks with you forever. My father's parents didn't receive education beyond high school, but they loved each other very much. This means their eleven children got to see that. They, too, had expectations and told their son, my father, that he was "a cat that just ain't got no kittens yet" -- which was a praise meaning that he was responsible, dependable, and full of promise. Which he grew up believing. And then paying forward to his own kids.

See, coming from where I'm from? I had something to work with. My parents saw their four children achieve not only bachelor's degrees with honors, they also saw those same kids getting conferred terminal degrees. Two of whom finished law school, one of whom earned a doctorate in veterinary medicine, and another who completed an M.D. Sounds good, right? But see, when you're coming from where I'm from, becoming a physician wasn't a far stretch. It wasn't. And having a remote clue how to give and receive love wasn't like learning some foreign language. Because coming from where I'm from, that's what I was groomed for. To think well of myself and to believe I was worth something. I know that my foundation was solid, unwavering. I also know that this made it less hard for me than some others to build my house upon a hill.

Every single day at Grady Hospital, I think of this in some way. I hear stories. I meet people. Then I think of where my patients are coming from -- which is rarely where me or any of their doctors are coming from. I hear these lyrics penned by this artist that you may have never even heard of playing on my mental iPod. I feel the vibrato of his haunting voice -- the authentic voice of someone who grew up in poverty in the Southern United States -- and it speaks to so many questions.

Like, why would you have ever even tried that drug? After what you saw it do to so many people around you? What were you thinking when you did whatever-it-was-that-is-now-ruining-your-life?

"My soul was on empty. I was searching for something."

Or--the hardest question to get past--why do you hate yourself so much?

"Started when I was nine years old. Woke up, my daddy was gone."

Yeah. Those lyrics are deep. Even if someone reading this hasn't heard of Anthony Hamilton--I bet someone reading this has heard of the story he's telling because it sounds a little like their own.

See, me? That's not my story. That's not where I'm from. So it's hard for me to fully know what that kind of abandonment feels like. You know, the kind of abandonment that makes children grow up to abandon themselves all over again?

Sigh.

On November 6--tomorrow--a pivotal election will take place in the U.S. Sure, I've been fairly transparent about my political slant (which is quite liberal.) That doesn't mean that I don't have respect for the many, many folks out there who don't share my views.  I happen to know that there are a lot of wonderful, caring, smart human beings with whom I've just agreed to disagree.

And that's cool.

But honestly? This time, I'm scared. Really scared. And perhaps I can say I'm nervous about some specific issues but mostly I'm just scared in a "big picture" sense. Scared of being led by people that don't strongly consider the complexity of what it's like to be comin' from where so many people are comin' from. Why not having a good job or a clean criminal record is sometimes about more than just being lazy or shiftless. And how when someone who woke up with a missing father and the 'hood as their main role model, that kind of foundation is as sorry as a soup sandwich. I'm afraid of anyone who doesn't recognize that when someone has a soul on empty it's hard to be a part of functional relationships, families and lives without some major interventions.

The kinds of interventions that you have to put love into.

My prayer is that whoever becomes president really, truly cares. Deep down in their soul, cares. Especially for "the least of these." The vulnerable ones who sometimes have to walk to work. Or even do a little dirt. Because they don't know what else to do.

I just want a government that cares. Not so much about the people that come from places that they come from. . . . but for all of the others who don't.

***

Well, tried to be good
Wanted nothing but to love somebody
Didn't wanna die young
Steady hustlin' tryin to feed my family
Too scared to have kids
And do like daddy did  
'cause I'm so scared of failin' 

Sometimes it gets hard
Comin' from where I'm from . . .

***
Happy Monday.

Please listen. This story is a story I hear every single day.


Where are you comin' from?