We gon' be alright.

"Do you hear me? Do you feel me? We gon' be alright."

- Kendrick Lamar

Shed your tears and then dry them. Talk to your children, then pull them close to you so that they will feel less afraid. Then go out into this day knowing we are still stronger together. Use your anger and power for good. Pick your words with care--especially if you are a leader or have influence. Someone somewhere wants you to act out, be foolish.

No narcissist who thinks its cool to grab me by my private parts or any administration working to make me and others disappear is going to take away my own value or make me shrink. Nor will I allow the people who cosigned it do the same to me. So my head is up so I can see, dammit. And what I see is all of you and what I know is that the underrepresented and disenfranchised people of this country have prevailed through far, far worse.


We gon' be alright.

***
Happy Day After.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . thanks for a perfect soundtrack today Kendrick Lamar.

You are invited.

‪

#‎altonsterling‬ ‪

#‎trayvonmartin‬ ‪

#‎freddiegray‬ 

‪#‎michaelbrown‬ ‪

#‎anyblackmanyouknow‬

Like many of you, my social media timelines have been flooded with frustrated, hurt, angry posts in reaction to the senseless death of yet another black man at the hands of police. This time, it was Mr. Alton Sterling of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It was captured on a grainy cell phone camera. Two cops took him down and shot him multiple times at close range ending his life. His kids saw that video. I saw it, too.

Here's what I'm thinking about:

Just maybe, you are my friend and your world hasn't been flooded at all with bitter one liners and battle cries from your peers about this. Just maybe, you have checked your social media threads of choice several times but, because this doesn't hit quite as close to home for you or those whose posts fill your screen, you had no idea about this incident until just now. If that is the case, consider this an invitation. First, to Google #altonsterling to understand what happened (if you weren't aware already.) Then, I invite you--my nonblack friend---to be as sickened, appalled and bothered by those hashtags as me.

That is, if you weren't already.

I want you to imagine talking to your sons about police and feeling your heart turn a tiny relieved flip when your husband comes home from a regular day--alive. Talk to your kids, make this a big deal in your house, and please, join us in being pissed off--because everything depends upon that. Nothing changes when we don't provide anybody space to empathize. But now that you have the space to stand with me, I want you to know that any indifference here forward will be hurtful--whether I am telling you or not.

I think we are all super guilty of polarizing others when upset about the things that affect our own communities. Our soapboxes are so tall that they make people shrink, hide and peep through their blinds like voyeurs. Black, white, straight, gay--we build these walls that won't let good people be allies--or at least let them ask enough questions to feel something. And no, I don't think it's intentional. Pain just makes us all impulsive.

At least that's what I think.

For my friends who don't know what it's like to worry in this way about your father, your brother, your husband and your sons. . .I want you to read this post (if you haven't already.) If you feel so inclined, you can also read or re-read this one, too. It will give you more perspective of what it's like raising black boys in America.

Yeah.

Then my hope is that you will accept my invitation. To ask questions. To comment. To say something. To feel something. But especially to be pissed the eff off. Because no movement ever really gets moving until more than just the oppressed get mad. My prayer is that we can all be a little more aware of each other's joy, pain, sunshine and rain.

This is our reality. Thank your God if it isn't yours.

***
Happy Humpday.

Image of the Day: January 11.

On Sunday, we took a group of kids to do a service project at the Central Night Shelter for Men here in downtown Atlanta. After learning about the shelter, we came upstairs to join the yoga practice offered by a volunteer each week.

Everyone laid out their mats in rows. Kids sitting right beside their brothers affected by homelessness. No noses wrinkling or turning up. Just this deference for these men and a respect that, probably, they'd never even considered offering someone in that position.

And so. Together we did yoga. Quietly finding inner peace in mountain poses, downward facing dog poses and sun salutations. The men marveled at how easily those lithe little ones folded their bodies into those Child's poses and those kids giggled when the grown ups needed foam blocks because they couldn't touch their toes.

It was beautiful, I tell you. All of it.

This morning it was below freezing. Both of my children made mention of the guests of the shelter, required to leave early each morning. They spoke of the frigid air this morning and wondered where they would go. "It's so cold today," Zachary said at the bus stop. "I hope they find somewhere warm and dry," Isaiah mumbled while staring out to the window in carpool.

Sigh. 

The volunteers must return to their regular livelihoods each morning and prepare the space for other uses during the day. Sadly, for the shelter guests, they have no choice but to return to their regular livelihoods, too.

"Namaste," the volunteer yogi spoke softly. "This is a greeting that says my soul acknowledges your soul. The light in me honors the light in you."

I loved this because, really, it is everything we'd hoped those 3rd, 4th and 5th grade kids would get out of the session. Seeing the humanity in those experiencing homelessness. Imagining them not as these caricatures penniless, haggard and on the fringes of life. But instead somebody's uncle or daddy or son or friend. . . . a real person as entitled to a piece of this pie called life as any.

Yes. That.

Hands pulled close to bosoms. And every man, woman and child under that voice responded in unison:

"Namaste."

Yes. That.

***
Happy Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. .. . .

On my way to Grady today. . . .

. . .in the same spot as yesterday.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday. Again.

On my way to Grady yesterday. . . . .

. . . . I saw this image and stopped to capture it. Perspective is everything, isn't it?

***
Happy Tuesday.

Go hard or go home.

*name and details changed to protect anonymity

"We strutting hard and serving side eyes and slaying it. .  . "

Ms. Nika 

"My grandmother swears up and down that somehow I got dropped on my head." She laughed and shook her head. "Like it had to be some kind of explanation for me being like this."

Since she'd chuckled first, she gave me the green light to laugh, too. "When did you first know?" I asked.

"I don't remember ever not knowing. And if they'd just stopped ignoring what was right in front of them, my granny and them woulda known, too."

She pushed down hard on the bed and scooched her bottom back. Then she reached for her cell phone on the tray table, turned on the camera and changed the direction so that she could use it as a mirror. The minute she saw her face, she shook her head and shuddered.

"I look a hot ass mess."

"You've been sick."

"Still, chile. I look crazy."

I leaned back in the chair and watched as she pulled the screen close to her face to study her eyes. The false eyelashes she'd been wearing when she arrived at the hospital were half on and half off. First she tried pressing them back down with her thumb a few times, then groaned. "Uggggh!"

Her biceps bulged out when she lifted her slight arms. That and her voice were probably the only immediate signs that she was born with a Y chromosome. And yes, perhaps her square jaw could be a clue, but mostly she was delicate and feminine. Perhaps more so than many genotypic females I know.

"Your lashes lasted a whole lot longer than the ones I've had before. I just wore some recently and they made me crazy."

"You got to use the right glue and get 'em in the right place. Honey, but these here? These thangs can't be saved." With both hands she gripped the edges of each lash between her thumb and index finger and zipped them off of her eye lids simultaneously. "Oh well! I'm still cute!" She threw her head back and let out a raspy laugh and coughed a bit. I nodded my head in affirmation.

After that, we both just sat there for a beat, saying nothing. My eyes rested on the almost cartoonish eyelashes that lay on the blanket before her. They were so big, bold and unmistakable. A clear declaration saying, "I am here. And screw you if you don't like it." I decided that I liked that. My eyes came back up and met hers. We both smiled.

"You know. . . .you're doing so much better, Ms. Nika. I think we can probably discharge you this morning if your labs look good."

"Hmmm. Okay. Let me work on some things then."

"Do you have a place to go?"

"Me? I mean, not exactly yet. But I always make it happen. I always do what I got to do to survive."

I paused when she said that, not knowing what to say. Instead I just twisted my mouth and waited to see if she had more to add. Instead of expounding on her living situation, she yawned with both arms outstretched and went back to our original conversation.

"I used to have this little backpack when I was like four or five. It was light blue and it had trucks on it. My granny got it for me to take to pre-school or kindergarten or something like that. And you know? I used to hold it on my forearm like a pocket book. And I had some vaseline and chapstick and would pretend like it was make up."

"When you were five?"

"Or younger. I just always was like this. Not just a girl. A lady, you know? From even when I was little. So I spent my whole life just trying my hardest to do me. And be me."

"Makes sense. That's bold."

"Bold? Meh. Mostly it's just fucked up. Because you get kicked out of the house and then you find people who act like they accept you. Some, I mean a few, really do. Some just think you're funny and interesting like some kind of movie when it's your life."

I swallowed hard on that part because I wondered where I fell.  Immediately I felt bad for saying such a cookie-cutter statement about being "bold." Even though I believed she was.

"That's deep." That's what I said since that's all I could think to say.

"I see, like, regular females walking around sometimes and think, 'You don't even appreciate it. Like you don't appreciate being a lady.' You know what I'm saying? Walking around in sweatpants and t-shirts. Or clothes that don't fit good. I saw this one girl who I could tell had a great body and felt mad. She looked all frumpy and crazy. Like, how this chick get to be a girl from the start and treat it like this?"

I'd never even thought of that. Quickly I imagined the sweats and Ugg boots I'd worn to run errands the day before. This was a new perspective, even if I wasn't sure what to do with it. Either way, I love it when my patients give me new things to think about.

Ms. Nika went on. "People think they know but they don't. Like, they see me with my girlfriends and we all laughing and ki-ki-ing with our heels on and our lashes. We strutting hard and serving side eyes and slaying it and the people who ain't in our world they just stand by and stare. Like we some kind of aliens. But, see, when this is your world? Like, when you make your mind up to dress like who you know you been in your heart since you was little and be like what you feel inside? You go all the way. At least, I see it like that."

"I get it."

"Like, go hard or go the fuck home, you know? And then when folks looking all hard at you and saying dumb shit like, 'THAT'S REALLY A DUDE'--I just sashay even harder. 'Cause they don't even know that me still looking like a boy but dressed like a girl STILL look and feel a million times better to me than dressing like a boy and feeling like a girl. Even when I can't get meds, you know, hormones and you can see a little bit of hair on my face, that's better than . . .it's better than. . "

"The alternative?" I interjected.

"Yes. THAT. Anything is better than that. So it's not that it's so brave or so bold or whatever. It's just what I have to do to live and feel alive. Do that even make sense?"

I felt my eyes welling up. Partly because I felt so tremendously grateful for her transparency. But mostly because it did make sense. Being authentic was like oxygen for her. And the more I thought about what parts of my life I love the most, I realized that being my true self was always a part of it.

Always.

"Now, Dr. Mannings. What you up in here crying for?"

She reached for my hand and I let her. Right away I noticed her long acrylic nails and how they contrasted my short, square unpolished manicure. It made my eyes sting more.

I tried to say something but nothing came out. So I just shrugged. Finally, I eked out a few words. "You're beautiful."

And that? That made her cry. Which made me cry for real.

Yep.

And so we just sat there holding hands, sniffling and not saying much else. Not even fully sure why we both felt so emotional but deciding to just roll with it (like ladies often do.)

Sigh.


You know? I'm not even sure why I felt the need to write about this today. But you know? I'm just so astounded by the many facets of humankind and how much people have to teach one another. I'm so grateful to Ms. Nika for letting me in a little. I will never see a transgender person the same way again.

I won't.

For the rest of that week, I wore a bold red lip. Kind of as an homage to Ms. Nika. And every time someone commented to me about it, I gave a knowing smile. But really in my head I was saying:

"Go hard or go the f--k  home, you know?"

Yeah.

***
Happy Thursday. And I hope you're going hard.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . Ms. Nika's favorite song to strut to. And mine, too. 

Fear vs. Love.

Image credit: Courtesy of the BHE

Right after it happened, I did my best to talk to them about it. Like, to me,  it wasn't okay to be so concerned about their innocence that I didn't tell them about what happened. And to be honest? It was super lumpy.

"He shot 9 people? In a church?"

"He did."

"But why? Like, why would somebody do that?" Isaiah asked incredulously.

"Well. Partly because his mind was sick. But also because his mind and heart had been taught to hate black people."  That was all I could think to say.

"I bet those people were so, so scared." That's all that Zachary said. His eyes were cast downward and he looked somber. "To me, it seems like church is a place where you should feel safe."

"Do you think the devil got in that man when he did that?" Isaiah looked at me without blinking when he asked that. He was serious, too.

"You know what, son? I think the devil got in that man long before yesterday when he walked into that church."

"That's terrible," Isaiah responded.

I paused for a moment and tried to think of what else I could do with that teachable moment and came up with nothing. Outside of the kids knowing what happened, I can't say that I was able to come up with much else.

That is, until now.

This morning, I decided that the kids and I would watch all 37 minutes of President Obama's eulogy of Reverend Clementa Pinckney. You see, this is the kind of thing that my sister Deanna would have insisted upon and probably even have carried out herself. I could hear her in my ear saying, "This will be the perfect way to have the real conversation about race and where things are in this country. And your boys need to know. They do."

And she would be right.

And so. We watched. And I wish I could tell you that they weren't squirmy or balking at the fact that when they touched the mouse it showed them that they would have 37 whole minutes of speech-talking to watch. But yeah, they are 8 and 10 and it is what it is. That said, I made them watch it anyway.

I'm so glad that I did.

When they showed the faces of all nine victims, Zachary said, "Pause it, mom! Pause it!" And so I did. Zachary reached out and pointed to the photograph of Sharonda Singleton, one of the nine. "Did that lady have any kids? She looks so young, mom."

"Yes, she did."

"That's terrible," Isaiah said again. He added in for emphasis, "Just terrible."

"Obama sounds like a preacher," Zachary said.

"Yeah, but I bet that makes people feel good that he does." Isaiah kept watching the screen when he said that.

"I like how he talks," I added.

Finally, we all fell silent and just kept listening. President Obama honored that man's life and theirs, too. He sure did.

When the speech ended, Isaiah looked over at me with a serious expression. "You know what, mom? I think there a lot of people out there that still don't like black people. Like really, really don't." It broke my heart because you could see in his eyes that it was a truly disappointing ah hah moment.

I sighed and twisted my mouth. "I think you're right, son."

"Even though the Martin-Luther-King-days are over."

"Yep."

"I think if your mom and dad tell you some people are bad, then you believe it. That's what I think. Like if that's what everyone says at home."

Damn that Isaiah is wise.

I added on to his thought. "Or any person that has a lot of influence on you. If they tell you something when you're little, it goes into your heart."

"Remember when that boy told me that black people were bad when I was in kindergarten?"

Up until then I'd forgotten. But since I did remember, I nodded. "Yeah. I do. That was bad."

"You and dad said that it was because somebody told him that at his house probably."

I squinted my eyes and sucked in a big drag of air though my nostrils. Thank goodness Zachary broke up the tension.

"Hey! You have to be careful when you're a mom or a dad! I believe a lot of the stuff my mom and dad say to me!" he piped in.

"That's real talk, son."

"Yep! We believe our moms and dads!" His simple idea was as true as it was terrifying.

Yeah man.

Zachary was now smiling and thinking about the video games he'd get to play after his discussion. But Isaiah was quiet, even more pensive. Then he finally spoke. "Mom? Should I be scared?"

I felt my eyes starting to sting as I sifted my mind for an answer to his poignant question. The truth? I mean, open any newspaper and you'll see that it's rhetorical, that question. I mean, a lot of it speaks for itself.

Should you be scared, black child? HELL YEAH. But since fear lives to choke out love, no. We need to fight with all of our might against it. And decide that we won't succumb to it's sticky, slippery grip.

No. We. Won't.

Eventually, I spoke. "You could always be scared. But should you? I guess I just don't think that's a way to live, you know?"

"Yeah," he replied.

"You know what, Isaiah? I say just be aware. And pray, too. Yeah. I think we should pray. And love. Even when others don't. Love. And especially remember that no matter how scary things seem, there's a lot of love out there, too. A lot."

"A whole lot!" Zachary exclaimed. He clearly wanted this heavy conversation to end on a warm and fuzzy note.

Isaiah still appeared to be lost in his thoughts for moment before he finally asked one more question. "Mom? Did that man who shot those people have any children?"

"No son. Not that I know of."

He stared into my eyes and then replied firmly,"Good, mom. I'm glad." 

Damn.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .the song that always puts me in my happiest spiritual place. When I hear Yolanda Adams belting out these words, my eyes immediately well up, my heart pounds and I get goose flesh. I played this for my boys after listening to President Obama and wept the whole time. I couldn't stop thinking about the faith of those individuals and imagine them singing as this choir. That comforted me. 

If I suddenly was blessed with a singing voice? This would be the first song I'd sing. Exactly like this. 

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. 

The one who fears is not made perfect in love.  ~ 1 John 4:18

Reposting these two posts because they are salient tonight.

Had to turn the news off. It got too depressing. Instead I just sat and looked at pictures in silence. Wishing the whole world could see what I see when I look at them: Cherished boys and men whose lives matter.

After a football game and a tough loss.

With the love of my life.

With their Auntie on Christmas

With their godbrother

Snow day with my favorite sons

Chilling. But chilly.

With my favorite football coach.

Leaving church with my favorite sons

Hanging out with Uncle Keith (Zach's godfather)

Does he realize the world he's growing up in?

With my favorite older son.

With my favorite brothers who aren't suspects.

These two reposts:

This first one was originally posted on August 25, 2014. But this right here explains what's so hard about being the parents of black manchildren and the extra stuff that we are forced to be concerned with that many of our friends will never, ever have to consider. This also gives insight into the added stress and fear I must register along with all of the regular fears that every wife has for her husband. Because my husband happens to be a black man.

Sigh.

If this makes you kind of uncomfortable? Just know that you aren't alone. And if you never have to think about this stuff for your spouse or your kids? Thank God . . . or your "lucky stars" or whomever or whatever you like to thank when you get dealt a good hand. Because in this instance? You're fortunate. 

Thanks for letting me unpack, y'all.

****

Nor is life.

This past weekend

Harry and I took the kids to this really amazing restaurant in Savannah over the weekend. I don't mean amazing as in "ah-maaaazing" like the foodies say. More in the sense of it being an adventure--like nothing they'd ever experienced.

Anyways. This place was very family friendly and actually had this cool pond built into it where kids could buy a $3 bag of bait and go "fishing" right inside of the restaurant. On this particular evening, we were with a few other families which meant lots and lots of kids having lots and lots of fun.

As the kids fished, the parents enjoyed adult conversation and humor. All of it was wonderful and a great time was surely had by all from the lap babies all the way to the oldest in the group. Laughing out loud and stopping only to occasionally give a kid three more dollars or to take our turns at checking to make sure none of our kids had jumped into that man-made lagoon which, fortunately, no one did.

Finally, we realized that it was getting really late. Even for a Saturday night, we were pushing it for kids this age to be out in a restaurant. We squared up bills and prepared to go and get our respective children.

Zachary was already off and sitting on a bench with some of the other kids as Isaiah and one or two more stragglers held on to their makeshift fishing poles for whatever few seconds they could squeeze out before the bell tolled. Since the other parents were also there preparing to retrieve their own children, Harry focused only on getting Isaiah's attention.

"Isaiah. Let's go."

Harry's voice was firm. Not a yell or even a plea. Just a simple statement with a military man's intonation that said "order" and definitely not "suggestion."

Isaiah and his friends were still in their fishing pole la la land. We'd already given them all several "ten more minute" warnings--probably as much for us and our fun as it was for theirs. But either way, it was late and now, it was time to go.

It really was.

"Okay, okay, okay, Dad. Just let me do this one. . . last. . . thing!" Isaiah quickly grabbed the edge of the line and began to hook another new piece of bait on the end. "Dad, just this one--"

Harry interrupted him before he could even finish. This time his voice was a little more firm than that first time but still very controlled. "Isaiah. Now. It's time to go." The finality in it was clear. I've been at this with him long enough to know that Harry wasn't going to repeat himself--nor would he have to. Isaiah immediately laid the pole down where he found it, said, "Yes, Dad," and began walking toward Harry.

And that was that.

Isaiah scuffled ahead to join the rest of the kids all of whom were now crammed together on a swinging bench, cackling out loud and probably a few seconds away from costing all of us some money, some embarrassment and maybe even an emergency department trip. Harry turned to walk toward the front of the restaurant and just as he did, an older man who'd been watching the entire exchange spoke to him.

"I don't envy anyone who has to get kids away from all of this fun. Especially boys!" His tone was friendly and genuine. He had twinkling blue eyes and the warm, patient body language of a grandfather, which I'm willing to bet money he was. His skin was a sun kissed olive tone with deep crows' feet bursting like fireworks from the corners of those same happy eyes.

Harry chuckled and nodded to him in response. All of it amicable and easy. And that was that.

The man stepped a bit closer and spoke to Harry again, this time more directly. His voice became serious. That said, you could tell it was still well-meaning and non-threatening, especially because of the sparkle that remained in his grandfatherly eyes.

"Mind if an old man gives you a little bit of advice? I mean, just from an old guy who's been around the  parenting block a few times to a younger guy?"

Harry noted his age--I could tell--and paused deferentially. He raised his eyebrows and faced the gentleman to let him know he was listening.

I silently cringed and hoped this wouldn't take a wrong turn.

And so the Grandfather-man spoke:

"You know? If you say 'please' to them now, they'll respect you a lot more when they grow up to be men. Take it from me." When Harry didn't say anything, the Grandfather-man added this, "Just some advice coming from the heart from an older man who's raised up some sons of his own." He smiled at Harry again to make sure that it was clear that this was all goodnatured kindness and nothing more.

And, thank goodness, Harry received as such. No ripple in his forehead or clenching of his masseter; all tell-tale signs of when my husband is offended or annoyed. Nope. There was none of that. Just this inexplicable facial expression and searing eye contact.

Then Harry said this:

"Do you mind if I share something with you, sir?" The Grandfather-man turned his head a bit to the side to let Harry know his ear was bent. And so Harry went on. "I appreciate your advice, but I'm raising my two sons in a world that won't say 'please' to them. Unfortunately, this world just doesn't say 'please' to black boys and it definitely doesn't say 'please' to black men. My sons need to understand that. And they will understand that."

Damn.

I wish you could have seen the complexity of the look on the Grandfather-man's face. His blue eyes became sad in acknowledgement of this very obvious difference in the worlds his sons (and likely grandsons) face and that of this younger man before him. His lips pressed together and his brow furrowed; the Grandfather-man's eyes were still trained on Harry's. And you already know that Harry kept holding that man's gaze as if it were some kind of staring contest.

The Grandfather-man finally closed his eyes and sighed, his entire chest rising and collapsing dramatically. Then he looked back up at Harry and nodded his understanding of the heartbreaking relativity of that lighthearted advice. Heartbreaking, yes, but an inconvenient truth that simply couldn't be ignored.

Especially these days.

And let me be clear:

This was not a negative interaction between a younger black man and an older white man. And this isn't some rant about some uncomfortable conversation laced with racism or any such thing. Quite the contrary, actually. That Grandfather-man came to speak a good word to my husband from the sweetest, dearest place. He did--and my husband (who is usually skeptical of every stranger) would tell you the same.

But.

Without saying very much, you'd better believe that those men had a rich dialogue on race and inequality. Damn, they did.

You see--Harry didn't say it, but he said it:

"If my sons don't learn how to leave when someone says 'let's go', it could cost them their lives. And the chances of someone saying 'please' before beating or shooting them is, unfortunately, low."

And you know what? That's some real talk right there, man.

Messed up, yes. But realer than real.

Now. Do we think our sons deserve to hear pleases and thank yous? Sure we do. Do we also think that, as their parents, we aren't required to spin our rules into requests? You'd better believe it--with all due respect to the Grandfather-man (and to the future respect that could potentially be gained by doing so.)

Harry said he would reflect on that Grandfather-man's advice and remember to be tender at the time-to-be-tender-times with his boys. At which point I reminded him that he is quite tender at those times. Those time-to-be-tender ones, that is.

Yep.

So you know? It sucks, really. It sucks that a black boy standing in the wrong place at the wrong time--even when he's innocent and doing nothing worth even noticing--needs to recognize that sometimes--no, most times--he needs to move on the first time the order is issued. He needs to get moving with as little protest as possible and with or without the "please" or the cherry on top.

Sigh.

Oh. And have we already been having these conversations with our seven and nine year old black men-children at our kitchen table? You're damn right we have. Not because we want to, but because we have to. And if this is something you will never have to think of for your son? Say a prayer of thanks. And if the thought of us and many other families being required to makes you sad? That's okay because it should.

Our kids pleaded to stay and hang out with their friends up until the last second when we loaded them into the car.

"That's not fair," one of the boys mumbled from the back seat.

"Nor is life," Harry replied.

Nor is life.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . as poignant now as it was when he recorded it. If not more. Listen and reflect on what is happening in the world right now. I'm too sad to specifically address it but know that, like Harry, I just did.




******

And next, this one from May 19, 2014 . . . . . which gives insight of how this sounds from the mouthes of babes.

Sigh.

****

And that's the way it is.

My boy at his bus stop

When you question me for a simple answer
I don't know what to say, no
But it's plain to see, if you stick together
You're gonna find a way, yeah 
So don't surrender 'cause you can win
In this thing called love 
When you want it the most there's no easy way out
When you're ready to go and your heart's left in doubt
Don't give up on your faith
Love comes to those who believe it
And that's the way it is

~ Celine Dion

__________________________________________

She creates a space for those kids to talk about things. No, not just little kid things like Legos and Barbie dolls or Minecraft and rubber bracelets. She gives them permission to speak freely of more salient things affecting the world that they live in.

Yes. That.

So on a carpet in that room, last week she opened a dialogue with those children like she always does. But what that really means is that she carved out some time for an unplanned topic, driven by their first grade ideas and passions. Not so overly planned yet not so loosey-goosey that other things don't get done. Again, just a metaphorical window pushed up high enough for them to breathe and share.

Yes. That.

The "big Martin" he suggested they make. To which she obliged.

On this day, my baby boy raised his hand. There was something on his heart, gnawing at his seven year-old self that he needed to get out and into the open. And so, she gave Zachary the floor and, because of the magic she has already created in that room, he lifted his voice with all ears turned in his direction.

"There is this law in Georgia and in Florida and I a little bit think that it's a not good law."

That's pretty close to what he told me he said to open the conversation. And because this is not the first time I've been blessed with a child in her classroom, I know that she turned her head to him and raised her eyebrows, her nonverbal way of nudging him forward.

"Like, if you see somebody and you think they look like they might hurt you or you feel like they might be a robber or a thief or something, if you have a gun you can shoot them and you won't even go to jail. Just because you think they look like they could be a little bit, um, suspicious."

Yes. Suspicious.

He went on. "There was this boy in Florida. And he was just walking down the street minding his business and you know what? It was raining so he had on a sweatshirt but like with a hoodie. You know, a hood. And this man, he saw the boy and he thought that he looked like he was suspicious and like maybe he could be a robber or a thief. But really, he wasn't. So the man, he like chased the boy and attacked him and then they were like wrestling and stuff. But that man, he had a gun and so then he shot the boy and he DIED. And nothing happened. He didn't even go to jail."

It was raining on this day, too.

And, you know? She didn't have to say a word. Because those kids grabbed that topic and carried it right along on their own. Some were outraged and others were just sort of pensive and thinking. And, okay, we live in a fairly liberal area, but still. I love knowing that these children not only were thinking about important things but that, without having their ideas shaken or stirred, they could. So, yes. Zachary's topic grabbed their interest. Some asked questions that were quickly filled in by other children in the class who knew a bit about this, too.

"The boy, his name was Trayvon Martin," one friend said. And then she--also a first grader--commenced to let the group know a bit more about who Trayvon was specifically. All of which seemed to be accurate.

That wonderful woman who leads that wonderful space that my baby boy calls his homeroom was so in awe that she sent an email to both that little girl's parents and to Harry and me. She told us a bit of the important things our children had shared and how, from the mouths of babes, a rich discussion ensued.

Another bus stop shot

The following morning while standing at the bus stop, I asked my boy about it. I wanted to hear what he said with my own ears and answer any questions he might have. And you know? He repeated the whole story to me. He even said, "One person asked me, 'Why would they think the boy with the hoodie on was a robber or a thief?' and I just told them the truth."  And so I asked him what, indeed, that was. "That some people think that people with black skin might be a robber or a thief even if they're not. That's why it's a bad law because, like, somebody could look at my dad and think HE is a robber or a thief and just take a gun and shoot him. And they won't even go to jail."

Yes. That's what my son said. And so, like her, I said little and let him speak. And honestly, he didn't have a lot of questions, just mostly ideas that he needed to get out. "That's such a bad, bad law, Mom. And it's in Georgia, Mom. That's why I told my class because it's in Georgia where we live."

And I nodded because he's right.

"There's one thing I didn't say, though, Mama. Because I didn't want anybody to feel sad." He craned is neck to look for the bus and his little face grew serious.

"What's that, son?"

"I didn't say it but if Dad saw a man with white skin and he felt like he looked suspicious or something and then if Dad took his gun and shot THAT man then Dad WOULD go to jail. Even though that man who shot that boy in Florida didn't."

I am not kidding you. This is what my 7 year-old son told me in the morning haze as we searched for red blinking lights on a big yellow school bus. "Why do you think that, son?"

"Because," he said. "That's just the way it is."

And with that, he stepped onto Mr. Sanders' bus, waved goodbye and told me to have a great day. My eyes filled with tears as they pulled away. I'm still not sure if they were because of immense pride, immense sorrow, or both.

Yeah.

****

And thank you, Ms. R., for giving my son a place to share his truth that day and for being the same person who encouraged him to learn and sing "Lift Every Voice and Sing" in front of his class.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . "That's the Way it Is" as sung by Ms. Celine Dion. (Yes, she annoys me, but I've always liked this song and her voice.) I've heard this on my mental iPod ever since that conversation with my son.

Nor is life.

This past weekend

Harry and I took the kids to this really amazing restaurant in Savannah over the weekend. I don't mean amazing as in "ah-maaaazing" like the foodies say. More in the sense of it being an adventure--like nothing they'd ever experienced.

Anyways. This place was very family friendly and actually had this cool pond built into it where kids could buy a $3 bag of bait and go "fishing" right inside of the restaurant. On this particular evening, we were with a few other families which meant lots and lots of kids having lots and lots of fun.

As the kids fished, the parents enjoyed adult conversation and humor. All of it was wonderful and a great time was surely had by all from the lap babies all the way to the oldest in the group. Laughing out loud and stopping only to occasionally give a kid three more dollars or to take our turns at checking to make sure none of our kids had jumped into that man-made lagoon which, fortunately, no one did.

Finally, we realized that it was getting really late. Even for a Saturday night, we were pushing it for kids this age to be out in a restaurant. We squared up bills and prepared to go and get our respective children.

Zachary was already off and sitting on a bench with some of the other kids as Isaiah and one or two more stragglers held on to their makeshift fishing poles for whatever few seconds they could squeeze out before the bell tolled. Since the other parents were also there preparing to retrieve their own children, Harry focused only on getting Isaiah's attention.

"Isaiah. Let's go."

Harry's voice was firm. Not a yell or even a plea. Just a simple statement with a military man's intonation that said "order" and definitely not "suggestion."

Isaiah and his friends were still in their fishing pole la la land. We'd already given them all several "ten more minute" warnings--probably as much for us and our fun as it was for theirs. But either way, it was late and now, it was time to go.

It really was.

"Okay, okay, okay, Dad. Just let me do this one. . . last. . . thing!" Isaiah quickly grabbed the edge of the line and began to hook another new piece of bait on the end. "Dad, just this one--"

Harry interrupted him before he could even finish. This time his voice was a little more firm than that first time but still very controlled. "Isaiah. Now. It's time to go." The finality in it was clear. I've been at this with him long enough to know that Harry wasn't going to repeat himself--nor would he have to. Isaiah immediately laid the pole down where he found it, said, "Yes, Dad," and began walking toward Harry.

And that was that.

Isaiah scuffled ahead to join the rest of the kids all of whom were now crammed together on a swinging bench, cackling out loud and probably a few seconds away from costing all of us some money, some embarrassment and maybe even an emergency department trip. Harry turned to walk toward the front of the restaurant and just as he did, an older man who'd been watching the entire exchange spoke to him.

"I don't envy anyone who has to get kids away from all of this fun. Especially boys!" His tone was friendly and genuine. He had twinkling blue eyes and the warm, patient body language of a grandfather, which I'm willing to bet money he was. His skin was a sun kissed olive tone with deep crows' feet bursting like fireworks from the corners of those same happy eyes.

Harry chuckled and nodded to him in response. All of it amicable and easy. And that was that.

The man stepped a bit closer and spoke to Harry again, this time more directly. His voice became serious. That said, you could tell it was still well-meaning and non-threatening, especially because of the sparkle that remained in his grandfatherly eyes.

"Mind if an old man gives you a little bit of advice? I mean, just from an old guy who's been around the  parenting block a few times to a younger guy?"

Harry noted his age--I could tell--and paused deferentially. He raised his eyebrows and faced the gentleman to let him know he was listening.

I silently cringed and hoped this wouldn't take a wrong turn.

And so the Grandfather-man spoke:

"You know? If you say 'please' to them now, they'll respect you a lot more when they grow up to be men. Take it from me." When Harry didn't say anything, the Grandfather-man added this, "Just some advice coming from the heart from an older man who's raised up some sons of his own." He smiled at Harry again to make sure that it was clear that this was all goodnatured kindness and nothing more.

And, thank goodness, Harry received as such. No ripple in his forehead or clenching of his masseter; all tell-tale signs of when my husband is offended or annoyed. Nope. There was none of that. Just this inexplicable facial expression and searing eye contact.

Then Harry said this:

"Do you mind if I share something with you, sir?" The Grandfather-man turned his head a bit to the side to let Harry know his ear was bent. And so Harry went on. "I appreciate your advice, but I'm raising my two sons in a world that won't say 'please' to them. Unfortunately, this world just doesn't say 'please' to black boys and it definitely doesn't say 'please' to black men. My sons need to understand that. And they will understand that."

Damn.

I wish you could have seen the complexity of the look on the Grandfather-man's face. His blue eyes became sad in acknowledgement of this very obvious difference in the worlds his sons (and likely grandsons) face and that of this younger man before him. His lips pressed together and his brow furrowed; the Grandfather-man's eyes were still trained on Harry's. And you already know that Harry kept holding that man's gaze as if it were some kind of staring contest.

The Grandfather-man finally closed his eyes and sighed, his entire chest rising and collapsing dramatically. Then he looked back up at Harry and nodded his understanding of the heartbreaking relativity of that lighthearted advice. Heartbreaking, yes, but an inconvenient truth that simply couldn't be ignored.

Especially these days.

And let me be clear:

This was not a negative interaction between a younger black man and an older white man. And this isn't some rant about some uncomfortable conversation laced with racism or any such thing. Quite the contrary, actually. That Grandfather-man came to speak a good word to my husband from the sweetest, dearest place. He did--and my husband (who is usually skeptical of every stranger) would tell you the same.

But.

Without saying very much, you'd better believe that those men had a rich dialogue on race and inequality. Damn, they did.

You see--Harry didn't say it, but he said it:

"If my sons don't learn how to leave when someone says 'let's go', it could cost them their lives. And the chances of someone saying 'please' before beating or shooting them is, unfortunately, low."

And you know what? That's some real talk right there, man.

Messed up, yes. But realer than real.

Now. Do we think our sons deserve to hear pleases and thank yous? Sure we do. Do we also think that, as their parents, we aren't required to spin our rules into requests? You'd better believe it--with all due respect to the Grandfather-man (and to the future respect that could potentially be gained by doing so.)

Harry said he would reflect on that Grandfather-man's advice and remember to be tender at the time-to-be-tender-times with his boys. At which point I reminded him that he is quite tender at those times. Those time-to-be-tender ones, that is.

Yep.

So you know? It sucks, really. It sucks that a black boy standing in the wrong place at the wrong time--even when he's innocent and doing nothing worth even noticing--needs to recognize that sometimes--no, most times--he needs to move on the first time the order is issued. He needs to get moving with as little protest as possible and with or without the "please" or the cherry on top.

Sigh.

Oh. And have we already been having these conversations with our seven and nine year old black men-children at our kitchen table? You're damn right we have. Not because we want to, but because we have to. And if this is something you will never have to think of for your son? Say a prayer of thanks. And if the thought of us and many other families being required to makes you sad? That's okay because it should.

Our kids pleaded to stay and hang out with their friends up until the last second when we loaded them into the car.

"That's not fair," one of the boys mumbled from the back seat.

"Nor is life," Harry replied.

Nor is life.

***
Happy Sunday-now-Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . as poignant now as it was when he recorded it. If not more. Listen and reflect on what is happening in the world right now. I'm too sad to specifically address it but know that, like Harry, I just did.