Alix. Alix. Alix.

2015

When she was a first-year medical student, I ran into her in the lobby of the medical school. She knew my name before I knew hers. Which isn't an unusual thing for those junior to you in a place where you're both underrepresented minorities. "Hi Dr. Manning!" she said as I passed. Her eyes were dancing with admiration and deference. I was busy, but still. I wanted to try to show her the same.

I stopped. I smiled. I asked her name, too.

"Alix," she said.
"Nice to meet you, Alix," I replied. Then I said:

"Alix. Alix. Alix."

That's what I do when I meet someone and want to be sure to seal a name into my brain. And that is exactly what happened. After that, whenever I saw her moving between classes with an oversized bookbag or chatting with her comrades, I made sure to call her by her name.

"Alix. Alix. Alix."

Yup.

Ultimately, that created a space for us to talk more. I gave her my number and told her to reach out anytime. Because I care about our students, yes. But especially because I know exactly what it feels like to be a black female navigating a large majority medical institution.

Yup.

One day during Thanksgiving break of her first year, she sent me a text asking if she could join me on rounds. I replied that she could and offered some future dates. "I was hoping to join you this week," Alix said. It was Thanksgiving week. And she was on break. But once I asked if she was sure, she confirmed that this was exactly how she wanted to spend the Saturday after turkey day. And so she did.

Yup.

2015

That was in 2015. Fast forward to this month and now she is a senior medical student rotating on my team. She's a few weeks away from matching into a residency. Her stride is more confident. Her comfort level navigating around Grady so much different than the nervous freshman student who stuck close to my side back in November of 2015. I looked at her on rounds yesterday and felt a pang in my chest.

2019

"This is a full circle moment," I told her yesterday after rounds.
"Yes, it is. I feel so lucky."
"Do you remember that day you came to round with me?"
"The Saturday after Thanksgiving. I will never forget."

After that, I didn't say much. I just sat there staring at her with the same admiration and deference that she'd offered to me in the hallway nearly four years ago.

"Damn, I'm so proud of you."
"I know."
"You do?"
"Yes. I do."

We both sat there smiling for a few beats. Then I spoke again.

"Pay it forward, okay?"
"I will."
"You know what? I already knew that."

And I said that because it was true.

Alix. Alix. Alix.
I'm so glad I took the time to learn your name.


I love this job. So much, man.

Yeah.

***

I took those photos that day right after she'd finished rounding with me back in November 2015. Because I knew I'd want to go back and savor that moment someday. You know what? I was right.

Old School.

Me: "Are you from Georgia?"
Her: "No. I'm from Alabama."
Me: "Really? Where 'bout?"
Her: "Tuskegee."
Me: "No way!"
Her: "Yes indeed."
Me: *I lean forward and pluck my lapel for her to see my Booker T. Washington pin*
Her: "You went to Tuskegee?"
Me: "Yes, ma'am! The pride of the swift growing south!"
Her: "So you went to Tuskegee AND you my head doctor, huh?"
Me: "Yes, ma'am."

She beamed at me. And I beamed right back.

After that she asked me to take my lapel pin off so that she could see it better. I did as I was told and held it out to her in my palm. She raised my hand up to her eyes, squinted at it carefully, and rubbed her finger over it.

Her: "It was called Tuskegee Institute when I was in school there, you know. I graduated before you was even born! And probably 'fore your parents was born, too."
*laughter*
Me: "You know. . .all the folks who went when it was Tuskegee Institute call themselves 'old school.' So I guess that makes you old school, huh?"
Her: "Nah. That ain't old school. Mother and Daddy? Now THEY was old school. They was there when it was still called TUSKEGEE NORMAL"
Me: "Whoa. Tuskegee NORMAL? Now that IS old school."
Her: "Mmm hmmm. . . It was THE TUSKEGEE NORMAL SCHOOL FOR COLORED TEACHERS." She annunciated every word when she said that and then she let out a sigh. "Mmmm hmmm. You could be a teacher or a farmer--or do home economics. That's what I did. Mother, too."

After that she just sat there . . . first staring at the pin in my hand and then back up at the stiff lapel of my white coat. A complicated expression washed over her face followed by a wistful smile. Then she closed my fingers around the pin, patted my hand and gave it a loving squeeze.

My patient didn't say much more after that. But honestly? She didn't have to. I strapped her onto my back along with the rest of my ancestors and vowed to go even harder.

Damn right.

I love this job.

____________________________

The Tuskegee Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I

Tuskegee, thou pride of the swift growing South
We pay thee our homage today
For the worth of thy teaching, the joy of thy care;
And the good we have known 'neath thy sway.
Oh, long-striving mother of diligent sons
And of daughters whose strength is their pride,
We will love thee forever and ever shall walk
Thro' the oncoming years at thy side.

II

Thy Hand we have held up the difficult steeps,
When painful and slow was the pace,
And onward and upward we've labored with thee
For the glory of God and our race.
The fields smile to greet us, the forests are glad,
The ring of the anvil and hoe
Have a music as thrilling and sweet as a harp
Which thou taught us to hear and to know.

III

Oh, mother Tuskegee, thou shinest today
As a gem in the fairest of lands;
Thou gavest the Heav'n-blessed power to see
The worth of our minds and our hands.
We thank thee, we bless thee, we pray for thee years
Imploring with grateful accord,
Full fruit for thy striving, time longer to strive,
Sweet love and true labor's reward.

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.

One more reason to go hard.

 

The conversation usually goes something like this:

"You went to medical school in Nashville?"

"Sure did."

"You were at Vanderbilt?"

"No. . . . actually, I went to Meharry."

"Me. . .harry? Hmmm."

"Yes. Meharry Medical College. It's a historically black medical school and dental school. One of the oldest and most prestigious."

"Oh, yeah. That's right. Meharry. Okay, cool."

"Yeah. Cool."

This beautiful and bright young woman is one of our newest interns at Emory. She is also a recent graduate of Meharry Medical College--my alma mater. More than likely, she was the one saying those words during orientation this past week just as I did many moons ago.

This picture was taken in my home on Friday afternoon. Yep. Right on the couch in my sunroom. As soon as we met, I gave her my phone number and we talked about the fact that we had Meharry in common. Which meant we were automatic family in more ways than the parts that were already obvious. 

And what's cool is that she believed me. 

She sent me a text on Friday morning asking if we could meet. And you know what? I invited her straight into my home. Sure did. And I did that because I wanted her to know early on that --as long as she was here and as long as I was here, too -- that the light here will always be on for her. And that she will always have a soft place to land.

Always.

I didn't always have that. In fact, during most of my residency I didn't have that at all. But she will. And not just from me, but from others, too. Because it makes a difference.

It does.

You know what? I felt recharged when I saw her standing in that crowd of interns. Like I wanted to shadow box in a corner and come out swinging even harder. It's funny. Knowing that she is here makes me want to do better, to set an even higher standard for myself, and to just. . .I don't know. . .go hard, man. Because my mama and my daddy taught me to always remember that what I do is always about more than just me. Meharry taught me that, too.

Yeah, man. I already have a lot of reasons to go hard. But today, she is just one more reason.

*nod*

I see you, little sister. And I promise to always remember that you see me, too.

***

Happy Saturday.

I'm OK. You're OK.

Isaiah this morning: Living the dream. . .

 "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

~ Eleanor Roosevelt

____________________________________________________

I was riding in the car with Isaiah the other day on the way home from school.  Like always, he was running down, in great detail, every little thing that had happened that day. Usually, I drive along saying, "Uh huh. . uh huh. . oh wow, bud, really?. . . .uh huh. . .you did?. . . uh huh. . ." 

You get the picture.

Mostly it's stuff like who got a "silent lunch" or who was the mystery reader or what girl he thinks he (just might) consider marrying.  But this day, he threw me for a loop.

"One of my friends asked me to come over for a play date soon, but I don't think so."

"Oh, yeah? Which one?"

He said the name and I was a bit surprised. This kid was a part of his "crew."  Isaiah has a group of pals at school, all of whom are kindergartners, and as a pack, they literally look like a Benetton ad.  He speaks of them nonstop, and the thought of him referring to part of the UN posse as a no go for a play date was perplexing.

"Why wouldn't you want to go over his house? Isn't he your friend?"

"He is."

Uh okay.

"So why wouldn't you want to go for a play date with him?"

"Oh, because he said that people with black skin are bad and not smart."

Whaaaaaaaaa???? 

You know the needle scratched the record on that one.  I could feel my protective mommy instincts revving up BIG TIME.

"What???"  I tried not to sound as outraged as I was feeling.

Isaiah was super, duper calm.  So I decided I needed to follow his lead.  I took a deep breath and asked more questions.

"Why would he say something like that?" (Dumb question, right? He's in kindergarten so of course he heard an adult say it. Duh.) "I mean, how did that make you feel?"

"Well, it didn't make me feel good, Mom. That's for sure."

And I'm telling you. He said it like he was talking about soccer practice or something on his Nintendo DSi. Like it was no big deal.  No sweat off of his back.

"Who was there with you?"  (Yes, another dumb question. I know who is in his crew and that he is the only member that happens to be black. Interestingly, the child who dropped this zinger was of color--just not the black persuasion.)

He named all of the kids who were there. In that group of five kids, a myriad of ethnicities were represented.  But my Isaiah was the lone African-American kid. I thought I would be sick. Or worse, that I would go to the school and kick someone's ass.

"So. . . . .what happened next? I mean. . .what did you do, son?"

I hated the thought of him being singled out or bullied or even having some seed of self hatred planted for his race at such an early age.  I could feel my blood boiling. . . . .

"Mom, I just looked at him and said, 'What are you even talking about? That is a dumb thing to say.'"

"So then what happened?" I pressed.  I wanted every detail. I was prepared to march on Washington, and I needed facts. Facts, I say.

"He said it again. He said that people with black skin are bad and not smart."

What the. . .? Now I was sure I was going to kick somebody's ass. Or their mama's ass. 100% guar-own-teed.

"But you know what, Mom? I knew it wasn't true so I didn't care."

Yay. Yay, yay, yay.

I can't tell you how many times I've worried about my child not loving who he is, especially considering we don't live in a predominantly black neighborhood. Without being militant, I make every effort to give him as many reasons as possible to be proud of his heritage and of the ancestors that gave so much for us to be here. The day I learned that he would be the only black male in his class, I remember praying that the things we'd discussed with him had marinated enough to carry him through times like this.

I could feel my eyes tingling with tears, the emotions behind which I could not explain. I was speechless. But Isaiah wasn't.

"So you know what I said to him?  I said, 'That's a dumb thing to say because that is not true. FIRST of all, Miss W. is our teacher and SHE has black skin. And SECOND of all, Mr. M. has black skin and he's the PRINCIPAL so you KNOW he's smart and not bad!"  He said it all with that exasperated "duh" type voice. Like his friend had said something that was total nonsense.

I felt this weird mixture of wanting to cry and pride at the same time. He kept going.

With a childishly innocent laugh he added, "and guess what my other friend said?" (His Jewish friend with white skin, that is.)

I was afraid to guess, but knew I needed to hear it. "What did he say?"

He snorted and giggled, "He said, Yeah and THIRD of all, OBAMA has black skin and HE is the PRESIDENT of the WHOLE UNITED STATES! So DUHHHH!' and Mommy, everybody started laughing really hard because how can the president be bad and not smart?" He cackled a silly cackle.

Now I really wanted to cry.

"Did you tell anyone?"

"About what?"

"About what he said to you."

"It was a dumb thing to say so we all just ignored it and kept playing."

"Oh. . . okay. Do you think maybe we should tell Miss W.?"

"About what?"

"Isaiah! About what he said to you about black skin."

"No, Mom. That was a dumb thing to say. Hey, can I have a hot dog for dinner?"

"Maybe.  So are you okay. . .I mean, about what he said about people with black skin?"

"I'm okay with having black skin because that's how God made me. And you and dad told me to be proud of how God made me." That one knocked the wind from my chest. "Oh, Mom? I definitely don't want any brussel sprouts or spaghetti again."

I caught my breath and said, "Okay. You can have salad.  Uuhhh. . .so are y'all still friends? You and him?"

"Oh yeah, Mom, he's still my friend. Now he knows that what he said was dumb so now he doesn't think that anymore. . . . ."

Okay.

I drove in silence trying to get my head around the whole conversation and marveling at the beautiful innocence of children.

". . .but, Mom? I still don't want to go to his house for a play date."


Damn.