The Journey Home

Follow up to Coincidental Journey.

At my daughter's elementary school, a corner at the end of a dark hallway has been dubbed "Lost and Found." Here, is the supposedly temporary home of a motley assortment of hats, gloves, scarves, backpacks, books, and just about any other item not securely attached to a child when they depart home for school. When I pass this area, I often wonder about these items and how they came to be separated from their owners. Were they left behind at a lunch table? Forgotten on a playground bench? Dropped carelessly in the library? Somehow, in the midst of a breakneck jaunt to the gym with a constantly expanding "to-do" list swirling in my brain, my eye always manages to fall on this heap of discarded things and, each time, I am struck with familiarity. I have spent the better part of my life in much the same condition; lost like that blue jean jacket with the striped lining; as forgotten as that lone tinged glove, waiting and wondering when, if ever, the person I belonged to would venture over to my dark corner of the world, fish through the heap and, upon seeing me there, crumpled and slightly grungy, rejoice to find me at last.

Last year, I was fortunate enough to experience exactly that. My sister, Nia, asked a friend to plug my name into a Myspace search almost as an afterthought. Only 6 results were returned and I just happened to be at the top of the list. That single act triggered a chain of events that have turned my life on end. After so much time in the Lost and Found, I had grown accustomed to it, had settled in and was determined to make the best of it. Fantasies of miraculous reunions had been filed away as just that, fantasy. While I was amazed and excited to see that seemingly miraculous message on MySpace, I was also frightened and unsettled.

Think of a man who is given three months to live. He is initially shocked, horrified perhaps, by mortality but after a few weeks, he comes to terms with it and sets out to spend the rest of his time on earth living life to the fullest. He empties his bank accounts, sells all his worldly possessions and leaves home to see the world. As the three months draw to a close, he has travelled to every corner, seen every sight, met people from every race, culture and class. He has eaten, drank and been merry and now, he is ready to die with a smile on his sunburnt face. Then suddenly, he receives an urgent message from his physician, the diagnosis was wrong, test were switched in the lab, an apology is offered. He has many more healthy years left to live. Now, imagine his shock and perhaps horror as he must return to his life, now penniless and jobless with no home to which to return. He had embraced death, let go of his hopes, dreams and aspirations for the future because the future had ceased to exist for him. But now, it was back, laid out and waiting to be filled.

For me, my mother and any family that came along with her had ceased to exist. It was so much easier that way, so much easier than the constant wondering and nagging questions. But, just like that, the door to that room of my psyche was kicked open and out poured 26 years of emotions all at once. It was overwhelming. I spoke to my sister daily. I struggled to find words, to frame questions that would provide me what I needed from this woman who was, in the blink of an eye, now my sister. It occurred to me that I should know everything about her.

And then there was my mother. Her first attempt at calling me ended up as a breathless voicemail, "Ayanna, this is your mom, Ruth . . ." It is still surreal. When we finally spoke, she asked if I hated her, said that had been her dread from the moment my father took me away. Of course I didn't hate her but I needed answers. We talked off and on for weeks, filling in the blanks between back then and now. Then my aunt, Yvonne, also a new addition to the cast of characters in my life, bought round trip tickets for me and my girls to spend the entire week of Thanksgiving meeting, greeting and getting to know our family.

The night before the trip to Philadelphia, I got jitters. I ran to the pharmacy and blew $50 on random items that I could really have lived without. In my last conscious moments, before finally sinking into the sea of sleep, I thought of my mother. We had been having regular telephone conversations since that first awkward call in August and each time we spoke she told me how “hyped” she was, how she could barely contain her joy. I was flattered by that and I loved how she spoke her feelings. By the time November and the trip rolled around, she had pretty much filled me in on how we came to be separated and the years thereafter.

According to her version of things, she was a singer in a band on her way to stardom. She met my father, a blues musician new to the Philadelphia scene, who charmed her with his "deep" conversation and artistic passion. She left her then boyfriend, my sister’s father, to pursue this electric romance. But, as the story often goes, the fire of those early days erupted into a violent relationship. They had brutal battles even before I was born. He was then, as I also remembered him, a devout Buddhist. Nia said that he would beat our mother unconscious then go and kneel before the scroll, prayer beads in hand, eyes closed, and chant for hours. Once, he ordered that Nia should go live with her father or he would leave and our mother obliged. There is a terrible, unspoken message scribbled on the heart when a mother chooses a man instead of her child. Nia has still not recovered from that betrayal.

Both Nia and our mother have recounted the feeling of returning to our Priscilla Street home to find it empty. Every scrap of furniture had been removed and I was gone. My father summoned my mother to family court, had her sign away her parental rights and left the state shortly thereafter, beginning the period of separation that would span 26 years.

The morning of the trip, I awoke to the sound of rain and the alarm clock announcing that the day I had so longed for and so dreaded had come. Getting the girls ready, to the airport, through security and to the gate without any major mishap gave me something else to focus on. On the plane, I flipped through SkyMall magazine with little interest. My daughter, Randi, stared out onto the sea of clouds, enjoying her first plane ride and exclaimed “Mommy, let’s look for God!” When we began our descent and the city of Philadelphia came into view, my heart leapt from the starting line.

I had one of those moments where I thought I would hide out in the ladies room until nightfall and then catch a return flight back home but the girls would not have cooperated so we made our way toward the rendezvous point with Randi several paces ahead as usual and Eden walking terribly slow and insisting on rolling her own suitcase. Then finally, at the end of a long, narrow hallway, we emerged into a crowd of cameras and smiling, expectant faces! Nia stepped forward and wrapped me in a welcoming embrace. As much as I hate to cry in front of my children or in public, the tears were already on their way. Nia stepped back. There seemed to be this uniform parting of the crowd and there in front of me, dressed in the black a red suit that she told me she had bought to wear for this occasion, was my mother. As I fell into her open arms, I wasn’t thinking about her absence from my life or the reasons why. At that moment, none of it mattered. Here was the person I belonged to, even if only biologically. Here was the person to fill the gaping hole in my life. Light had finally reached into my dark corner of the world and I rejoiced.

First Day Musings

The first day of school is charged with electric energy. My seven year old leaps from her bed and into her new clothes and shoes at a speed to be unmatched for the duration of the year. Outside, traffic has increased exponentially. Throngs of children dot street corners along our route, sizing each other up as they wait for the long yellow buses that have returned to once again delay my journey to work. Parents, too, are out in full force, in vehicles and on foot, descending upon the school that has been our educational hub since prekindergarten.

As we sit in the carpool line, moving at barely inches an hour, Randi’s anticipation is building to fever pitch. I worry that if we don’t get to the curb soon she may launch into orbit.

Glancing out the window, I see a tall and imposing figure, dressed entirely in black with slick, black hair pulled into a ponytail that stops just below his waist. Both of his massive arms are inked from wrist to shoulder and with another tattoo covering half his face from forehead to chin, he looks more Mayan warrior than Roswell resident. But, in his left hand he gently grips the tiny hand of a sweet faced child dressed in pink and denim with two long braids dangling against her cherub cheeks. I cannot hold back the smile. I wish everyday could be like this first day, all that enthusiasm and excitement at the expectation of learning adventures yet to be had, classroom memories yet to be made, lifetime friendships to be forged. And the parents there, pushing, encouraging, soothing and reassuring, as they deposit their little warriors at the door.

Tybee's behind us now. The vacation was a huge success. It feels so good to just get away, leave the area, get the heck out of dodge, etc. When we hit the coast, the landscape changed abruptly from rugged rural Georgia pines to sweeping marsh lands and palms. Tybee Island is small but in an everything-seems-within-reach, unintimidating way. Our rental apartment was spacious, well-appointed and just two blocks from the beach, which we made a bee-line for as soon as we were unpacked. Randi was out of her flip-flops and splashing out into the surf immediately despite the fact that the winter was just behind us and the Atlantic still frigid.

We were the absolute epitome of vacationers, spending lazy mornings in, wandering aimlessly around town, poking our noses into every quaint little nook was saw and dining at restaurants with inviting signage! I craved seafood the entire week and was not disappointed. Randi, ever the shrimp lover, was not complaining.

The weather was warm-ish the first day and chilly to downright cold the rest of the week. Mother Nature sure didn't give a hill of beans if it was our big spring break trip! There were raging thunderstorms and record low temps but overall it was still a great trip. Our last morning, we took a boat tour that promised dolphin spotting and we were not disappointed. Several groups were surfacing at intervals all around us. Birds lined a jetty dividing the ocean belonging to Georgia from the ocean belonging to South Carolina. All the dolphins were on the South Carolina side. I guess the water's better over there!

I'm already planning another trip down in warmer weather, moms and kids this time. I can't wait to get back!

Life Lately

Things are busy these days. I like it like that. There's a motion that feels like progress. Its as though I'm being pushed along by an unseen current, further and higher. At times, I am breathless from the constant going and doing, breathless and exhausted, but the alternative, sedentary and bored, makes me appreciate it all the more.

After longing for another trip to Tybee Island after taking Randi in 2005 (Eden was there but in gestation at the time), I finally decided to start making some serious plans. I talked to Timm about it and just days later, Good Day Atlanta featured the island as part of its "Cheap Trips" series. I went out to the website, poked around and eventually found Mermaid Cottages. The site advertised vacation rentals from apartments to cottages to full blown homes with pools either on or near the beach or on the marsh. My initial plan was to gather up a few pals and combine resources to get a rental on the beach for three nights. I emailed the owner and waited.

The next day, an idea for a magazine article featuring Tybee began to take shape. I revamped my plan, nixed the idea of a group trip and decided to shoot for a family vacation. Since Eden will be out of town with her grandma, that means that it'll just be Randi, Timm and I. While I'm a bit sad that I will not see my baby girl splashing in the foam at the edge of the sea or digging in the sand, she is quite high maintenance and would have put the"relaxation factor" of this trip in serious jeopardy. She's a whiner and a meany and I would have spent more time breaking her and Randi up than I would have liked. That would have been too much like my regular life to be happening on vacation!

So, with the new plan in mind, I called the cottage owner, Diane, and left a voicemail about my request change and the article on Tybee. She called me back and after a pleasant exchange, she expressed excitement at the possibility of an article. She said, to my glee, "we'll get you down here so that you can write about us." She suggested that I go back to the site and look at three of the properties that she thought would best suit my needs and I selected a two bedroom, one bath apartment two blocks from the beach, complete with a private shower in the back yard "for sandy bottoms." When it was all over, our three night stay stretched to five with a great discount on the normally fantastic $125/night rate plus a few complimentary nights thrown in on top of that! After three vacationless years, this is long overdue so I cannot thank Diane and Mermaid Cottages enough.

Time seems to have slowed to a crawl. I can't wait for these two miserable weeks to pass so that I can spend a few mornings watching the sun rise over the Atlantic with my child and my love at my side, to eat fresh shrimp while watching the waves break along the coast. My plan is to explore by day and write by night. Timm will have all his fancy-smancy cameras and equipment to capture it all. I want Randi worn out at the end of every day and up early each morning ready to head out for food/fun/sun/sand/whatever her little heart desires.

And, as if the anticipation weren't enough for that alone, I''m heading to Willacoochee for Tawana's wedding before the vacation even begins! The invite came as a personal note from the bride about a week ago, when the plan was to vacation from Monday - Thursday only. I wasn't certain we'd be able to attend since the logistics were a mess. I couldn't see driving to Douglas on Saturday then driving back home and then back down to Tybee on Monday. That's just too much. But, those complimentary rooms nights came to the table and the problem solved itself.

I love the way the universe works. I remember hearing on The Secret that "the energy flows where you attention goes." What an amazing example of that! I never had a doubt that this trip was going to be a success and everything I focused on, manifested itself.

I'm applying that same thinking to yet another endeavor (I said I was busy!). That obscure little book that I picked up in the library last summer, Morality for Beautiful Girls, part of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series by British author, Alexander McCall Smith. These books are set in Botswana and orbit the life of the main character Precious Ramotswe, a headstrong, good hearted, independent woman who starts a detective agency to solve local mysteries. Her methods are unorthodox and sometimes dangerous and even hilarious. I picked up Morality because the title was intriguing. I often wonder what goes through the heads of beautiful women, the ones who have always been handed everything on a silver platter. That's not to say that I'm an ugly girl, but I'm just not one of those girls who would be widely classified as beautiful in this social system of pop culture that we live in. Exactly what kind of morality could they have? This author obviously had a clue about how I felt. I had never heard of him or the book series. It sat in my car for weeks while I listened to what I deemed to be "better" books. Babylon Sisters by Pearl Cleage was one of them. I recognized the cover from one of those book club promotion ads for "black" books where you get like a thousand titles for 15 cents plus shipping. Seemed interesting enough as I was thumbing through the shelf of audio books hurriedly, snatching out anything that looked halfway interesting in an effort to get to the check out counter and out of the library before Eden started with her restless whining. (I told you she's a whiner!)

Little did I know that I would have the opportunity to sit down to dinner with Pearl Cleage just months later while she poured sweet honey from her wisdom cup of writing, gave her opinion on the politics of the day, spoke of growing up in a black nationalists household as daughter of one of the founding fathers of the Shrine of the Black Madonna and shared tidbits on love and romance along with her husband who sat by her side. They exuded passion.

Anyway, Morality finally made it to the CD player. I love audio books. I rarely have time to read actual books anymore. Audio books allow me to fill idle car time with great stories. They actually make the time seem shorter by allowing me to zone out and get lost in another time or place. I'm known for sitting in the car long after arriving at my destination glued to the story waiting for the climax of a scene or the answer to a pressing issue. In the case of Morality the reader was an apparently famous South African woman so the accent really gave the story something special. Also, because the book is set in Botswana, there's vernacular mixed in with words from tribal languages, so having an African native read made for a much easier and more enjoyable experience. Overall the book was good not OMG this is the best book ever!!! The characters were well developed and the story line was interesting. It eventually made its way back to the library and life went on.

That was last summer. Imagine my surprise when, just a few weeks ago, I was mulling over the episode of Big Love that had just wrapped when a sneak peek of a new series began to flash on the screen. Jill Scott, dressed in bright African garb, began to speak with a distinctive accent. Snippets of familiar scenarios play out quickly between the narrator's voice over and just as I was beginning to think, surely this isn't that book, the narrator went on to announce The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency would premier in March! My mouth fell open.

With the season opener less than two weeks away, I went out to the show's website again (after stalking it for a few days to be sure I wasn't dreaming) and noticed that a promotional contest was being held called "My Number premise is to nominate a woman who exemplifies one of the many characteristics of theOne Lady." The show's main character, Precious (Jill), such as determination, confidence, inspiration, etc. I'm not a contesting girl. I'm the girl who has never won anything from the few random drawings, sweepstakes and contests entered, except for that coloring contest in 4th grade and a scratch off lotto ticket here and there. So, when I saw the HBO contest and what it was about, I felt compelled. After drawing a blank for a few hours about who I would nominate, it kind of just hit me over the head; NIA! I pieced together bits of my Thanksgiving article to fit the 300 word maximum, found a photo from my trip and submitted my entry. As of tonight, we have 31 votes. Click here to cast YOUR vote. When we win (yes, when), my sister will received $1,000 dollars and I'll win an 8 day/7 night safari getaway for two to Botswana. Winners are to be announced in Mid-April but . . . I'm planning my safari wardrobe now!

What the Stimulus Means For My Wallet

NEW YORK (CNNMoney.com) -- Now it's time to make a deal on economic stimulus: Key members of the Senate and House are in talks to craft a final bill. They hope to reach an agreement ASAP.

Whatever they come up with, there's a good chance it will closely resemble the version passed Tuesday by the Senate.

The Senate provisions carry more weight because the Senate, unlike the House, cannot pass a final package without the support of a few Republicans. Only three Republicans voted for the Senate bill. Should the final package's cost or contents be substantially different, those Republican votes could be lost.

So using the Senate as a guide, we took a look at what the financial rescue package might mean for you.

Here's a rundown of many of the measures that would benefit individuals directly. It's likely that many, if not all, of these measures will make it into the final package. CNNMoney.com will update this list as negotiators hammer out a final deal.:

Make Work Pay Credit: The bill provides a $500 credit per worker and a $1,000 credit per dual-earner couple. The full credit would be paid to people making $70,000 or less ($140,000 per dual-earner couple). It would also be refundable, which means that even very low-income families who don't make enough to owe income tax would be able to claim it. Estimated cost:$139.4 billion.

One-time payments to those who don't work: For seniors who don't work, as well as disabled veterans and retired railroad workers, the bill provides a one-time $300 payment. Estimated cost: $17 billion.

Break for higher income families: The bill includes a one-year provision to protect middle- and upper-middle-income families from having to pay the Alternative Minimum Tax. The AMT was intended primarily for high-income taxpayers but has in recent years threatened to engulf those lower down the income scale. Estimated cost: $70 billion.

Temporary credit for car buyers: The bill would let those who buy a car in 2009 deduct the interest they pay on their car loan as well as the sales tax charged in the purchase. The full deduction would be available to those earning less than $125,000 ($250,000 for joint filers). Estimated cost: $11 billion.

Temporary credit for home buyers: The bill doubles the size of an existing temporary home buyer credit to $15,000. It also would allow all home buyers to claim it. And it removes the requirement under current law that the credit be paid back. Estimated cost: $39 billion.

New college credit: The bill introduces the American Opportunity Tax Credit, a $2,500 credit for higher education expenses. The full credit would be available to those making less than $80,000 ($160,000 for joint filers). Estimated cost: $10.3 billion.

Pell Grants: The bill increases the maximum Pell Grant by $281 in the 2009-10 academic year and by $400 in the 2010-11 academic year. Estimated cost: $14 billion.

Child care credit: The bill increases eligibility for the child care tax credit by lowering the income threshold that must be met to $8,100. That will allow lower income families to claim more of the credit. Estimated cost: $7.2 billion.

Earned income tax credit: The credit will be temporarily increased from 40% to 45% of qualifying earnings for low-income families with three or more children. It also includes a marriage penalty relief provision for couples who qualify for at least a portion of the credit. Estimated cost: $4.6 billion.

Direct lifeline benefits
Health insurance help for the jobless: The bill includes provisions to help eligible jobless workers pay for health insurance under Cobra. Cobra coverage allows newly laid off workers to keep health insurance provided by their former employers for a period of time.

One of the provisions offers a government subsidy -- 50% of premiums for 12 months -- to help out-of-work Americans pay for healthcare. Estimated cost: $20 billion.

Another provides states funding to help pay for expanded Medicaid rolls for workers who've lost their jobs and can't afford health care on their own or can't get Cobra coverage because their former employer doesn't offer a health care plan. Estimated cost: $87 billion.

Unemployment benefits: The bill provides jobless workers with an additional 20 weeks in unemployment benefits, and 13 weeks on top of that if they live in what's deemed a high unemployment state, of which there are about 30 currently. Estimated cost: $27 billion.

In addition, the weekly unemployment benefit will temporarily increase by $25 on top of the roughly $300 jobless workers currently receive. Estimated cost: $8.8 billion

Plus, the first $2,400 of benefits in 2009 would be exempt from federal income taxes. Estimated cost: $4.7 billion.

Also included in the bill is an incentive for states to provide unemployment insurance coverage for part-time workers and for workers who quit their jobs for compelling family reasons. Estimated cost: up to $2.6 billion.

Food stamp payments: The bill includes a provision would increase food stamp payments by 12%, so a family of four would see an additional $71 on top of the $588 per month they receive currently. Estimated cost: $16.5 billion.

Help for needy families: The bill provides $2.3 billion to states to create a contingency fund through 2010 for the welfare program called Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, which provides cash assistance to the needy. Estimated cost: $2.3 billion.

First Published: February 11, 2009: 5:51 AM ET Find this article at: http://money.cnn.com/2009/02/11/news/economy/stimulus_individuals/index.htm?iref=topnews

Almost 29

2009 is full steam ahead. Already February and it seems like I was just ringing in the new year with the girls. My birthday is this month and I'm semi excited. 29 induces eye-rolling and issues a whole-hearted Come on, get it over with already to the 30 looming ahead.


I look at aging with double vision. On one hand, I like the ticking off of years, the reflection on times gone by. There is that rush of relief at having dodged the bullets of homelessness, unemployment, random acts of violence, major illness requiring a hospital stay, etc. for yet another year. I feel older and slightly wiser, more surefooted and comfortable in my own skin.


On the other hand, I am burdened with the reality of choices made, bad hands dealt, dreams deferred and the toll that procrastination and self-doubt has taken on my life. Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda and I do a wild dance in a room all decked out for the pity party of the century. I am tempted to write myself a 10-page letter that begins: Dear Ayanna, thank you for runing my life. Who knows where I would be right now if it weren't for your dysfunctional, idealistic, impatient, socially inept ass. And there is that dread of what might be lurking ahead, the new and horrible circumstances that await. Will I be prepared? Will I crumple and fold? Will I make it one more year?


This year on my birthday, I don't want to entertain either the optimist or the pessimist in me. I just want to wake up and celebrate the fact that I was born, that I have lived 29 years, birthed two babies, touched a handful of lives, and experienced summer's sun, autumn's colors, winter's snow and so many springtimes of rebirth.

Inaugural Eve

I feel like such an incredible nutcase tonight! Hit firmly in the heart by he double whammy of MLK Day and the eve of Barack's inauguration, I've been misty eyed all day. Pathetic! In the midst of trying to explain everything to my daughters who, at 6 and 3 cannot quite grasp the full significance of today's observances or tomorrow's festivities, my voice cracked in the middle of a sentence and my poor babies were subjected to watching their usually Herculean mother dab the corners of her eyes. I make a habit of crying in private, not crying, just doing it in behind closed doors when the need arises but this time, I was OK with them seeing me come unglued because the occasion warrants such an emotional outpouring. Perhaps it will make it more memorable to them in the years to come.

I cannot imagine raising children in a society that regarded them as less than human. Those who came before us, those who marched and spoke and pushed ahead and sat in jails and even those who met death on freedom highway seem today as mythical mighty beings who paved a road right into the future. I mean, there I was last year, casting a ballot for a black president without having boycotted a single bus. This does all seem somewhat surreal.

Tomorrow, Barack Obama will become the 44th president of the United States. The greatest victory for me perhaps will be the fact that I will watch him recite the oath of office in my company's break room, one of only a small number in a sea of smirking republicans! I can't wait!

From the Mouth of Babes - Real Housewives

My six year old, after wandering in and out of a 2-hour long viewing of The Real Housewives of Orange County, finally reached the breaking point and shouted, "What is this show about anyway!"

Sadly, I had no answer. . .

And so it begins . . .

Today marks a monumental shift in my state of being . . .

With the exception of a few articles that I've written for Columns Magazine over the past two years, my writing career has been non-existent. Even blogging, which started so strong and held so much potential, fizzled and died. Writing is no easy chore, even for those who do it for a living and for someone like me, someone with big dreams and huge goals that center around a book that exists only as an outline in my head, finding the time and confidence and focus to sit down and pound the keys is daunting. Motherhood provided an instant excuse. After baby number two, I had pretty much convinced myself that the only way I would see my children into adulthood with my sanity intact was to press pause on any notions of grandeur and personal goals I held and to focus directly on them every second of every day. This seems to have worked well for a while. I barely noticed the weight I was gaining or how much I hated my job or how unsuitable my second daughter's father actually was or how absolutely bored with life I had become. So, within the space of several months, I shook my self (somewhat) loose from that maternal comfort cocoon I had wrapped around myself and realized that I had it all wrong. The amount of time I had wasted simmering in there was disgusting. The psychological harm I had done, the barriers I had built up in my own mind were so sturdy that I'm still digging out.

My focus has shifted. While my children are still sit at the most important position in my life, I have come to realize that I need to take care of me too. That I had better or by the time my youngest graduates from high school I will look in the mirror and realize that I am too old and too fat and too scared to pick everything up right there and start over again. Sure, people do it everyday but I'm not people and I know me. I read something recently that said we often assign our goals to a mythical island called "Someday Isle." And we say, "someday, I'll do this" or "someday, I'll do that" and of course, since this place is not real, "someday' never seems to materialize. We'll this year, I'm selling all my real estate on Someday Isle, taking the proceeds and funding a future that starts right now with deliberate, immediate and urgent forward motion.

So, it was after much prodding and twisting of my own wrist and repeating affirmations gathered from the four corners of the each, I joined the Atlanta Writer's Club. Well, actually, I filled out the membership application but close enough.

I passed on the option to join online, which for me is rare. Consider the fact that I haven't paid a bill in person since the late 90's. I shop online, write online, meet people online, keep up with my friends and family members online. Its a way of life for me. So skipping on the online application is quite a statement. I wanted to assign a bit of holiness to the process, it was a sacrament. I printed the application, selected one of my favorite pens and with a still hand, filled in my name and address, selected the membership type and totalled the fee on the appropriate line. And all the while, it was as if the whole world had slowed to a halt, the planet ceased to spin, cities fell silent, people were locked in suspended animation. All I could hear across the vast expanse of earth was the scratch of my pen on the paper as I signed a new phase of my life into existence. I folded the application slowly and purposefully, sliding my fingers firmly over the paper before I tucked it into an envelope. An envelope which I licked. Yes, licked. This is a sacrament after all, many of which require way worse things such as the drinking of blood or self mutilation. There wasn't even a paper cut though it would have added a nice effect.

I tucked the envelope away and the world around me churned back to life. I went back to work replying to emails, scheduling meetings, answering phone calls. I went back to my life, the mundane and monotonous tasks of a usual day at work with a new expectancy now humming in my heart right alongside a thundering drumbeat of fear and regret. No doubt, this is going to be one interesting year. . .

I Am My Own Daughter

Kola Boof, born Naima in Sudan on March 3, 1972. Her parents were murderedin front of her for out against slavery and the oppression of Black Africans by Arabic political factions in Sudan.

After her parent's murder, her grandmother put her up for adoption because she was "too dark." She was sent o England to live iwth an Ethiopian family that also rejected her for fear that she might be "a witch" because she wasjust "too smart, too talkative" for a girl child. On the adoption circuit again, she eventually ended up in the US with a black family in a lower class area of Washington, DC.

Naima had a home at last. Says Kola Boof today, "I knew that I was special and that I had been placed with very special people in a very special paradise. I felt that something magical was going to happen. You must understand that the Black Americans are very magical people-because their hearts are broken."

Naima became Kola and went on to become an actress, a model, a soldier in the Sudanese People's Liberation Army, a poet, am author and, most notoriously, Osama Bin Laden's mistress. Her writing has been banned in several countries. Her publishing house in Morroco was bombed. She'll be beheaded if she's ever caught in Sudan.

Kola and her two sons currently live in hiding in the U.S. under some protection program or another.

I've been reading up on this woman, who I found rather by accident while browsing through a list submitted on Amazon of the best memoirs out there. Kola's Diary of a Lost Girl was listed caught my attention for obvious reasons and after a little digging found that she had also authored a piece called I Am My Own Daughter which grabbed me instantly.

In her own words, she says, "But I am Kola Boof. I began as a model and actress . . . I lived a highly remarkable child and teenhood, one so emphatically traumatic that most people would claim it's "unbelievable". And yet...it's the truth. It's my truth and it's what makes me special and sets me apart from all others."

As I read her words, which could have very easily been my own, I am embued with fresh confidence and clarity of purpose. Women like Kola and I, who share pasts speckled with atrocities are not particularly unsual but what sets us apart is the voice with which to communicate our truth to the world. She has laid claim to her truth boldly and flung it up on a banner before the world. I will follow the path she cut in the earth and allow the strength of my truth to carry me beyond the stars.

Truth Telling

I had an interesting email exchange with my daughter's grandmother today. She forwarded me one of those ancient hoax emails claiming that two big tech firms are merging and that hundreds of dollars were up for grabs for each time the message was pushed out to some other unsuspecting person in your address book. Somehow, Bill Gates has something to do with this. I immediately replied to her that it was a hoax. Her reply? How do you know it's a hoax. See this is why non-IT savvy folks paling around on the Internet scare me. This woman is 50+, has an alarm system with motion activated lights all around her house but thinks that someone is going to write her a check for sending emails? Part of me says, "Awww, the Internet takes advantage of people. Bad Internet! Bad!" but the greatest part of me says, "Come on now. What part of that even seems remotely credible? If you can utilize caution in real life, why not apply that same reasoning in cyberspace?" Geez!

I sent her a snippet from Snopes detailing the history of the hoax with a personal note pointing out that anything that seems too easy/good to be true, probably isn't true! (Now, wasn't this the type of advice she was supposed to be giving me?). She replied back to me a few minutes later that she would normally not pay attention to an email like that but since it came from . . . . . .a SPIRITUAL SISTER who got it from another SPIRITUAL SISTER . . . .she thought it was valid. Well now, isn't that hilarious!!

Here's my reply:

I totally agree!!! And just think about everything else outside of the Internet! Information passed from one seemingly reliable source to another and another without being proven happens all day everyday from individuals all the way up to big governments. Taking something as truth just because a trusted spiritual sister/religious teacher/parent/friend/co-worker/etc. said it/wrote it/emailed it/sang it does not make it true. We have to do our own fact checking when it comes to everything in life.

I mean, seriously, she left herself wide open for that one! I've mentioned in a previous post that she's a Jehovah's Witness and a devout one at that! There is no way to convince her that her path to God is the "true way" and that everyone else is doomed. Never mind the fact that she received this information from parents and other devotees for the cause. Never mind the fact that they, while well-meaning in their proselytizing, could have just as easily gotten far more dangerous incorrect information from other concerned parties and passed it on to her. And any fact checking involved would occur via thumbing through obscure, unreliable texts such as the bible and literature published by the very organization being investivated! HA!

My reply was meant to be subtle. Just as they didn't free minds after a certain age on The Matrix, I'm convinced that after so long, an indoctrination process becomes thorough and complete. Whatever freethinking, rational remnants of the subject cease to exist all together so that separating the person from the program results in total systems collapse. I don't have time or stomach for such an undertaking. All I can hope is that my reply served as a shield of sorts to defend against any possible attempts to win me over for the cause as I'd be forced to give a hardy "THANKS BUT NO THANKS" a la Sarah Palin!

Reunion Update

Ok, so, last post I detailed the bizarre series of events that led to my reunion with my 34 year old sister, who, up to that point, I never knew existed. Here we are, in the lobby of my office in Philadelphia, breaking from our hysteria huddle to pose for a quick pic. I'm flanked by my sister, Nia (in hot pink) and aunt, Yvonne. Minutes later, I was being whisked away by coworkers to catch the flight that would bring me back to Georgia.

While this situation still has me in an slightly decreased state of shock, I returned to my life and my children and my job. Its business as usual except for the fact that I talk to my sister at least once a day and the somewhat regular phone calls from my mother. I've also spoken to my grandmother, Sarah, and a few of my aunts. Speaking to relatives that you either a. didn't know you had or b. didn't think you'd ever see again in life, even to the point where you journaled that fact years ago, is a bit awkward to say the least. For someone who doesn't like to talk about herself, that's what it amounts to. I have to describe who I am, answer questions, ask questions and try with all my might to conjure up a deep and abiding love for this new family for no other reason than the fact that they are my family. Strange at best.

Nia has four children, ages 14, 13, 10(?), and 7. All girls except the 7-year old and she's expecting another girl in November. She is a phlebotomist and works at a blood bank where people can walk in, fill out a few forms, give blood and receive $25 for their "contribution" to the medical and scientific communities. Needless to say, she deals with a constant stream of drug addicts, hard-ups and other such characters. Nia takes no mess and seems to always be ten seconds from slapping a bitch al day. She has that lovely staccatto accent of Philadelphians. Dang, I wanted that!

My mother asked me if I hated her. I told her, honestly, that I don't hate anybody. Hate is a consuming demon that eats people from the inside out. I don't have that kinda time. She tried to explain that my dad intimidated her into signing me over to him. She said that she didn't think that he would take me so far away and never tell them where I was. She saw him, years later, on the street and tried to stop him but he ran away. (Everytime I think about my dad, running headlong down a Philadelphia sidewalk, fleeing from a pregnant woman, I can't help but laugh. Yes, pregnant. With Brandon, my younger brother. He's 19.)

Speaking of Brandon, he's incarcerated and has been for the past 5 years or so on conspiracy charges involving the molestation of the little sister of one of his friends. Apparently, he didn't do it but he knew about it. Dang, B. I gotta keep my eye on you right out the gate. I have two girls who I am determined to see through adulthood without initiation into that sick sisterhood at the hands of some relative or family friend. Hell no. Conspiracy or no. Child or no. I don't play with that.

My mother sent me this picture and a $50 gift card from one of her co-workers who told her to "send it to her grandbabies." When I saw the envelope with her name on the return address, my hands started trembling. I had been watching the mailbox like Ms. Celie since she told me she was putting the pictures in the mail the week before. I waited until I got in the house before I opened the envelope. I wanted to savor the nervous high that had kicked in for just a few minutes. I sat on the floor in the room with Amy and opened it just to have someone to "share the moment" with. The picture gives me something tangible. I've looked at it a hundred times probably, searching for me in her face, investigating each knick-knack and piece of furniture like clues to the mystery of this woman who is my mother. I've always said that people who don't have children of their own can never understand what parents go through, no matter how many children they "know" or spend time with. The same holds true for this. You can never really know what its like to not know your mother unless its your experience so therefore its hard to explain.

I still think I look just like my dad but I think I have her nose. At one point in my life,I hate my nose which has been described as "white-girl" and "jew" and usually by someone hurling other appearance related insults. Now, I love my nose. Its like the rest of me, different, unsuspected. Timm's son called it "perfect" and I agree!

November is getting closer by the day. I'm looking forward to getting back to Philly, to gather around a table laden with dishes to rival that Antoine Fisher scene but I'm also nervous. From what I've gathered, my family, as expected, has its share of drama. Combine that with my drama and that equals a headache and a few hours on some doctor's couch. Timm is coming too so that eases the anxiety but just a bit. Nia is my focus. Making up for lost time and cultivating a true sisterhood bond is really all I'm gearing up for. Anything beyond that will be either a welcome surprise or shocking reality. *sigh*

Stranger Things Don't Happen

I may have mentioned some historical details on this blog before but it was likely long ago, back when blogging was all the rage and my list of links to friends' pages was a mile long. So, in the likely event that you don't know this, I was born in Philadelphia, "city of brotherly love," some 28 years ago. When I was two (I just learned the actual age yesterday), my dad too me away and I never saw my mother or any of that side of my family again. My dad died when I was around 8 and I lived with my grandmother in Vidalia until I was eleven. Then I moved to Douglas where I lived with cousins until graduating from high school. After leaving Philly, my life was marked by one seemingly bizarre event after another. My life has been so much a spinning, churning ball of chaos sprinkled with misery, in fact, that I am writing a book about it.

My mother has always been a question mark for me, a blank spot in my heart that had yet to be filled in. I wondered about her a lot when I was younger but not so much as an adult. I wondered about my other family members, if I had siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. It was as though I was missing half of myself while having to face the daily struggles of existence as a whole person. The more time passed, the more I resigned to dealing with that unknown part of me as one may wonder about the missing pages of a good book or the last few minutes of a T.V. program cut short by a power outage. Going back and catching up is an occasional afterthought and unlikely. I learned a few weeks ago that my company was sending me to Philly for a meeting at our new office. The thought of returning to my point of origin was intriguing but not necessarily exciting. The city is foreign to me, as mysterious as my mother's face. I imagined feeling lost there, feeling compelled to do something but not knowing exactly what to do. Should I stop people on the street and ask if they knew of Ruthann Ellison? Do I look in the phone book? Do I dismiss the idea totally and pretend that I, just like everyone else, am just there on business and nothing more.

My fiancé, reading my mind as usual, asked me if I had thought about trying to locate my mom/family while there and I finally and totally dismissed the notion. My stance has always been, I'm not hard to find, if she wants to find me she will. That being said, the only reunion planned for the trip was with Virginia, one of my dad's old girlfriends who lived/lives in Philly and who has kept in touch with me for years. She made such an effort to remain in constant contact with me over the years that there was a time when I wondered if she was my mother and just too nervous/ashamed/scared to say so! Everytime she said, you're like a daughter to me, my heart would skip a beat.

On the day I left, I was sitting in the car with Janet and mentioned my unknown family jokingly. "Virginia is supposed to take me to the street where my mom used to live. . .Forget where she used to live, I want to know where she lives now!" We both made a similar comment at almost the exact same time about a scene from the movie, Antoine Fisher, where he meets his mother's family for the first time and they all gather around a table laden with his favorite foods. (He too, has never known his mother and spent most of his life in a sort of no man's land of emotional detachment.)

We both laughed and the ridiculous prospect of something even remotely similar happening to me. And don't get me wrong, I want to see my family, would love to meet them, reconnect, but the possibility that we'd just run into each other seemed too wild to be real. I didn't have a single lead, hadn't made a single Internet search or phone call. Heck, I hadn't even made any fervent pleas to the universe. It just wasn't on my agenda anymore. I was more concerned with finding a reliable person to watch my children and preparing notes for my portion of the team meeting.When my plan landed on Tuesday night, I immediately turned on my cell phone to call home and saw at once, a Myspace message from a profile name I didn't recognize. (LOL! Yes, sadly, I have a Myspace page!) I also had a friend request from the same user. I headed to Myspace mobile and found a message that read:

HI AYANNA MY NAME IS NIA ELLISON. JUST WONDERING IF YOU HAVE ANY FAMILY IN PHILLY. THIS IS MY DAUGHTER NYESHA MYSPACE PAGE. IS YOUR FATHER NAME HENRY ELLIS AND MOTHER NAME RUTHANN ELLISON? PLEASE WRITE ME BACK.

As you can imagine, I was floored. I read the message several times, thinking I had missed something. I looked around the plane, somewhat disoriented. Maybe I was asleep? Dreaming? It had only been hours since I laughed at a chance meeting with my family and just weeks since my fiancé asked if I planned any detective work in Philly since I was going to be there anyway. Was this a joke? Rather than taking the risk of ignoring it and finding later that this was, in fact, an actual message from actual family members with my mother's last name, I hit the reply and fumbled through a short reply, trembling the entire way:

YES! All of the above! I'm in Philly until Thursday. CALL ME!.

I leave my number and wait.

As planned, Virginia picked me up on Wednesday afternoon for a walk down memory lane. We had lunch at lunch at Applebee's then set out on a journey that took me to the place where she met my dad (a bar formerly known as Trapps), the house my dad used to live in, and Priscilla Street, where she said I lived with both my parents way back when. This street, lined with houses that were just like practically all the houses we passed that day, differing only slightly in cosmetic touches, seemed to carry an air of familiarity. I didn't get a "dead-zone-ish" flood of memories but as we drove through the place, the red of the brick and the signature "stoops" seemed to touch a place just beyond where the film of my memory ran out. De'ja vu, I guess. Eerie.

I also visited my Uncle Lonnie's place, The 601 Bar. He's my dad's older brother and hasn't shown up for a family reunion in years. I had gotten his number from my aunt the weekend prior to the trip and I promised that I would look him up while there. It was not a priority on my list that day but Virginia took me by anyway and I chatted with him and toured his bar before heading over to her house for a break. After a few visits with her children and grandchildren, she dropped me back at the hotel and we said our reluctant good-byes.

Later that night, we had a company dinner at Chickie and Pete's, a Philly landmark famous for their "crab fries." Back at the hotel, I settled in for the evening wondering why I hadn't heard back from my reply. Perhaps it was a joke, some friend trying to have a little fun with me. I'd find out when I returned home. But, I was still content that I had seen some of my dad's old stomping grounds and hung out with the woman who has been sending me cards and letters and birthday gifts since before I can remember. There were a few years when her brown envelope or tightly sealed box was the only thing I received to mark a holiday or passing milestone in my life. Seeing her was more like getting together with an old friend, warm and full of love, even though I had not seen her since I was around five years old.

The next day, I was up early for the team meeting. Since I had heard nothing from the mysterious Myspace message, I had resolved that morning that the day would pass uneventfully rather than carrying around heightened hope for something that was way too unlikely to happen anyway. Around 9:30, as I was sitting there listening to an open discussion about technology services, I get a call from a Philly area code. My heart stopped. I let the call roll to voicemail. I wanted to bolt out of the room and answer but the meeting was my sole reason for traveling to Philly and I was determined to let it remain the priority that day. A few minutes later, another call buzzed in from a different number, also a Philly area code. By this time, my heart is about to stop but luckily a break is called and I run out and pull the messages. The first one goes something like this:

"Hello Ayanna, This is your sister Nia. I am so happy that you are here, I have been looking for you for so long. I want to see you before you leave. Please call me back."

My sister. Nia? Wow! Wake up, Ayanna!

The second message is from my "Aunt Yvonne" who says pretty much the same thing and then starts crying in the middle of the message. An aunt who is crying because is she is so happy about . . .me? This is unreal!

Nia's line rolls to voicemail so I call Yvonne. She answers and we exchange tidings of amazement and joy! She takes down the address of my office and says that she will be there when I get done with my meetings, with my sister! During our brief call, she explains that she will try to get in touch with my mom but that she's hard to find. "It's them drugs girl," she says apologetically. In half a breath, my aunt has just answered the question that has been curled up in the middle of my entire existence for my whole life. As, she goes on, I learn that my mom is an addict, her whereabouts never really known. I am immediately relieved. There was a time when I grappled with the possibility that my mother, uncaring and indifferent, had sent me away with my father. In one scenario that played out in my mind, she was too busy, too tired, too consumed with her own indulgences to parent. Had I learned that, say, my mother lived in a Wildwood estate and was the VP of So and So Industries with a slew of children attending the best schools and enjoying the best that their posh lives could afford, let me just say that it would have not gone down well at all.

We return to our meeting and I can barely think for the rest of the day. I watch the clock constantly in anticipation. As the time draws nearer, fear joins the crowd of emotions swirling around inside me. I am simultaneously excited, nervous, skeptical, and scared with a million questions that I won't have time to ask with only a short 15 minutes between the end of this meeting and our departure for the airport.The meeting wraps and all my colleagues, who I've shared this wild story with, are intent on being apart of this reunion. My boss says, "Be careful, there are some crazies out there, you never know." Deb, who lives/works in Philly, says, "We have to check these people out."

Anyway, just to wrap this up, I go downstairs and into the waiting arms of my sister and my aunt. It’s an emotional and tearful reunion. They tell me that I look the same but different, that I have grown into a beautiful woman (who, me? LOL!) with the same face as the two year old they remember. They tell me they have missed me and have been looking for me for years. I guess I was harder to find than I thought. My aunt says they used to call me Miss Piggy, that I Iived with them until my father took me away. Blanks are being filled all at once. The jumbled puzzle pieces of my early life start to join together. We exchange contact information. Nia has brought pictures of her children. Unbelievable!

All at once, I am the niece of a woman I have never met, sister to a stranger with nieces and a nephew I know nothing about. I am happy but at the same time, a little sad, pained at the realization of the years that have stretched between me and these women who should be very near to my heart and somewhat overwhelmed at the monumental task of now getting to know them and loving them and including them in an already sometimes chaotic life. But, regardless of my trepidation, I must. I belong to these people and they, to me.

I left Atlanta for Philadelphia to attend a company meeting and it turned out to be a family reunion 26 years in the making. This is the life I live. I can tell you many more stories of random events that fall so seamlessly into place and bring about fantastic results time and time and time again. I can almost hear the gears of the universe turning as it reconfigures itself beneath my feet, expanding and opening, making way for me. I can't wait for the next big news to share!

Waiting on Alice

The name Alice Walker came to me as it does to a great many of my generation, attached to a movie that became an icon, a poignant story that aired so much dirty laundry and let so many secrets out of the bag. I was fascinated by it. Whoopi Goldberg's rendition of Celie touched me deeply. Her somber nature and crude ponytails, the abuse, separation and neglect drew me to her, into the story. She reminded of me of a part of me, wounded and world-weary, yearning for the comfort of anonymity, hiding smiles no matter how few. There always seemed to be something else there, in the background, that never quite broke the surface. Each time I tried to see it, it would dart away and images of Shug Avery, juke joints, and the Olinka people carried me onward, inward. Before I could catch up, it was over. I was still hungry and went to find the book since it was common knowledge, even back then, that "the book was always better than the movie." I went to the library in search of Celie and found Alice, her name emblazoned on the cover of The Color Purple seemed to say boldly, Yeah, I wrote it!, and lay claim to the intricate characters, the plot that caused my cheeks to burn red in places and the powerful honesty that possessed my thoughts weeks later. After reading the book, which surpassed the film in every way, Alice Walker was crowned the foremost influence on my writing life.

I wanted her power, her honesty, her humor, her eyes that saw what we all see and her voice that told it in a way that we had never thought of before.

Now, some twenty years later, the more I get to know her, the more I realize that I have known her all along in a very personal and almost subconscious way. Her words, which would sometimes leap out from the page and slap me across the face in the midst of childhood misery, have worked a kind of magic on me over the years. It doesn't help that our paths have crossed, though with generations stretched between. We both claim the red clay of Georgia as home and were both raised in similarly rural and fiercely religious homes. The Atlanta University Center or AUC was both our post secondary choice. She attended Spelman and graduated while I opted for Morris Brown and dropped out after a year and a half. I want to travel back, take a Quantum Leap, and wake up in her skin. Maybe then I would unearth the truth of how she could know me so well, know so many women like me who find mirror images of themselves in the characters she sews from some ancient, universal fabric.

Since that initial introduction, I've inhaled her work like oxygen while trying to exhale my own words, pour my own brand of remembrance onto a page. At some point, I lost my way, entangled in the hustle of life that moves ahead sometimes at breakneck speed like a train with no brakes. At 28, I look around and find myself well into adulthood, mother two daughters and carving out minuscule stories in the blogesphere and random journals, still unclear of where this will eventually lead.

I see, almost accidentally, while flipping through Creative Loafing, that Alice Walker will be featured at this year's National Black Arts Festival. I regard the ad with only and continue on to the next page. Later, I go to the NBAF website looking for info on the children's event that I plan to attend with my girls and notice it again, the event featuring Alice Walker. I mention it to Timm who immediately sees an opportunity. "Go! Give her your work!" I have a momentary image of me handing a sheet of paper to Alice, one of my stories, and her, after regarding it with obvious disgust, bursting into wild laughter. I have always regarded Alice as though she too were a character in a storybook, a fictional person, larger than life itself. While meeting her is near the top of my "bucket list," the possibility of such a thing has never really crossed my mind. Its right up there with meeting the Dalai lama or God. Worthy of a big 'Yeah Right!' But I go with him, start forming the idea a bit in my mind. the reality starts to hit me. Perhaps I could attend this event. Maybe I will meet Alice Walker and take it a step further and actually hand her a packet of my work. Perhaps.

Its Friday night when I make the decision. The event is on Sunday evening. I summon everything I ever read on utilizing the laws of attraction and every word I've ever heard by Wayne Dyer about the power of intention and charge head first into bringing this thing about.

On Saturday, the girls and I go down to Woodruff Arts Center where an African Village has been created for their amusement and entertainment. Who knew they had activity booths sponsored by Verizon Wireless and complimentary Sunny D in an ancient African Village! Authenticity aside, and despite the mind searing heat, we had a great time. The traditional dances on the performance stage were the highlight for me, while the girls got a kick out of a drawing studio where they drew Rafiki from The Lion King. Image their delight (or horror in Eden's case) when a life-sized Rafiki came from behind the large screen at the front of the room. As we were leaving, I stopped by the box office to get a ticket to the event but the line was long and the girls were restless so I made a note to buy the tickets online at home and headed out of there.

By the time I remembered the ticket, it was 1AM. I ran to the computer and made the necessary clicks for the purchase only to be met with two bold, all caps words mocking me from the event page: SOLD OUT. I could literally feel my world crashing down around me. I called Timm and frantically gave him the report. What followed was a harsh tongue lashing on my failure to buy the tickets when the decision was made and on how my sleeping in on weekend mornings somehow attributed to this calamity. An argument ensued and I went to bed weeping over lost hope and and rubbing my bruised ego. The laws of attraction and the power of intention far from my thoughts.

Sunday morning, I was up with the sun sitting at my computer and crafting a plan that would get my work into Alice's hands one way or another. To win big, you must risk big. I've heard that so many times. Today, I would put it to use. Immediately, something rose up in me and commenced to heckle me for the next several hours. "What a waste of time! Gas is too high to waste driving all the way back over there for nothing. Isn't your check engine light on? Ok, fine, end up on the side of the highway! You don't have a ticket. You're not getting in! Do you not understand what SOLD OUT means??" At some point, I got a headache. Despite my careful and calculated planning, time seemed to speed up. I was pressed into a tornado of activity to get myself and the girls ready to leave the house. At Kinko's where I would prepare my packet of work, everything went wrong. Abandoning my original plan of printing samples for all the speakers at the event, frustrated, I made only one, put Alice's name on it and headed out of there scared to death, unsure as tomorrow and still battling the desire to turn on my heels and go back home where plenty of worthy tasks awaited me.

I dropped the girls off with a cousin and made my way to the center well past my intended arrival time. I wanted to get there early, grab an event employee and with my most official demeanor order him (yes, him. I would also try to squeeze in a few feminine wiles) to deliver this urgent package post-haste to Ms. Walker. I would leave with some sense of accomplishment and never know for sure if the task was ever really carried out. As I walked down the corridor towards the auditorium, I was met with a line of ticketed patrons waiting to get in. The line snaked around a corner and beyond. Weak with worry, I marched on. A table was set up outside the auditorium and I stopped, just in case, to inquire maybe some tickets had become available and of course, none had. But, the women pointed me to a smaller line against a wall and said, "Those folks there are waiting to see if they might be able to get in. You can wait there and see what comes up." I heading for the line, seeing it as a haven in the bustling lobby, something to anchor me to a purpose rather than wandering aimlessly on what that voice called a "fruitless mission." Once in the line, I began to have further doubts. Now I felt that I was wasting time standing there in line as precious seconds flew by when I should be focused on the mission, no matter how fruitless it seemed. Several people had passed me wearing event staff badges. My window of opportunity was closing. Winton Marsallas paused for photographs within slapping distance. Cornell West exited the room where he had been speaking just steps away from me. Women in African dress filed by. Natural hair was on parade. So many regal and proud faces passed me that I was certain they couldn't just be ordinary folks. I found myself pondering constantly, "Who is that? He looks so familiar! Isn't she a congresswoman?" The auditorium was open and those waiting in line filed inside. I craned my neck to watch the procession. Just as I was thinking yet again that I was wasting time standing there, an event staff woman walked over, raised her hand for our attention and said, "I need the first 20 people." I almost fainted as she began walking down the line counting. I had no idea what number I was in line but thankfully, she reached me at 18, because if I had been beyond that crucial 20, I could feel my body preparing to give way.

Feeling privileged and lucky beyond comprehension, I followed the others to the table where we were to buy our tickets and enter the event. I pulled out my VISA and the woman behind me said, "You know they only taking cash." She could have punched me in the face and it would have felt better. Frantic again, I inquired about an ATM, she having suddenly been thrust into the role of best friend, I asked to hold my place while I ran full speed down the corridor and around a corner, yes, full speed past elegant ladies heels and dread-locked brothers debating the state of the race. I'm sure I incited a few scornful glances but I didn't see anything, not even the ATM machine as I blew past it before coming to a point where nothing but a large atrium surrounded me. I turned and saw the machine and pressed the keys so hard fast that I mistyped several times and had to re-enter my pin three times! Finally, it spit out the currency and I repeated the whole gangly, awkward dash back to the auditorium. The sister holding my place was no where to be found. What a way to treat her best friend! Leaving me outside to plead my case while she retreated to tho her seat! At the ticket table, two ladies looked up at me. I asked if the 20 that were called had gone in. Duh Ayanna! Of course they had. "I was the 18th person! I had to get cash and I came right back. Can I please get a ticket!" Wrapped up in my plea was the agony of the entire ordeal and my fervent hope the impossible. They must have felt some of it. After looking at each other briefly, one of them held out a ticket. I don't remember which one, I dropped my twenty, grabbed that ticket and sped away so fast that I was easing into my seat before the bill hit the table.

After catching my breath and choking back tears at the sheer relief at having made it so far on a journey that had taxed me so brutally, I began to relax. The Richard Rich Theatre was nicely appointed and decorated in warm tones. People were still making their way in, chatting in the aisles and finding seats. After what seemed to me to be a very long time, the event began. Producer, Alvelyn Sanders gave a welcome and talked about how she had gotten the idea for this event back in February. I made a mental note to personally thank her for being the origin of the night that would forever change my life. She paid homage to several notable figures in the audience, including Atlanta mayor, Shirley Franklin then finally, she introduced Alice. She was sitting in the front row, stage right. From my vantage point, a small woman dressed casually in black pants and sleeveless top stood to acknowledge the crowd. At once, I felt as though I were sharing the same space as the divine. Here was a figment of my literary fantasy come to life and seeming quite ordinary and but still not quite approachable. The love and veneration in the room was palpable. I looked up and the ceiling and breathed deeply, so glad that I had not given in or given up and content with the fact that if I left that building with my packet still tucked in my bag, this alone was worth all the hassle and headache of the day.

After the introduction, the speakers began to take the stage. There were ten poets, authors, actors, teachers and others of the craft slated to read excerpts from Alice Walker's body of work. Valerie Boyd read first from "Looking for Zora" in which Alice recalls finding the grave of Zora Neale Hurston. One by one, they climbed the stage and read. There were moments of laughter and moments of biting honestly that left the theater silent. Noted actress, Regina Taylor concluded that segment, reading from The Color Purple. Her excerpt being the same one that I found in Timm's copy of On The Issues magazine from 1997. Alice smiles on the cover of that one, arms folder, chin resting on one fist. The article preceding the excerpt was my first in-depth look into Alice's actual spiritual beliefs. Gone were the speculations and assumptions taken from her characters and plots. It was there in black and white, her reverence for the earth and her disbelief in most organized schools of religious thought.

Alice took the stage after Regina to thunderous applause, everyone in the theatre was standing. She was barely taller than the podium but her presence filled the room. Her voice was large and deep. Her words poured over me like warm honey. She too read, selecting a snippet from another of my favorites, Possessing the Secret of Joy. There was more applause when she concluded and then a short break was to lead into the next portion of the event, a one-on-one conversation between Alice and Pearl Cleage. Unfortunately, we had run long and the next event had been due to start twenty minutes prior. Alice and Pearl took the stage momentarily, thanked everyone, apologized and people started filing out. I sat paralyzed. Here it was, the time to act, the opportunity to be bold or go slinking home with nothing to talk about but a great event and no notable action on my part to at least keep my promise to myself let alone possibly advance my career. A few people were leisurely walking over to Alice. I saw someone hand her flowers. Cameras flashed away. It wasn't a massive throng that would take hours to get through. Alice was right there! I had to more. I willed my feet and legs to get it together and with a confidence I didn't even know I had, I walked down to the stage and across to where Alice was standing. Only two women stood between me and my moment. I waiting no more than 90 seconds then, there we were, face to face. Me and Alice.

I wish I could tell you that I had something very deep and emotional and philosophical to say but in that moment, about three-quarters of my brain seems to fizzle out like a popped balloon and all I could manage was some dribble about how she was such an inspiration to me and my writing and how I felt so honored to be there and to be able to meet her. We shared a quick embrace. It was one of those hugs of the sort you give your mama after being away from home for years and finding the world a cold and unforgiving place. I didn't want to let her go. At some point during all that, she cupped my face in her hands. Boy, did I want to let loose the waterworks! I asked her if I could give her something and she said, "If its something small," I assume she was expecting more flowers or something gifty in nature. I produced my envelope, four of my most priced stories tucked inside, my babies. I handed her my babies, which she placed next to her purse. I told her thank you and somehow, I'm not sure, I opened my eyes and I was standing outside the theatre on the sidewalk. Cars zooming by. People drifting in and out of the theatre behind me. All oblivious to the transcendent experience that had just taken place.

My first call was to Timm. His excitement echoed my own as I gave him the synopsis of the entire day, the journey that I had taken. I made my way to my car like a warrior returning victorious from battle.

That was about two weeks ago. No, Alice hasn't called me to say she loves my work and want to take me under her wing. Neither has anyone called to say that Alice forwarded my work to them and they want to talk book deal. If that were the case, I may not be writing this, I'd be too busy putting the finishing touches on my autobiography. There is the very real possibility that I may never hear from Alice, she may have, later in the car or in her hotel room, after regarding my stories with disgust, burst into wild laughter. Regardless, this experience has changed my life. I wrestled with myself and motley gang of circumstances that grated on my patience and wore down my resolve, but in the end, I accomplished exactly what I had set out to do all along. No mission impossibles necessary. So, to sum up what has been a very long story that I could have probably told in a few lines, these are the times when life makes you take notice, when desire, upon being sent out into the universe, becomes a force of such magnitude that not even fears and hang-ups and inhibitions can stop it from manifesting once the wheels are set into motion. Its almost like I had waiting on Alice all this while, to show me that this wonderful mechanism really works, that all I have to do is keep moving foward, keep putting in my share of the work. I have a newfound drive and a certainty that the success I am seeking, which, like meeting Alice, seemed so impossible just weeks ago, will be right there, staring me in the face.

Zen of the Father

We kneeled before the wooden box for an eternity, until my thighs burned and the bustling sounds of outside taunted me. Trails of incense smoke curled about our heads. Mimicking my father’s motions, I rolled the juzu, the prayer beads, between my palms creating a raspy beat to which we chanted, “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo . . . Nam-myoho-renge-kyo” while staring deeply into the foreign characters lining the scroll within the box. I understood them to be Chinese as they looked identical to the markings on our packages of fried rice and eggrolls. Periodically, my father would tap a tiny gong. Sometimes, I read from the book, the writings of Nichiren Daishonin, but understood nothing. The words were not words at all, just sounds. But I read, nonetheless, driven by my desire to coax approval from my father. I hung on his every nod, every glimmer of satisfaction that danced in his eyes when I recited whole portions from memory. The ritual, more routine for me than the experience of enlightenment and purification it was supposed to be, was a mysterious burden that stole my precious play time each day. I did not protest and tried my best to appear intrigued at the stories that I barely remember now. Something about a man buried up to his neck in sand, a miraculous rescue and strange works like Dharma, Siddhartha, Buddha. I have faint memories of a temple, carrying a scroll and wearing a robe that was too big and hung past my wrists and ankles.

My father has been dead now twenty years and it was just years ago that I actually began to understand what we were doing there, kneeling before a box surrounded by odd trinkets and Chinese characters on display within. My father was a Buddhist and from what I’ve read, devout. An old love, Virginia, with whom my father spent time towards the end of his life, shipped me a box of items he had left at her home. It was brimming with sheet music and notebooks full of jottings and observations and meeting minutes in his neat all-caps handwriting. These were tiny glimpses into his Buddhist life; names of members, dates and topics of meetings, page after page of notes on the end of suffering, Karma, purification and chants. I try to envision my father in a crowd, voicing the thoughts on those pages. I choke back a laugh. I remember my father as an unrefined, rough man not a budding intellectual.

From the browning pages of decades old notebooks, I am meeting the father I never knew and discovering something of myself as well. Ever the rebel, spitting in the face of organized religion, perhaps it was my father who planted the seed that sprouted into a lifetime of curiosity in me, the principles of the Buddha, while forgetting, stirring unconsciously within.

My father’s things give me a sharp pang of longing. For the first years of my life, he was all I had, our relationship marked by brief periods of normalcy and togetherness peppered with long absences. I felt abandoned most of the time, wondering where he had gone off to and when he would return, if ever. After all, the world was full of constant dangers and schemes and despicable men who would sap a life without a single thought of leaving one boney girl an orphan.

Now, even as I write this, I am wondering about the power of thoughts to shape reality as mentioned in so many current writings and spewing from podiums in packed arenas across the country these days. Perhaps my thoughts worked their way into reality then, my unending worry for my father when he was away, the constant dread of unspeakable deeds that would prevent his return and my rescue. He went away one day, driven from my grandmother’s house by a friend with me, tears blurring my sight, trying to catch the car. I ran full speed up the center line that split Peacock Street into the coming and the going, determined to overtake the vehicle. I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I caught him, I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but it didn’t matter. The white hatchback disappeared from sight and had to fight the urge to sit down right there in the middle of the street and weep until he returned. Good thing I didn’t because he never returned. We buried him a few years later just weeks after fervent plans for his return home were being made. I worried every day while he was gone.

He would be a grandfather now, mid-fifties. I wonder what kind of man he would have been, what he’d think of me now, how my life would be different if I were able claim the love of at least one parent rather than spending too many years like the ugly poodle in the pet shop window wagging my tail at anyone who looked in my direction. For now, I’ll sip tea and pour over Buddhist notebooks, thankful for a handful of years with my father, for life lessons and no more worries.

The Air Up There

A street performer juggles on stilts with the assistance from a wide-eyed little boy.

Timm caught this shot at the Dectur Arts Festival over Memorial Day Weekend.

It was hot, Eden was horrible and the aroma of fried Alligator beckoned us for a taste. The lemonade here was freshly squeezed and sweetened to perfection. A refreshing nectar. We moved through the sea of people, threading in and out of booths where artists proudly displayed the fruits of their creativity.

And, thus went the unofficial kickoff of Summer in Atlanta. I'm looking forward to more festivals, days spent luxuriating by the pool, three day weekend road trips, cute dresses and flip flops.

A Memory

I was taking a Wall Street Journal out of its protective sleeve when I noticed the printed warning about the plastic covering being a choking hazard to be kept out of reach of children. I remembered immediately being six years old and scared to death of plastic bags. Something about that warning made it seem as though any errant piece of plastic left nearby would eventually finds its way into my nostrils and down my throat. I laughed quietly at my desk remembering youthful paranoia.

Summer Camp Crier

Its Sunday night. Another work week looms beyond. Randi starts camp tomorrow. It's only $25 per week and for a single mom faced with the reality of shelling out another $100+ dollars per week in childcare (on top of the current $160 for the littlest one) or parceling her your child to various family members to make it tthrough the summer to the start of the next school term in August, $25 is worth weeping for. And I did. Coupled with the fact that I almost missed this opportunity, enrolling her resulted in an extremely emotional moment:

I decide to throw Randi a sleepover this year for her sixth birthday. While compiling the guest list, my thoughts drifted to a young girl whom Randi had favored in daycare, about two years ago. They spoke on the phone and had a few playdates but ended up going in different directions after daycare and we lost touch. I called them up and extended an invite to the sleepover. During a later conversation prior to the event, her mom casually asked me what I planned to do for the summer and informed me of the camp. The price is a discount from the usual $128 per week and only for low-income families on Medicaid, living in public housing, etc. Now, usually, we don't qualify for anything offered to low income families because technically, my salary does not fall under the national poverty line despite the fact that I am usually on my last few pennies long before my next payday thanks to mountainous debt and exorbidant childcare expenses. Anyway, this time, we were lucky. Both my girls have been on Medicaid since birth and the camp registrar only needed to see her card and my ID and she was in!!

So, as I said, it was an emotional moment. After registration, we took a walk around the nature path that ran along a slight creek behind the rec center. I was trying to explain all of the above to Timm without having all the words together in my head and ended up folding into a sobbing mess. Tears of joy, of course. Being able to do something like this for my child is massive. Swimming, field trips,sports. You would've cried too!

Timm laughed. I didn't appreciate it then but now, I can laugh too. I love my babies! :)

Welcome to the Real World

I mentioned graduation at my high school alma mater in my last post. Let me follow that up with the announcement that my younger sister, Amy, also graduated this May. She received her bachelor's degree from Stillman College, an HBCU (Historically Black College/University) in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Timm's daughter received her MBA from Mercer and my mom's kindergarten class donned miniature caps and gowns for a ceremony to celebrate their achievements and promotion to first grade.

I am remembering my own graduation from high school. I was sure I would die before such a monumental event would occur. I had dreamed of adulthood and independence since early childhood. The abuse I suffered, both physical and verbal, when I was very young made my life a long and agonizing marathon of misery. I longed for the day when my fate would rest squarely on my own shoulders.

So, when the time came for me to exit high school, it seemed like a good dream that I would wake up from at any moment and be laying there on the mattress with one outstretched arm reaching for the figment of a diploma. I felt as though something so wondrous surely could not be happening to me. ME? But, thankfully, it wasn't a dream. I sat on a stage for an hour, walked to the podium to shake hands with a man who could barely pronounce my name, went back to my seat, went through more pomp and circumstance, and with the wave of some magical wand, I was forever released from the shackles of the Coffee County School System

and turned out into the mysteriously inviting world.

I loaded up my car and headed north to Atlanta, the sprawling metropolis that was my Plymouth Rock. That was ten years ago. Since then, I've married and divorced, birthed two daughters, amassed a shocking amount of debt, lived at eight different addresses and worked at six different companies. I've made new friends and lost touch with old ones. I've dreamed big and lost big but I've won some too.

From my perch on the timeline, I'm weary for those new graduates taking their first unsure steps into the real world. They will need care and support and guidance in order to thrive. Otherwise, they may teeter, falter and go tumbling down. I can hear the dreams cracking under the weight of reality, see the shocked stare of those suddenly aware that they don't know half of what they need to know to survive.

From my perch on the timeline, I know exactly the amount of determination and resolve, craftiness and self-assurance that I had to invoke to make up for the lack of adequate parental guidance. But, luckily, I had a hard childhood. No stranger to struggle and hard work, I knew already when and how to roll up my sleeves, dig in my heels and put on a happy face. Failure was never an option, going home a dreaded fate to avoided at all costs. What of these youth? It pains me to think of them. I wish them the best, not quite knowing what that is.

Lately . . .

The Tube

The Tudors is hands down the best drama on television!! The equally handsome and diabolical Henry VIII has completely flipped the script on Queen Anne for whom he severed his relationship with the pope by declaring himself supreme ruler of the church in England, ousted the beloved Queen Katherine and illegitimized his only daughter, Mary. In keeping with history, Anne is to have her head separated from her body during the season finale, even as Henry announces his engagement to Jane Seymour. I was out on the site this week and found a hilarious portrait generator. I couldn't resist. The laugh it sparked was well worth the time spent fooling around with the very user-unfriendly program.

I hear a new idol was crowned last week. I am so glad I kicked the American Idol addiction way back after Fantasia won. How many more seasons can this tired story replay itself?? Seriously, what has ANY American Idol winner ever really done to make all that hype and hysteria worth it? The most sickening part of the whole mess is that more people are engrossed in the process than are paying attention to the presidential race.

The Girls

Eden spent the better part of a week with her grandmother and aunt touring college campuses. I'm sure that the campuses of Hampton and Loyola will never be the same again after hosting my child for even the briefest period of time. Something was surely broken or at least meddled with although I didn't hear about it, I know my child. Her hands are instantly drawn to the exact thing that doesn't need to be touched. She can't help it. Those Saggitarian young are an inquisitive lot.


We're one week past Randi's Ultimate Sleepover and I'm still rather pleased with the entire event. With 9 girls to entertain, feed and referee in my home for an entire afternoon, night and morning, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed and unsure in the days leading up to the event. Thankfully, I got a surge of energy and enthusiasm the night before that allowed me to welcome the girls, quiet their parents concerns, lead them in game after game, activity after activity, and put them to bed (the last one was out at midnight) without committing murder or seriously compromising my reputation as a super mommy. Hearing a few of the girls exclaim "This is the best party I've ever been to!" and then a magnificent "This is the best day of my life!" gave me a boost to rival a Venti White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks. There was much whining and fuss when the parents arrived for pick up. One darling little one had to be taken aside, in conference as we like to say, before she finally relented and came out of the hallway where she had retreated when her mom arrived. She said, "I'm hiding, don't tell my mommy where I am," and I had to laugh and reply, "I'm telling your mother exactly where you are. The party is over." Hilarious! She thought I would be in cahoots with her in a plot to tarry in my apartment longer? HA! The naivete of children is too cute. Timm arrived just in time to help with clean up. A great ending to a fantastic party. Randi has already requested another one. I laughed again. These kids!

From Joseph Smith to Rev. Wright - Religion Rages in America

The recent media frenzy surrounding the Yearning For Zion Church in Eldorado, TX is the future of reality TV! All those children taken from the ranch. All those women in pioneer garb speaking like out of breath robots to reporters. Lawyers descending like vultures. No Hollywood blockbuster could compare!

The women that I have seen giving interviews are absolutely haunting. They looked drugged. The sing-song voices remind me of talking baby dolls when the batteries are almost out. When a reporter asks about child marriages, the question is immediately dodged and what seems like a rehearsed statement is given, "There is no force. Everyone has a choice."

Thank goodness for Big Love! I'm a serious fan and have followed the show from season one so I've had a crash course in the whole latter-day saints belief system. The plurality of wives, a.k.a., living the principal, secretive ranch-style compounds, arranged marriages of usually young women to older men, slews of children and the dilemma that these sects face living under the radar in public while believing to be the elect of God at home.

Mormonism is a much bigger beast than Christianity in that the faith is built on top of that already ridiculous drama. Its like a fairy tale gone bad. Not only did God have a son with the virginal fiance of an unsuspecting Hebrew man with the sole mission of making a b-line to Golgotha while accompanied by a group of seemingly unlettered guys who drop everything and hit the road with him upon a simple invite while passing by. Not only did the torture and murder of that earthwalking God-child mean the complete erasure of the sins of mankind (which they were guilty of either directly or indirectly because of the whole Adam and Eve saga back at the beginning of time) and the availability of salvation and a heavenly inheritance to all those who would simply admit to believing in the tall-tale. Not only. . .well, you know. Fast forward to colonial America and Joseph Smith. Apparently, the story is incomplete and it takes more revelations via golden plates to give life to a lost history involving Israeli tribes and a globetrotting, post-mortem messiah. It would be hilarious if only a whole segment of the population didn't believe it was true, including the former presidential candidate, Mitt Romney. The situation escalates from hilarious to hideous and potentially scary. And regardless of how ridiculous the tale, America is a beacon of religious freedom where anyone can have their celestial delusions designated with 501(c) non-profit status.

So that brings us up to date back at the ranch in Eldorado where the patriarchs hate "the negro" but love young girls . . . by the dozen.

In the other corner, Rev. Wright takes a stand after being the subject of a media firestorm threatening to burn down the Obama Camp over the past few months. Via several highly publicized speeches, Rev. Wright addresses the comments that painted him in such a negative light then proceeds to make more. Now, on a regular day in America, I could care less what he has to say about AIDS and 9/11 and would even agree with a few of his remarks but this is not a regular day in America. We're in the midst of a historical presidential campaign and Wright's affiliation with the first viable black candidate in the history of this country makes his words spew like poison. Now, I cannot for the life of me understand how Barack has to take the heat for the former pastor but no one is asking Hillary why her church labels gays as "an abomination" in direct conflict with her political views. Regardless, Barack has now decided to denounce the pastor after deciding not to throw him under the bus just weeks ago via a fantastic speech that will likely go down in history. But, most importantly, a huge rift is making its way through the black religious community. Willie Lynch and the KKK couldn't have planned such a perfect storm. Our people are now having to decide whose side they take; well-spoken house negro who is poised and ready to lead America into the next era of racial unity and reconciliation or the militant man of God thundering condemnation at the man with a bible in one hand and the keys to the kingdom in the other. Black folks are walking around like zombies, waiting on someone of importance to tell them what to believe and who to believe in.

Once again, a tremendous leap forward is being stalled because the religionists are still deliberating. I can only hope that they will realize that the manifestation of King's dream is right there in front of them. Until then, God damn Rev. Wright!

Open All Night

On Friday nights, the Atlanta club scene is a living, breathing animal, stalking through downtown streets, spilling wild energy on the sidewalks. My girlfriends and I fold into it, become one with it. We are the ladies of this particular evening with a singular goal--to dance hard, laugh loud and down a dose of recklessness.

The line outside our party of choice is long and our heels are high but we wait, leaning on each other intermittently, huddling to escape the cold. Once inside, the music is so loud we cannot hear it or anything else, just the low rumble of bass and the roar of a thousand bodies moving to the rhythm. Words no longer matter. Eyes say all we need to know. The language of limbs conducts entire conversations. We pair off with bad boys and disappear into the ocean of thrill seekers. B-boys and career pop-lockers mark the tempo side by side with corporate execs and party amateurs struggling to find the beat. We fling our bodies, jump, stomp, bend, stretch, swirl, jiggle and bounce. We dance.

Later, spent, we gather near the bar for final drinks and attempt to familiarize ourselves with the new faces in our group as our trio has turned into a small entourage. Our get-a-way is swift, carried toward the exit by the same momentous force that hypnotized us on the dance floor. Outside, the wind is bitterly cold. Finally able to communicate verbally, we decide to head a few blocks to a spot familiar to us all. It is the beacon in the night, its bright yellow sign screaming against the dull backdrop of a 3AM
no man's land, the block letters spelling out Waffle House encased in yellow rectangles reminds me of Wheel of Fortune and for this motley crew in search of refuge, its glowing invitation means puzzle solved.

Warmth, and an inviting aroma, greets us immediately. At first glance, we see others, club clad and post party. In these, the last moments of the morning, with the streets clearing and bars issuing last calls, Waffle House is our oasis. We commandeer several booths and in minutes, hot coffee, grits with cheese and raisin toast, waffles, hash browns and eggs are presented. We recall the past few hours, rub our throbbing feet, hurl playful insults and fill our bellies beyond legal limits.

Outside, the wind howls. Inside, we buy more time, refusing to relinquish our hold on the euphoria of the night. We are allowed a few more laughs, more mileage on carefully selected garments and well placed makeup and an additional opportunity to make eye contact with the cutie across the table who held me close on the dance floor and who had whispered unintelligibly into my ear. He smiles. I wonder. Our waitress stops by to refill our cups. Our eyes meet again. We laugh and dive headlong into the standard getting-to-know-you chit chat. I am glad for this time, this chance, away from the strobe lights and crushing decibels.

Waffle House, with its unassuming air, has been many things over the years; quick lunch pick up place, pregnancy craving cure, co-worker venting venue and rendezvous point but tonight, it is much more. Here beneath warm lights with the grill sizzling in the background, my dance floor date takes form, complete with name and personality. I take another bite of toast and chew slowly. I'm in no hurry, they're open all night.

Waffle Story

On Friday nights, the Atlanta club scene is a living, breathing thing writhing through downtown streets spilling electric energy on the sidewalks. My girlfriends and I fold into it, become one with it. We are the ladies of this particular evening with a singular goal--to dance hard, laugh loud and down a dose of recklessness.

The line outside our party palace of choice is long and our heels are high but we wait, leaning on eachother intermittently, huddling to escape the cold. Once inside, the music is so loud we cannot hear it or anything else, just the low rumble of bass and the roar of a thousand bodies moving to the rhythm. Words no longer matter. Eyes say all we need to know. The vernacular of limbs conducts entire conversations. We pair off with bad boys and disappear into the ocean of thrill seekers. B-boys and career pop-lockers side by side with corporate execs and party amateurs struggling to find the beat. We fling our bodies, jump, stomp, bend, stretch, swirl, jiggle and bounce. We dance.

Later, spent, we gather near the bar for final drinks and attempt to familiarize ourselves with the new faces in our group as our trio has turned into a small entourage. Our exodus is swift, carried toward the exit by the same momentous force that hypnotized us on the dance floor. Outside, the wind is bitterly cold. Finally able to communicate verbally, we decide to head a few blocks to a spot familiar to us all. It is the beacon in the night, its bright yellow sign screaming against the dull backdrop of a 3AM no man's land, the block letters spelling out Waffle House encased in yellow rectangles reminds me of Wheel of Fortune. Puzzle solved.

Warmth, and the aroma of goodness, greets us immediately. At first glance, we see others, club clad and post party. In these, the last moments of the morning, with the streets clearing and venues issuing last call, Waffle House is our oasis. We commandeer several booths and in minutes, hot coffee, grits with cheese and raisin toast, waffles, hashbrowns and eggs are presented. We recall the past few hours, rub our throbbing feet, hurl playful insults and fill our bellies beyond legal limits.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, we bought more time, refusing to relinquish our hold on the euphoria of the night. We are allowed a few more laughs, more mileage on carefully selected garments and well placed makeup and an additional opportunity to make eye contact with the cutie across the table who held me close on the dance floor and whispered intelligibly into my ear. He smiles. I wonder. Our waitress stops by to refill our cups. Our eyes meet again. We laugh and dive headlong into the standard "getting to know you" questionnaire. I am glad for this time, this chance, away from the strobe lights and crushing decibels.

Waffle House, with its unassuming aire, has been many things over the years; quick lunch pick up place, pregnancy craving cure, co-worker venting venue and rendezvous point but tonight, it is much more. Here beneath warm lights with the grill sizzling in the background, my dance floor date takes form, complete with name and personality. I take another bite of toast and chew slowly. I'm in no hurry, they're open all night.

Adventures in Oral Surgery

The day started in a tremendous rush. I awoke to the muffled sounds of movement and talking in the girls’ room. As I shifted, I wondered why Eden was up so early and tried to find a new position from which to slide back into the dream I can no longer remember. I glanced at the clock on my dresser and through blurry, unassisted vision, made out a seven where I thought a five or surely nothing more than a six would be. I jolted up and leaned in for a better look. Yep, it was a seven alright and to my dismay, it was actually seven thirty eight. Since the clock was intentionally set ten minutes fast, it was really only seven twenty eight but since we were supposed to be out of the house by seven twenty, either time spelled disaster.

I leapt from the warm sanctuary of my bed and sprung immediately into action. I was able to get both girls up and ready in minutes. As I pulled on my jeans, the phone rang from the living room. I debated momentarily whether I wanted to waste precious seconds going for it and decided that it might be well wishers calling to give Randi some encouragement before her big procedure which was actually the reason for the rush in the first place. We were expected at the oral surgeon’s office at eight thirty for a minor but nonetheless nerve racking procedure that would remove an extra tooth lodged between her two front teeth and the cause of an ever widening gap that was both unattractive and a detriment to the development of her entire dental structure.

I snatched up the phone just in time. It was Timm. His golden voice wafting warmly across miles of communications lines was instantly soothing. For a moment, the hustle of the morning was forgotten as we exchange pleasantries. Then I exclaimed, I’m in rush mode, and ended the call.

We pulled out of the complex at exactly seven fifty five and, after dropping Eden at her daycare and a call from Randi’s dad, managed to arrive at the sprawling office complex with five minutes to spare. After signing in, I was instructed to take Randi to use the restroom and then we were taken straight back to one of sterile rooms to wait.

It had been raining during the night and a light sprinkle was still falling. Randi and I looked out of the rain slick window from the fifth floor room and marveled at the view. She pointed to the street and the adjacent building. Treetops went on to the edge of the horizon. Above, a gray and gloomy sky seemed to hang just feet out of reach.

Minutes passed and a nurse came in with a cup. She explained to Randi that it was a bit of medicine mixed with apple juice. Randi took the cup and turned it up. The nurse went on to say that, while she did not have to drink it all at once, she did need to drink it all but before she could finish, my child was handing her the empty cup. The doctor was in the door way now and let out a congratulatory, Alright! That’s the way to do it! Randi smiled brightly at her accomplishment and was managing to put her best big girl foot forward. The doctor shut off the light and he and the nurse left us.

Randi was to relax in the dark while the sedative kicked in. Only seconds passed before she was climbing out of the dental chair and into my lap. The rainy day was beginning to have its own sedating affect on me. I rocked Randi gently and hummed a lullaby. The doctor came in a few minutes later to apply a topical cream to her gums and exited again. I could feel my daughter’s tiny body going increasingly limp against me. Her eyes became slits but did not quite close and by the time the surgery team came for her, she was a little rag doll breathing heavily in my arms. The nurse reached for her and shook my head, I’ll carry her if that’s OK. I wanted to know where she would be, see the room and the equipment. I wanted to will everything to take good care of my child.

Randi did not struggle when I lay her on the table. She didn’t reach for me when I stepped away. Her eyes were open and she was looking at me but somehow, it seemed that she could not see me, that she was looking through me, already somewhere else.

They affixed a mask to her tiny nose for laughing gas and asked me to wait outside. I want to refuse, to stand my ground, glare at them all and ask, How dare you ask me to leave her? I am her mother. I will not leave. Instead, I backed further from her side, turned and left the room, my desire to remain with her overridden by practicality and the realization that a scene would likely end badly for both of us. She needed her teeth fixed. This was the method by which it would be done.

In the waiting room, I tried to imagine them working, moving busily above her little body, the sound of instruments clanging, quiet instructions passing from doctor to nurse as they cut open her gum and pulled out the rouge tooth. I hope they give it to me when this is all over. I’ll pull it out from time to time and tell Randi, You are so special even your teeth were determined to do things their own way! I grabbed a magazine and tried to concentrate on fall decorating ideas as time seemed to inch by at a snails pace.

Sibling Surprise

A man approached me in Old Time Pottery la few Wednesdays ago. My eyes instantly narrowed. "Do I know you?" He smiled and one gold tooth caught the overhead light. "Yeah, I'm your brother Henry."

Now pause for a brief moment and ponder how absolutely bizarre it would be if an apparent stranger approached you in the midst of some mundane task and professed kinship.

Exactly.

Looking him directly for the first time since his initial approach, familiarity flooded in. I saw my father's face, slightly distorted, and knew this was my brother Henry. I had not seen him since our grandmother's funeral in 2004 and stumbling upon him here, in the most unlikely of places, rendered me unable to immediately recognize my only brother.

Slightly embarrassed and not sure what to say next, I leaped immediately into the loud exclamations that I thought were appropriate for such a reunion. "How have you been?" "Isn't this bizarre!" "Let me get your number" and so on. We chatted for about 20 minutes and parted. I wandered the store for another few minutes, my mind racing too fast to concentrate on shopping.

Later, I realized that I was a little sister again and wondered how long it would last this time. My brother has been a recurring character in my life from childhood. Our first meeting was at my grandmother's. His mother and several other family members descended upon the house suddenly. I was small but I cannot recall my exact age, perhaps 5 or 6 if i had to guess. My sister was with them, LaShonda. My father corraled us in his bedroom, looking into each of our faces, so similar to his own and remarking that he was glad to have all his children together for the first time.

They were gone almost as fast as they had appeared and I was left, the only child again, to ponder the whys and hows of life through eyes that saw the world a peculiarly puzzling place that made little if any sense most of the time. My brother would appear a few more times during my childhood. When I left my grandmother's house at age eleven, I felt that I would never see him or my sister again. I had no contact information for either of them and had no reason to believe that my grandmother would pass along mine if they ever dropped in. She was not that sort of woman. Hovering precarious above the black hole of senility, she was more apt to tell them I had "run off" and she didn't know where I had "gotten to."

Years later, at my grandmother's funeral, he appeared again. Well into adulthood and motherhood, I was glad to have reconnected and looked forward to having my big brother in my life. It was paramount to me that our children (we both had one daughter) know one another, that they not grow up with the same distance and mystery between them. We exchanged numbers and had a few conversations. At one point, he asked if I knew if our grandmother had a will. I didn't and actually had not even pondered the possibility. My relationship with my grandmother was nonexistent. When I left her house in 1991, I had no intention of going back and wanted nothing more to do with her but his question did caused me to raise an eyebrow. I thought it odd and entirely out of place. I made one more call, left a message at the beep and waited for a callback. Years passed without a word.

That brings us to Old Time Pottery and an almost surreal reunion.

Since that evening, Henry and I have spoken three times. In fact, the very next morning, I arrived at work to find that he had left me a heartwarming voicemail wishing me a good day and confirming his love and desire to build a relationship. Our conversations have been peppered with reminiscences of childhood and attempts at fill in the blank. Henry's approach has been that of instant brotherhood. He is already passing along mild threats to any past, current or would-be suitors proclaiming that any ill-will towards his lil' sister be met by a visit from his "goons." This is a bit much for me. Although his is my brother, I know very little about him, his character. I'd like to focus on getting to know him rather than calling him in the midst of a dispute to summon the goons and do my bidding.

As for my sister, Lashonda, he asks each time we speak if she has called me. He assures me that he gave her my number. I have not heard from her. I smile because that seems so me, avoiding uncomfortable situations as much as possible. Whatever the motive for her delay, I hope she does call me soon else I will begin to wonder if there might be something else preventing her from doing so, thereby tainting this whole reunion thing. Henry did make a point to let me know that Lashonda, as the oldest, spent more time with our father and felt the full force of his quick temper.

By the way, the whole motivation behind my trip to Old Time Pottery (which was absolutely spur of the moment, adding to the strangeness of running into my brother) was a circular full of terrific door-buster deals on home decor. I'm in the market for home decor these days because I am . . . .MOVING! (queue band) My hate letter to the corporate office of the company that manages this level of hell they call an apartment complex sparked enough attention to get me out of my lease with no penalties AND two months free rent while I apartment hunt. After a few weeks of looking around in Roswell and Alpharetta, I settled on a wonderful new place right on the Chattahoochee River in historic Roswell. It has so much character and class, not to mention space. We're moving at the end of October and it can't come fast enough!

Bus Stop Epiphany

School is back in and my oldest, Kalieyah, is returning, this time, as a kindergartner. We are up early every morning moving swiftly through a routine that begins with Eden, the baby, yelling, "MOMMY!" over and over again from her bottom bunk and ends with Kalieyah climbing aboard the school bus that stops in our apartment complex.

A few mornings ago, we were standing in the bus line and I was giving Kalieyah my usual "have a great day, be on your best behavior" pep talk when I made a startling observation. Of the 30 or so children ranging from grades Pre-Kindergarten to Fifth, my child was the only black child in the line. The other children were all Hispanic. In fact, most of the children in my daughter's class are Hispanic as well and most of the teachers are fluent in both Spanish and English.

I thought for a moment and realized that the great battle over immigration reform was being played out right there on that humid August morning as we all stood waiting for the bus. These parents, mostly women, chatting among themselves and making final wardrobe adjustments for their little ones, were the topic of discussion in the media and on senate floors at the state and federal levels. There were powers at work, likely at that very moment, to limit or halt altogether access to this country to families such as these. These Spanish speaking, almond hued folk poised to send their children into the bowels of the American indoctrination machine were likely no different than me, with worries and concerns similar to mine; paying bills on time, keeping a roof over the children's heads and food in fridge and yet, by virtue of birth, even though we are neighbors, we are worlds apart.

I thought of the propaganda mill churning out images of slick haired, thick accented illegals jumping fences and hiding in car trunks pouring into the United States snatching jobs from under the noses of its good and decent citizens, stealing tax dollars doled out in the form of aide programs providing unearned and undeserved health care and food stamps.

Then I looked around again at the faces of children, some barely out of the clutches of slumber standing sullen and droopy eyed, others wide awake and rambunctiously running back and forth through the line. They are all sneakered and backpacked and ready to go. Proud moms look on. A few dads sit quietly by. I see normal people engaging in a quite common task. No terrorist threats here. No infringement upon my life, liberty or pursuits of happiness. So, what then, is all the hoopla about? Could it be that someone with a different world view and a less inclusive attitude in another place at another time engaged in a similar ritual and while standing there noticing the racial ratio, felt a pang of fear akin to that experienced by the biblical Pharaoh upon realizing the size of the Hebrew population right before ordering genocide? Was there something unspoken in that bus line, something that sounded a lot like "minority" and "waning control?"

I come out of my daydream in time to see the bus turn the corner. The vigil climaxes. The children board and are on their way. We, the parents, stand a moment longer until the bus is out of sight and slowly begin to disperse. A woman passes in front of me. We almost collide. She quickly bounds away whispering, "So sorry, so sorry." I put my hand up and smile, "No problem." It is a humid August morning in Roswell and we are not enemies.

A Wonderful Weekend

On this past Saturday, I had the pleasure of executing a carefully planned surprise birthday "get together" for my love. I'm not good with surprises. The secrecy can be unsettling. My mouth sometimes moves faster than my mind and with each telephone exchange, I feared that I would let slip some detail that would immediately incite a interrogative barrage. Also not good with crafty maneauvering, I would have caved under the pressure and let the proverbial cat loose from its bag. Amazingly, however, I managed to deliver the birthday boy to the designated location without incident and the evening that followed was pure magic.

The planning began with a thought, as with any action. I was siting at my desk with a smile tugging on one corner of my mouth, lost in a daydream. With him, daydreams are common. A flood of memories spreads out behind my eyes; replaying passionate encounters, recalling sweet words whispered in the quiet hours before daybreak. I am discovering that love can take many forms and on this particular morning, my love for him took shape as a burning desire do something special for him. I wanted to see his eyes tear up from joy, to behold a smile borne of pure elation. I wanted to give him happiness.

With his birthday less than a month away, I sent a short email to his sister inquiring as to whether any plans had been made that she knew of. There were none and several emails later, we decided on an intimate gathering at Sambuca, an upscale jazz cafe in Buckhead. Maria Howell of Color Purple fame was headlining with the Mose Davis Trio.

As far as he knew, I was taking him out to celebrate with dinner, a just-the-two-of-us affair. I arrived later than scheduled after a hectic day of errands and presented him with a hard cover, coffee table book of Egyptian art and a Napoleon Dynamite themed birthday card. His glasses seemed to have disappeared and with time of the essence, we left them and headed off to Buckhead for our 7PM reservation.

We handed our car off to the valet and stepped inside the restaurant's darkened interior. I was almost immediately consumed with anxiety. I was not sure of the guest list so I did know who to expect other than his sister and daughter and I had been given a headcount of nine. I expected them to be seated already but they were standing just beyond the hostess desk; his sister, his nephew, his niece and her boyfriend in their after fives, all smiles and waves as Timm stood there, oblivious.

(Later, he explained that his reaction was in part due to the fact that he did not have his glasses and that he noticed the small group gestruing in the background but did not recognize them as they were the last peopel he expected to see there.) I couldn't take it anymore. Just as I was about to melt into a rithing pile of giggles on the foyer floor, I blurted, "It's your family!" and it still took a minute for the entire thing to register! I enjoyed every awkward moment of slow realization!

Our table provided an excellent view of the stage. Marie's voice was like honey, smooth and tangy! Timm's daughter was running a bit behind and came in a few minutes after we were seated. Another surprise! He was absolutely beaming.

It felt wonderful to see him so happy. He said that it was the best birthday he'd ever had and that was icing on the cake for me. The pleasure was all mine.

We spent the night at my place and had breakfast together the next morning before heading back to Forsyth. The rest of the day was spent as Sundays should be, in peaceful relaxation. We shared a nap before I headed back home, back to reality in a sense after such a surreal, wonderful weekend. I'm already daydreaming again about the next memories we'll create.

Pretty Simple

"A writer writes. If you want to be a writer, write."

Spiritual Practice of the Day

I get energy from the Earth Itself. I feel that as long as the Earth can make a spring every year, I can. . . . I won't give up until the Earth gives up.
— Alice Walker quoted in The Sacred Impulse by James Conlon

To Practice This Thought: Use the natural world as your inspiration to keep on keeping on.

Family Matters

I spent yesterday in Augusta with my dad's family, six aunts and too many cousins to count. I hadn't visited since Thanksgiving 2004 around the time I began to feel the powerful pangs of labor marking the beginnings of a rebirth of self. I felt it was high time I reappeared and graced them with my presence yet again.

The main purpose of the trip was to attend a baby shower for my cousin Derrick in honor of his first child, a son, due next month. He was strutting around like a typical proud papa to be, smiling from ear to ear, hand apparently glued to his girlfriend's protruding tummy. I wonder if he remembers all the times he cornered me in his mother's house when we were teenagers and stuck his hand up my shirt, the time he pinned me down on his bed and tried to kiss me. Perhaps these incidents, for him, faded to nothing having been trod into dust on the road to adulthood. For me, they are burned into my catalog of memories. Although we are not related by blood (I am adopted), we are related in theory and his lustful acts left me feeling violated on so many levels. Now, many incident free years later, I can't help but wonder what he is thinking when he looks at me and if he knows that years ago, I would have gladly gouged his eyes out with a dinner fork had I not feared the wrath of my family who may have not been so quick to believe a wayward child with a troubled past and physical attributes far beyond her years.

But, that was then, another life, and yesterday, I sincerely congratulated him and hugged his future son's mother and presented them with a gift that I selected with care and love. I guess I grew up and outgrew that animosity. Now, as far as I am concerned, he was just another pubescent teen boy under the influence of raging hormones and I just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. No harm, no foul.

The secondary purpose of my visit was to be reunited with my children who had been at my parent's house since last Monday. We rendezvoused at the shower, which had been under way for about twenty minutes before they arrived. They came pouring in as we were starting a game, my girls along my sisters and my parents and for those next few minutes, as I showered them with hugs and kisses, all was right in the world. This past week should have been a time of reckless abandon for me but I could never seem to get in the swing of things. I realized somewhere around Thursday that it was my longing for my children that had settled in my heart and even though I was talking to them on the phone multiple times a day, the silence of my apartment cast a gloominess over everything I attempted to do. Other than getting my divorce finalized and spending the rest of the day celebrating my new status in Forsyth, there was nothing particularly unusual about my week.

After the shower, a birthday party was being held in another part of the city for two other cousins, Chasity (celebrating her 10th) and her nephew, Armani (celebrating his 1st). Family functions always send me down memory lane. I was at the wedding when Chasity’s mom (my aunt) and dad were married. It was a splendid affair, the first wedding I’d been to that did not scream “GHETTO” from start to finish. Stylists had been flown in to coif the bride and her maids. Professionally trained singers belted out love ballads during the ceremony. The venue was lavish, the attendants were gorgeous, the ceremony was traditional and dignified and was followed up by a well appointed reception where we danced into the night in honor of the newlyweds. Imagine my shock when, just days after the lovely couple’s first anniversary, they announced plans to divorce.

After the festivities, our tribe congregated in the parking lot of the party center for an impromptu reunion. Cousins that my sisters and I used to romp around in the yard with during summer visits are now adults with children, jobs, cars and houses of their own. Some are in college, others graduated and climbing the career ladder. Some are in jail or fresh out. My aunts, uncles and parents seem to have changed very little, if at all. They are older, but not dramatically so. Some are ill, in remission from cancer, on the upswing from hypertension, etc. I wonder if they stopped at any point to survey the scene as I did and marvel at the power of time, the then and the now and the experiences that fill the space in between. I try to guess which one of these women I will be most like when time dumps me out on the other end of thirty. . .forty. . .fifty. Will I be proud and matronly Gene, one of the older sisters, still married since young womanhood, clad in an expensive suit and heeled shoes fresh from church? Will I be sexy and seductive Shonda, the youngest and several times divorced, with her daringly spiked short haircut, Capri pants hugging her luscious curves, age beginning to seep through layers of heavily applied make up? And who among these will be my daughters. I dare to even imagine.

Just before departing to make the two hour drive back to Atlanta with my children safely back within my reach of protection, I was saying farewell to Hammer, whose real name is George but still wears the moniker earned from his youth football years. A zip lock bag of some colored substance was laying on the seat of his truck. I reached for it and he snatched it up just before I could get to it, playfully warning “Girl, back up off my cotton candy.” Intrigued that this now grown man was actually sitting there eating cotton candy out of zip lock bag, I said “Yuck, that looks old,” to which he replied, “Nah, I got this at church this morning.” At that, my run away brain was off! I made an immediate and hilarious mental connection between Sunday morning church services and the greatest show on earth and CRACKED UP for a good five minutes. I asked him if they had popcorn and peanuts too!

A great ending to a great day! We arrived home around Midnight. I put Eden to bed and Randi, in her usual “addicted to mommy” way, climbed into bed with me. I pulled her little bony body to me and inhaled deeply the scent of her hair. I remember so vividly carrying this child inside me. I drift to sleep on a river of emotions, the rushing sound of rapids in the distance, a nightmare just downstream. The manifestation, perhaps, of recent stress. I’ve been having nightmares more frequently these days. If I can remember one long enough and in more detail than sketchy images and fragmented dialog I’ll share one here.

My sister is leaving next weekend. Back to the norm. School will be starting on August 13th. My to-do list is growing as we speak. Randi is off to Kindergarten where she will undergo her first evaluation to determine if she falls into the category of “advanced student.” How nice to have the Atlanta Public School System validate what I have known since the first gestational kick!