She’s been mistaken for a light-weight
A single thread in a box of linens
A facet that some would not miss
But she is that one thing
Weightless…
Hoisting the entirety of herself
And then some
She is the last straw
To tie up all loose ends
Without her you will unravel
Find Solace
The unraveling builds character
~MAHism 2017
She was a tiny little lady. No more than 115 pounds soaking wet. Caramel colored skin and big bright eyes. Her hair was plaited in medium sized braids and pinned to her head. I remember resisting the urge to unravel them so that they may float on the pillow. In my mind, the unraveling would bring some softness to the room. She was 72 years old and she’d been admitted to the hospital alone. Diagnosis – complications of heart disease. She was one of my first patients. And I’ve never forgotten her. I asked her what had gotten her admitted; what had brought her in to see us this evening… She answered with, “sometimes…in life…you get ran down. You just get ran down, honey.” She told me I was the prettiest little colored thang she’d ever seen. I told her she was beautiful and let her know that I’d do whatever possible to make her comfortable during her stay. I then asked her where her family was, who she lived with, if anyone was coming to spend the night with her. She made a sly little grin and it was the first time I saw any resemblance of wrinkling in her face. And I remember thinking…’black don’t crack’ just ain’t true when referring to our hearts. She didn’t answer the question(s). Her grin was answer enough. I was only 25 years old, a brand-new nurse and working night shift in a small hospital in rural Salisbury, NC. I’d been called some patronizing version of pretty and colored at least once per week since beginning my career. I didn’t mind it coming from her lips. From her lips, it felt like an invitation to come on in out of the cold. It took almost 5 sticks to get an IV in her. I was so very proud of myself for succeeding. All others had tried and failed but I’d gained access and now she could get at least some of the necessary sustenance she needed. I left that hospital after just eight months. The leaving was an outward practice of my own privilege – something my degrees and connection to giants who came before me allowed me. But she stayed. She stayed and I still pray for her.
Do not go too far for peace and quiet
do not run too far
Because the country can be louder that the city
and anyway
there will always be your breath
which, hard as you try,
you can’t do without
you can’t run away from.
There will always be your heart
beating
stronger and louder
the harder
the further
you run.
~Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’ (1)
It’s ten years later and I’m at the corner of Sunset and Beatties Ford, killing time and staring at the magazine rack in Walgreens. I’ve just kissed my daughter goodbye and hugged her pre-K teacher after beaming with pride. She’s graduated from pre-K! The sun is shining! It’s my birth month. And the ground is shaking… Yes, that’s right…the ground is shaking! I look up with an inquisitive gaze – hoping to catch the eye of someone else who may have felt it. There are two ladies standing behind different registers. No one looks up. I walk over to one and ask her if she also felt the ground shake… Before she can answer, in walks energy! A palpable energy in the form of a grandmother and grandson duo. And I know for sure that they are the source of the shaken earth. She is not a small woman. She’s at least 6 feet tall. I think to myself, “if I could reach to put a crown on her head, I bet her back would straighten and she would be at least 6’2”.
If heaven had a height, you would be that tall. ~Common, ‘The Light’ (2)
He is a stout little fella, with a round head and wide chest. As a mother, his demeanor and gestures tell me he is somewhere under 7 years of age. But if you were to shortly gaze in his direction, you would guess with all certainty that he was at least 11. They fight their way into the store – almost as if getting stuck in the entrance as his broad shoulders square up with her wide hips and altogether can’t fit through at the same time. Both obviously want to be the first in. Neither are willing to back down. Grandma rolls her eyes and tells him not to ask for shit! “I mean it too, lil boy. Last time I shoulda whooped your ass. Ask me for somethin’ and I’ma knock your head offa your shoulders!”. The pair make their way to the middle of the store. No matter their position in the store, I can hear everything grandma is saying. Everything Little Fella asks for, she laments and gives in reluctantly. I can hear the melancholic, tired hope in her voice – almost begging him to stop asking. And I think to myself…this little dude is real gutsy. Maybe he’s not afraid of having his head knocked offa his shoulders. There are three men at the front of the store, two sales associates and me. We all glance around at each other. One of the men breathes heavily and suggests openly to the associate that she ring him up quickly because he does not wish to be in line when Grandma and Little Fella check out. I’m also in line at this point, wondering why there are so many black men in the store on a weekday before 5:00 pm. Then I remember where I am (refer to first sentence in paragraph). The ground shakes yet again. I ask homeboy with the special request if he felt it. Before he has a chance to answer, here come Grandma and Little Fella. It’s time for them to check out. I laugh on the inside ‘cause ‘homeboy with the special request’ is about to get some of Grandma’s magic today whether he wants it or not. I glance at her and smile. Because I understand. I don’t think she even sees me. In just a few seconds’ time she was hollering at Little Fella and jerking his arm. He’d stolen a toy car – stuffed it down into his pocket and was clicking his fingernails on the counter while grinning wide at the sales associate. I imagine him whistling although I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know how. One of the men saw him do it and tried to sneak and put it back so he wouldn’t get in trouble. But grandma caught wind of it before he was successful. She told Little Fella that she was going to call the police on him and that they were coming to lock him up…whitcha bad ass! The store associates backed her up, trying to explain to little fella what happens to thieves. “Besides, Grandma bought you other toys so why do you need to steal?” The three men just stood silent with a look of bewilderment on their faces that only partners, sisters, mothers, daughters of black men notice. You could tell they felt torn – wanting to both console and scold. Every time she yelled at him, I tried to steal a glance of her teeth. I could tell there weren’t many, but I really wanted to know the exact number. From what I could gather, she had four. I remember calculating, that in just one to two years’ time she’d probably be down at least 50 pounds – able to still put every cook on the block to shame but struggling to ingest what she herself needs for nourishment. I remembered being told in undergrad whenever I was struggling through class or dog-tired to ‘pull it from somewhere’. Pull your strength from somewhere. Pull your persistence from somewhere. Pull your motivation from somewhere. I’d endured two root canals by the time I graduated. I wondered how long Grandma had been pulling it from somewhere. I wondered if there was anything left in her reservoir to pull from. I wondered if she even had a reservoir. Or if it was long gone…evaporated wholly with just a dry indention where soft and wet used to be. By this time, Little Fella’s voice was barely audible – shamed and defeated by his own actions coupled with his grandmother’s outward disappointment in him. He started to cry. Grandma looked at him with a gaze that could burn down an entire forest. And for a millisecond I recognized and sensed a familiar energy of both hurt and jealousy. She was jealous of his tears. The fact that he had the gall to shed even one tear when she had been giving him her last; turning anger, bitterness and fatigue into some version of caring for him…like magic. A last that was not enough as he’d chosen to stuff a toy car that never belonged to him down into his pockets. My eyes traced his lone tear down to his chin and then went to this old woman whom time had whooped. She should have been relaxing somewhere – feet up with an air of nostalgia, patting herself on the back and giggling at grands and great-grands as they took first steps on her worn wooden floors. Instead, she was here; on the corner of Sunset and Beatties Ford with a lineage once or maybe twice removed. I caught wind of yet another earth tremble and my inquiring eyes met hers. She answered my silent question… “they’ve been doing construction ‘round here for weeks now. Hell, honey I barely feel it anymore.” She clutched her chest and her face winced. She snatched Little Fella’s wrist with one hand and picked up a prescription with the other. The medication label read: Labetalol 400 mg TID.*
As a black woman, the expectation is that you pour. That you carry around a clean pitcher at all times and are always full to the brim with whatever liquid is needed. Magical spirits? Pour. Cool mineral? Pour. Warm milk? Pour. Liquid courage? Pour. And if you are too briny, they may gargle and spit you out. Too bitter? Throw the whole damn pitcher away! It’s the most fascinating form of faking an orgasm you have ever seen.
~MAHism 2017
It’s November 2008 and I’m dressed in a white wedding gown. Des’ree’s “Kissing You” is being played on an organ. The sun shines through painted glass windows and a priest awaits our arrival at the top of the aisle. Papoo (lovingly named by his granddaughter although she does not yet physically exist) extends his arm and then whispers in my ear, “I know we’re in church; and I don’t want to disrespect the House of the Lord, but you ain’t gotta do this if you don’t want to. Ain’t nothin’! There’s one altar. Three exits! Hell, you do the math.” I gave him a nervous grin and a slight movement forward and he walked me down. Or was it up? And that’s how it went. How it mostly always went – dad by my side, there to support me in my decisions; never asking if I was sure without giving me alternatives. Obama is elected president, we honeymoon in Hawaii and life is grand! The black man who raised me is healthy and beaming with pride – excited to finally have a son in a family chock-full of women. I chuckle every time I think of it. 2008 was a sort of culmination for me – I saw my hard work pay off in multiple ways. I can’t help but to look back and ponder on how joyful we all were (or seemed to be) with a black man at the head of the country and increasingly at the head of our households. It felt as though we were gaining ground and finally beating the curse that slavery has left looming over our families. I’d honed my love and respect for literature at a predominately white university. Then learned how to care for people at a historically black university. (Let that sink in). And finally, I had a place to let it all breathe. My marriage afforded me the ability to share what I’d learned – it allowed me to give both those things that universities teach and things that they don’t. It all works together, ya know? The politics, the education, the love and baby making, the house and home building, etc. The world is in and a part of Our world, whether we prefer it not be or prefer it to be. Universal shifts and messages are at all times working even when we are unaware. It came as no real surprise then, when eight years later in November 2016 the country was electing a new president and things (all things) went far left. The political has mostly always been personal when it comes to the black female form. The feeling can be likened to the sigh of relief heard ‘round the world when we were all first acquainted with President-hopeful Barak Obama…and got a glimpse of the tall drink he carried on his arm and the two brown princesses seated on either side of their mom and dad. He brought a sense of peace, a sense of righteousness coupled with validation, a sense of protection that far too many brown girls never had. He was more than a president – he was a black man in love with a black woman and together they were making it work both inside and outside of a very traditional white house. He was hope personified. No one knows how it feels to be stripped of hope and protection the way a black woman does. And when we speak of privilege amongst our white counterparts we speak of the core, the essence of who you are and who came before you. We speak of the protection your privilege affords you. And though most feminists and progressive women won’t dare admit it (nor appreciate my reference to Mrs. Obama as a tall drink), women like to feel protected – we flourish under an umbrella of breathable security and sanctuary. 2016 ripped the blanket away – and some of us sleep naked even in November. Personally, it was a stark contrast to 2008. It was grandmother giving you cod-liver oil to cure a broken heart. Our beloved brown royalty had chucked the deuces to the castle as the newly elected inhabitants wrinkled their noses at their new dwelling – wanting to paint it every color but black (or white for that matter); platinum…maybe? And I was now the reluctant head of a trio turned duo. Uncharted territory for me – the daddy’s girl who didn’t know when to stop watering dead plants. I’d traded in my acute care scrubs for a case management position because I thought the 8 vs. 12-hour shifts would provide me the structure to work on things that had already been worked on. But it only gave me more time to dig deeper holes. I gifted my wedding ring to my daughter because it’s all annular. And I picked up the pen again, else I might die. I was mad as hell! All the time. Resentful even, that no one promised it would be easy and that they actually meant that shit. It is the hardest thing to do – realize that time moves even when you don’t; to remain open while also being accountable. Think about it… Some of the most responsible people you know are not altogether open to opinion or change. The most open people you know are often the least responsible. For my sake and the sake of my daughter, I had to work hard to be both. I had to learn how to decipher between voices that meant well and voices that aimed to only destroy. Filter through what would keep me grounded but not hinder my flight. And if all of this wasn’t enough, I went to a job every day and assisted women who mostly looked like me as they dealt with life while pregnant. The threat of government assistance being just that – a threat (assistance equaling hinderance in one fell swoop). I would ask if the father(s) were available to assist in the rearing of their child(ren) and, almost in a choir-like harmony, the answer would be a muffled ‘no’ for multiple reasons. Caught between a rock and a hard place is putting it lightly. And again, I understood; with an empathy that I do not wish on my worst enemy. The system reminding them (and me) that it was not designed for their protection or their lineage’s. Domestic violence cases swarmed my desk. Child support petitions just one page away from homelessness. A decision being made every hour – do I go to work or go to my prenatal visit? All with the common undertone of blame. Does your magic not afford you the ability to be in two places at once? Can you not afford your own happy? And after all, what did you expect? What did you have the nerve to open up to? Love? You? With your newly natural hair and melaninated skin? Silly girl! Section 8 and welfare was never for you. We’ve renamed it and put you on a waiting list that does not exist… At least 3/4 of my high-risk case load had a damaged heart – domestic violence sufferers coupled with or versus gestational hypertension. I was not surprised. What did surprise me was/is the community’s response to her…to us; the rush to clean it up, the pressure to shake it off so that it didn’t spill over. I saw (and felt) the beginnings of young vibrant magic turning into bitter hopelessness as she attempted to stuff it down and put on a game face. And if not done fast enough the blaming game begins and the message becomes: if you want to survive, die an agonizing death as slowly as possible. If she must stay sane and keep walking forward then where does it all go? Not to her head, not to her feet…she stuffs it in her heart and prays that it holds on just a little while longer. Me and my fellow nurses still debate which we would triage first – an acute domestic violence situation or a blood pressure of 170/95 at 33 weeks gestation. What is not debatable is the following: heart disease is the leading cause of death in black women over 20 years of age (3) with intimate partner violence steadily rising amongst the ranks. I argue that they are one and the same.
With that low, raspy voice
That only age and experience
And a pack-a-day can produce
She said to me…
‘Stop sitting around waiting on a signature
Baby, a check is just a check
Tell him to carry his ass
On to the bank wit’ dat’
~MAHism 2017
I recently asked my mother how much she and my father spent on my wedding. She replied with, “too damn much!” I laughed. She laughed. It was a much-needed laugh that sat atop heartbreak that I didn’t know I would ever emerge from. The scary part was not the everlasting tunnel of darkness… I knew that monsters preferred the light. Not the tears that had ceased coming long ago… The devil frequents dry places. Not the unhealthy habits (nicknamed mechanisms of coping) that swirled above waiting to touch land and wreak havoc. Not even the treacherous road that still lay ahead… I’ve always been taught that the most money on clothing should be spent on what’s on your feet. The scary part was looking into my tribe’s eyes and seeing the doubt that they too had. As if they were wondering, exclaiming and questioning at the same time: when will this end? Will this ever end? I need it to end because this onemust get better. This one has more work to do. It’s one thing to doubt your own progression. It’s another to see that doubt plainly in the eyes of those you know you can depend on. And even more of another…when momma doesn’t even know. Her laugh was like water that believed in a seed planted long ago. We can laugh about it…because the cost of a wedding is a small price to pay for the shit I’ve learned in a sometimes long, sometimes short amount of time. I wonder if she knows that she’s someone’s water? I planned to let her know before morning. Those things should never go unsaid…
Getting over a substantial loss is like childbirth. You, the woman, are the medium in which the spirit turns physical. No one can do your job, bear that kind of hurt. And do it all over again if chosen. You can squeeze his hand ‘til his knuckles break. You can scream bloody murder until the contents of his stomach reemerge. And though he may sympathize, that level of empathy is just not within his power. The pain was given to you, because you breathe life…out of pain. So, if they choose to walk away, remember that you can give birth to mere company. And populate your home with pieces of you.
~MAHism 2017
But before I had a chance to tell her, she was standing in front of me in obvious pain, clutching her chest with her right hand though she is left-handed. She said her left side felt funny and that she had nervous energy. Her chest hurt like hell and her stomach was beginning to let go of the fruit she’d snacked on just an hour before. I looked at dad, he looked at her. Daddy watched his heart leave in the front seat of a black SUV headed to the hospital, driven by his first born and trailed by his baby girl. All preliminary tests were fine. The EKG was pristine. The heart x-ray showed nothing wrong. But one look by the cardiologist and she was sent for a cardiac catheterization. A 94% heart block of the right main artery; otherwise known as the Widow-Maker was found and treated immediately. I was there with her. No one else. Just me and her when they found it. She’d been taken back two hours before the scheduled time and my sixth sense had kicked in – stay with your mother. The doctor told me that had we waited through the night to bring her in, there was a great chance of her passing. But we got to keep her and her magnificent heart! How long had she functioned with just 6% of her heart’s power? How long? Ninety-four – the same percentage of US black women who voted against the current administration – an attempt to protect our own hearts. How did we make it through the night? Shut down by a majority who just don’t have to worry about those issues. It’s a stereotype I’ve become increasingly familiar with: black women have stressed hearts. It’s a notion that is exemplified spiritually, medically and in the flesh. It’s terrifying to see it manifest – the dead babies because your heart just couldn’t bear the weight any longer – so, your body chose itself; the left sided weakness because you’ve loved a lover past loving yourself – it is now more difficult to embrace him; the migraines conjured up from pressures that are too high – the light hurts your eyes; the crack down the middle of your heart that, though mended, is a weak-spot still. Heart attack. Congestive heart failure. Stroke. Hypertension. One in two women of color in the United States will die of heart disease (4). 2017 handed me my heart back…in more ways that one. And I am thankful…with a side of hope.
We scream until our throats are sore, “we are the kind of tired that revolutionizes rest into war!” They scream back, “Stay…Woke!”
~MAHism 2017
Citations:
- Yrsa Daley Ward. “bone.”. Poetry collection. Penguin Books. Published 06/16/2014.
- Common. “The Light”. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjHX7jf-znA. Music. Published 07/18/2000.
- EBONY – Shenekia Loud. “Understanding the Top Three Killers of Black Women (and How to Fight Them!). Magazine website. http://www.ebony.com/wellness-empowerment/the-top-three-killers-of-black-women#axzz52oZdb2Vp. Published 03/28/2012.
- WomenHeart – The National Coalition for Women with Heart Disease. Heart Disease: African American Women and Hispanic Women. Health website. http://www.womenheart.org/?page=Support_WomenColor. Published 2016.
*Labetalol – medication used to treat hypertension
Rest in powerful peace Erica Garner…
MAHism2025: prose, poetry, peculiarities... 