I Just Need Time To See... #OnMyDonellJones

Are you where you thought you’d be? #thechallengecontinues

Nope. Not even close. The place I thought I would be in life nearing the middle of my thirties looks nothing like this. Doesn’t remotely resemble it. It's actually, if you put them side to side, is much less than all my former thoughts. But I suppose that is expected, right? The life we see for ourselves is limited only by what we know at the time. And then you start living, and things change. And you learn to limit your experience by all the things that happen to you. Life changes around you. And you start changing life too.

Sports Medicine: I’m kind of there, I suppose. I let go of that childhood dream of becoming a sports doctor when I realized that I loved sports way more than I loved doctors. I am totally okay with it. I realize now what I wanted, and how I wanted it for the wrong reasons. I’m glad that am where I am professionally. I get to help shape the next generation, which includes many student-athletes. I might inspire greatness. I also have the opportunity to heal other types of wounds and injuries… And though I had no idea that I would be in this place, doing this work, this was exactly what I wanted for my life.

In Love: I'm a mess *queues up Anthony Hamilton* Lawdy, Lawd, Lawd. I mean, it’s a controlled mess, but a mess, nonetheless. I’m working on it though, one blog post at a time. I believed though, that by now, I would have found some piece of someone’s heart to hold on to. But I understand now that having peace of heart is so much more. And I’m okay with not being where I thought I would be - for now. If it weren’t for this path, I may not ever have found that lesson. But, in order to survive the lesson, you’ve got to fill the empty side of your bed with lots and lots of pillows. So I’ve heard. #thisisnotme #ormylife #stoplookingatmewithyourjudgement

PhDeezy: Yea, about that. Two degrees down and one to go. It’s in progress, kinda. I’ve had to defer that dream a spell so I could face reality. When your family needs you, that’s what matters. Though my academic aspirations are everything to me, my family is everything else. They were here for my firsts; I will always be there when they are at their lasts. It’s interesting though, I thought I would have more feelings of regret and sorrow, for temporarily giving up something that means so much to me. But, this showed me that there was something that meant a whole hell of a lot more.

Married With Children: My ring finger is bare and there aren’t any lil’runners scooting about this place. I believed I would have some version of a wedding scrapbook to show you, and I definitely thought that my uterus would have been more useful by this time in my life. You know, those expected things. To have met the man, have the child, and set some roots in some ground somewhere (near an airport). But no. I’ve been living the life of the alchemist in training, the lonely nomad, the isolated wanderer…I could go on. Though, I do not have children of my own, I have godchildren that I own. Five god-girls and a god-son. Nurture is a word that has been used to describe me. I think we all assumed I would nurture something I created #LikeThisHereBlog. But nurturing the creations of others has given my existence meaning I could never have known.

So, I’m clearly not where I thought I would be. Where is this place I currently reside?

Glad you wondered. I’m a runner. If you couldn’t tell by the blog or the #14in2014 challenge, then I’ll show you the receipts. Running shoes are expensive, race registrations are sometimes due in the middle of the month, and you have to fly to some start lines before you run. I never, in all my life (before my life as a runner) believed that I would be a runner. Have a desire to run for fun. Talk other people into running with me. Get jealous when I see other people running when I have something to do. I talk about running like I talk about shoes. And you know how I feel about shoes. Right? Exactly.

Also, as evidenced by the blog, I’m a writer of sorts in the making, kinda. I’ve had a small host of people tell me that this was something I should consider doing, and I never took them seriously. I never saw myself as a writer, or believed that the things I wrote would be of interest to anyone outside of family and professors. I mean, I’m no Toni Morrison…and I never will be. But, I’m someone who has a story, no matter how it compels you. Once I get over that, the compelling piece, I’ll really step into this writing thing. Now that I am seeing myself as something of a writer, I want my words to mean something. What my uterus hasn’t done, my hands have. I plan to nurture that, until something else grows inside of me.

I am vulnerable. In the past ten or so years, I have cried. Cried tears I should have shed ten years prior. I get emotional. Like I buy these things – emotions – in bulk, at Costo, on Saturdays, after all those free samples. And though I have always worn my mood on my face, I was a bit of a brick wall. You might know I’m not pleased, but you never knew to what depths. I had a poker face in that regard. It’s gone now. A series of disappointments in life (love mostly) has broken through the brick will like Berlin circa 1989. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I miss the control, but I love the freedom to feel. And not apologizing for it. No matter the level of rationality. Something about accepting your humanity. And not apologizing for it. Or the tears.

I am patient – with myself. I have always been a patient person. I understand that we all need to figure things out. I don’t jump to conclusions about how people respond to the way life happens, or little kids crying for attention, or folks who take too long to order their food at Chipotle #wellsometimesyouknowwhatimean. I have never been patient with myself. I’m so hard on myself for making a mistake. I can’t understand how I could not have known. I always speed myself through disappointments, heartbreaks, and sadnesses. It happened, that sucks, get over it. And because I did not let the process happen, it just built the wall higher and thicker. These days though, I get sad, and I don’t apologize for it. Sometimes it lasts a day, other times it lasts a week. But now, unlike before, once it’s gone, it’s gone. I didn’t always give my scabs time to heal the emotional bruises underneath. I’m patient enough now to trust the process.

Though I am not where I thought I would be starring scarily at the middle of my thirties, I am okay. I want a family of my own, created with my somebody’s son. I want to keep running. I want to have a terminal degree hanging next to my race medals. I want to experience love in every way, not just these limited, varied, fleeting forms I’ve come to know, and let go of... And even though it frightens me more than that one time this happened, I’m even okay with peeling back more of my layers. Being exposed in ways I never wanted to be. I want to be more confident. Feel beautiful every day, not just on dress up days.

Interesting though, I have felt like I’m “less” not having achieved what I thought I would at this time in my life. I’m thinking now though, that I might be “less” had I realized all those things today.

Amazing how perspective changes the view.

Where It All Began

I’m a student affairs professional. I work with college-aged students every day. I grow kids up from 17/18 years old to their mid-20’s. A student affairs professional is also known as a professional crazy person. Other aliases include mother, father, counselor, therapist, mechanic, loan officer, bail bondsman, mother, police officer, photographer, cheerleader, mother, financial aid counselor, tutor, best friend, designated driver, the voice of reason, and you guessed it – a crazy person! Oh, and fire fighter – almost forgot that one.

               

It all started at UCLA. Year 2000. My father gave me three options when I told him that after my second year, I could not live on campus:

1.  You can live on campus;

2.  You could find a way to live on campus; and

3.  If #1 or #2 doesn’t work, just live on campus. *shrug*

So the homeys and I became Resident Assistants. Low key, I think their father’s told them the same thing. Maybe I did it for the free housing, maybe it was part of some larger divine plan – but it happened, and it was one of the best things to happen to me in Westwood.

My first group of residents, my children, were amazing. A collection of pale babies, whose fathers were clearly of the Euro-Asian persuasion. We lived in the lap of luxury, Sunset Village, in Delta Terrace – B7. During Halloween, they adopted a squirrel who ran into the building on his own doing effectively making our motto, B7 – Go Nuts. They made me laugh and I made them go the Ashe Center to get shots. I am still a firm believer that they run genetic experiments on the local animal life roaming South Campus in the basement of one of Life Science Buildings. I’ve never seen so many squirrels unafraid of humans; squirrels with human-like strength. My babies (back to them) needed me for everything and they did almost everything I told them to do. And that is why we love first year students. So impressionable. But any parent knows, when they are quiet, they are up to something!

    

After doing a community walk with the Community Service Officer, I returned to my room eager to relieve myself of the duty board and radio. With a few more hours before I could sign off, I planned to get back to homework before some other interruption found me. I rarely locked my door or closed it when I was not in the building. Between the members of the UCLA Football/Basketball Teams and other athletes and friends, it was an exercise in futility. Just as soon as I would leave, someone would show up wanting snacks, or to go to Covel or to watch TV until tutoring. However, most were coming for their hair braiding appointments. What started out as a favor for my cousin, became something of an empire. So it just made sense for people to come in and make themselves at home. Anyway, my residents would let them in the building – so my friends were halfway there.

    

Tonight was different though. Hanging from the doorway upon my return with an excessively long piece of scotch tape was an 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper with a note and a picture. A picture from one of those miniature Polaroid cameras. You know, back in the day when tweeting a picture was taking a picture, getting the film developed, taping the picture to a piece of paper or putting it in an album, writing something on the back of it, and showing it to people? I took Brian & Eric’s basketball – they always played basketball in the hallway and quite frankly I grew tired of listening to myself say knock it off guys so I took it and hid it in my room.

Now, I had no delusions that this would stop them from playing other recreational sports in the hallway, not even that day, or scare them into not breaking into the girl’s room next door hiding speakers and dragging the wires back to their rooms – connected to a stereo so they could play sounds in the middle of the night in an effort to convince the girls that their room was haunted, or turning the 2^nd floor lounge into a “man cave” and entertaining my friends with Maxim Magazines on bean bag chairs – I did it in a moment of sheer frustration. A stop bouncing the ball because I said so knee-jerk reaction. Jerks.

The Best/Worst Day Ever!

So the note, which I assumed to be a love note from some secret admirer, was a ransom note, with a photo of my stuffed Bugs Bunny, being held hostage by my 2 devious residents. His ears being threatened by a pair of scissors held firmly at the base, awaiting my next move. Of the list of demands was “scooter immunity” for the rest of the year. They warned me to not contact the CSO and that they would be watching. I laughed. I could not help it. I laughed to keep from dying. I could not believe it. Those little knuckleheads actually got me. Damn. But, I had a duty, as a Black woman, to have an “angry Black woman moment” even though it would be feigned for the cameras. I know those 2 little idiots did not just steal my Bugs Bunny!! Then a voice, as quiet and clean as the California night responded, what was that?

    

AAAHHHHH! Yes, my heart sank as I slowly looked for my door to run (damn that, hearing voices? I’m out!). As I’m turning to make my surprise getaway, I see the boys outside my window watching it all. Every. Single. Scene. They got their basketball back that night. I’m a sucker for creativity, and that was genius! I told them that they were going to get evicted from their first apartment within six months. That was the first prophesy I made over the lives of my children. Parents know these types of things about their kids, only I was off a few months. I think they lasted nine.

    

The saddest moment in a parent’s life, I think, is saying goodbye – whatever goodbye means. Though I do not presume to know the pain of saying goodbye to a child you birth, I can certainly tell you about the something like it. Even among parents, to make it similar for each child would not do it justice. It’s too complex, too unique, it’s too tailor made a feeling for that particular child, that to know one, would not necessarily give you any indication of the other. And though we were all UCLA students, I missed them terribly. I wasn’t so sure I’d make it without my babies.

Yea, them.

#BlackGirlHairProblems Reconsidered

Except this. No reconsidering this. #HandsOff

...because sometimes, you have to look in the mirror and reconsider some stuff.

I told you all about this one time I read this one book that made me realize that well, I can kinda relate to white people. But more so than that, challenged this concept of a particular color to problems. Like depression. Yo, that ish is real and don’t care if you’re from Jackson, Jamaica or Jerusalem. You better get that ish checked. Depression be like “eeF yo ethnicity, nationality, race and address... I come stronger than the IRS son. Get at me! Sike... Got at you first!!!”

So if our problems don’t have color what things do?

Hair. #blackgirlhairprobs

Just like the conversation I had with my Goddaughters, when I stay in the Brady home, my friend AWB gets a firsthand look into my nightly ritual (even when my hair is braided). I gotta wrap my hair up tight before I go to bed. This amazing awesomeness gestates under a silk scarf every night. 

It's a thing. 

And because of this my friend and I aren’t the same, right? She blow-dries her hair every morning. I would lose the moisture in my toes if I had to wash my hair every (other) day. A ponytail or messy bun is what potentially consists of her nightly hair preparation. If I don’t double knot, bow and pray over my head scarf, it’s coming off as soon as I hit REM (the sleep, not the music). She shampoos and conditions regularly. I flat iron and oil sheen with extreme attention to detail #edges #newgrowth.

And there is nothing wrong with that. We’re different. She has #whitegirlhairmanagement procedures and I have #blackgirlhairtrialsandtribulations.

mmhmmmm #bacon

As I was doing my hair one past morning, after a restful night in Brady Manor #theyalwaysleavethelightonforme, I went into the bathroom to do my hair. I took out my black comb, my oil sheen, my hair clips and purple brush. I began unearthing my hair from the turban like wrap about my (not big) head. As I reached for my brush to start the process, I noticed there were two brushes. My purple one and another one. And I almost picked up the wrong one, because aside from the color they were the same type of brush. 

How can #whitegirlhairmanagement and #blackgirlhairprobs be resolved using the same equipment? 

I don’t know. But, I do know this. Sometimes, the only difference is color. We are probably more alike than different than we sometimes assume. I do social justice, diversity and inclusivity work every day, and I am still learning. Still growing. Still amazed about when I do, and sometimes don’t recognize difference – and celebrate it!

But... Mama told me that I bet’not’be using other people’s combs (and brushes). So there’s that.

Yes ma’am.

It Could Have Been Us, But...

I recently had a professional development experience in Oxnard, CA. At a resort on the beach. I am writing this, knowing that I sooooo was not ready to leave. I needed one more day to get...well, professionally developed. Yea…that. I needed more time to do that.

I met a man. A man with a very good and very important name. We were introduced on Sunday at the opening cocktail hour. We were conference spouses by the beginning of Opening Reception. We had a lovely honeymoon getting to know each other professionally and personally. 

I miss my conference spouse.

This was supposed to be us...

As we planned our late nights and early mornings of sessions, networking and fun, I found a particular event of interest. A 5k Fun Run for conference attendees! Omg! Omg! Omg! How amazing?!?!? I get to run for fun, at work, newly married!! #SignedHimUpWithoutAsking #NoooooHeWasntReady

I kept bringing it up. He kept casually laughing the subject to a new topic.  But I’m persistent (or selfish…you decide) and when it comes to most things, especially running, I am determined to get what I want. I mean look at him?! He’s handsome, great smile, plays well with others, allows me to make all the important decisions #anotherround #turnup #keepthepartygoing, and did I mention handsome? I haven’t even gotten to the fact that we are in the same profession and he TOTALLY GETS ME! #InLove,Professionally

This could have been us... #butNo

Then he finally told me. Despite the fact he has committed himself to a healthier lifestyle and works out, or the fact that his biceps are so big he literally busted out of his shirt at the Corporate Sponsor’s Expo, that he physically cannot run. See, he has a condition, a condition that makes running actually impossible for him to do. Should he attempt such a feat, it would be at the risk of his very dear life.

I am a terrible conference wife. #ijustcantwithmyselfsometimes

So terrible that I could not get past the fact that I wanted to do this thing that might literally kill him, so badly, that I made us get up after a long night of poker and karaoke to walk the 5k. I mean it's for fun. It’s a workout. It’s on the beach. And they said fun...and we’re totally fun. And I’m not sure I could even run a mile on sand, so there’s that. #icouldnot

Unbeknownst to me, runners and participants doing the full 5k received what at the end? Medals. This fun run was a 3.1 mile medal opportunity. Yea they were small, and totally not blingy like all the others I’ve earned, but hot damn it’s a damn medal!! Dammit!!  

I'm glad this WAS us! #minusthehandholding

And I am glad I didn’t get a medal. I didn’t really want one after I attempted to jog on the sand and realized that was NOT about to happen #thesandwassoft #myfeetsank #couldntevenrunthe0.1. Quite frankly, though, I did nothing to deserve it. Sure I showed up sans socks and got super sandy by our finish (not to be confused with “the” finish). But I made someone I just met (and “conference” married) out themselves #badstudentdevelopmenteducator. Tell me something super personal that was no business of mine, so that I would let something go that was no business of theirs. Even with community property separation laws in California #IGetHalf, he keeps his condition. I keep my #14in2014 .

I’m an awful human being sometimes. I let my excitement from time to time take me to places that have the potential to hurt others.

Every time I mentioned the fun run, even though I agreed, and was soooo cool with walking, he always had to reveal who he was – a man. And who he wasn’t – a runner. Has he made his peace with it? Probably. Was mine to reveal? No.  Not even considering our happy hour conference nuptials.

But he is an amazing conference husband. And becoming someone who is going to be an amazing friend. As I called out from the warmth of the bed in the morning, he was quietly getting dressed. And when I emerged from my head scarf sans running shoes, he was fully dressed and ready to go.

Five medals closer to #14in2014 (pick a race, any race) and I still don’t recognize the beauty of this. How there are all these people conspiring to see me be great, even at their expense.

I could be more blessed. Because God promises abundance and overflow, I am certain that I will. But I don’t know how much more I can stand! #areasontobehappyMissFaith

So, this is me saying thank you to my new friend for making me calm down long enough to remember why I even decided to do this. And to thank him, and all of you, for running (in your own special way) your own version of #14in2014 with me.

I won’t finish this without you. Not because I can’t. But because it won’t mean anything if I did it, and you weren’t there to see me finish. 

Skipping A Few Milestones. . .

A friend asked me a question. His inquiry? What were your three milestones from 2013? We were days away from 2014, and often we find ourselves introspecting about the year. I mean, it’s inevitable. That damn tab on Facebook reminds you daily to look at your year in review.

I was stumped. As I usually am when someone wants to know something that seems so impersonal about you. Mostly because I tend to make these things, my introspection, my thoughts, my heart, so damn personal. And true to my fashion, I stuttered my way through the answer. Though the answer I will write with much more clarity and cohesion.

Because, those were my three milestones in 2013. Writing.

I was recognized professionally for my writing. I was revealed personally for my written work. I made my compositions public. And in that, I began peeling back another layer of me.

Professionally… While working at my previous institution, I was a member of one of our regional professional organizations. I used my membership in that organization to contribute (per Dr. Smith’s orders) to my field by writing a few publications. One article, inspired by recent student conduct related incidents, seemed to catch the attention of many professional colleagues. My Roommate Posted This About me on Facebook! was born from countless hours of reconciling the implications of social media behavior in the real “res life” world. Unbeknownst to me, that work was selected by the editing board for Article of the Year. My Residence Hall Directors came back from the conference with my plaque and congratulatory wishes.

This was not the first piece I’ve written professionally. It will not be the last. But it was then that I realized that when it comes to my career…I am indeed a writer. An award winning one!

Personally… So, I kinda maybe sorta wrote a book. I mean, my Mommie told me to do it. What is it? Hate you asked! I entitled the “book” I’m So Gurley (Girlie)…Pun Intended because I promised Richard Davis when we were in High School that if I ever (never) wrote a book, I would make that the title. I try to keep my word.

So the story written in that book…is just as disjointed as the author. Literally. Just as disjointed as her life. Knowing her, you would not want it any other way. It’s part of the charm. In the series of falls, late night duty calls and other epic failures, she managed a few successful minutes and a couple of achievements. She wished at one point in time for her life to be different, to be kinder, to resemble something of what she dreamed it would be. But it was harder, sadder, and lonelier than she could have ever imagined. Somehow, she laughed a little, loved a little more and lived it all.

Yes…the first personal publication I automatically wrote was the biography of a life I’m learning to live. I had been working on it for quite some time. It was not until 2013 that I had courage enough to share it. Share it in whole. Completely. With people who don’t automatically love me. I had no intention of that document making it past my internal hard drive.

So! I finished reading your work on the plane last night and it was great! I had no idea you were such a good writer with so many adventures! Lots of travel in and outside of the country and such an eclectic group of friends. Your motherly nature is very obvious in the young people you have worked with and even the men you have loved or have liked. That's a good thing and depending on who you nurture...well, you know. It read like a journal of sorts to me with different entries at different times. The themes were clear, though and that makes you a consistent writer. Thank you for sharing with me...it was my honor to read! I learned so much about you... #FMB

Publicly… Now this one? You would think that sharing an alleged book I maybe wrote is public, but it isn’t. It’s still a controlled environment in many ways. Yes I shared it with people who don’t have to tell me what I want to hear, but we have a trust that what I’ve shared with them, is for them. And them alone. So really, it’s still kinda personal. But say for instance you create, I don’t know, A Blog…and you entrust your inner thoughts to all of the internets in the world, then it’s kinda public.

There’s going to be many posts about running. Because another milestone (that I’ve reserved for 2014) is running! It’s Medal Monday! It’s 14 Start Lines, 14 Finish Lines and 14 Shiny Medals! And there is plenty to talk about when it comes to running. Eboogie (aka Alicia Keykey aka the real donut monster #nomnomnom) gave me three posts to begin working on already: “having big boobs”, “running with big boobs”, and my personal favorite, “using your boobs to provide a resting place for your friend’s head after running”. But anyone who knows my disjointedness knows that there will be a few tangents. Because life isn’t just about cosine’ing. There are sines, tangents, and 360 other degrees out there to graph.