Sunday, July 3, 2016

Nah son, we fresh out.

When my sister walked into the church, my first thought was Granny is gonna be pissed. She's in here with pants on. She know damn well Granny don’t like that. Then Aunt Scar walked by with some damn pants on. And the lady my Uncle came with. Crazy what your grief does to you. Reveals to you the strangest things. I actually stopped crying and had that thought as clear as waters in the Virgin Islands. I literally turned into my Grandmother while I shook my head and mentally shamed them all. The, I realized she would probably say my dress too short and my heels were too high. I smiled and shamed myself. But, I would have gotten a pass since I did have on a dress.

This is hard. Not in the sense that we wanted her to live forever. Okay, maybe we kinda did. But we are a family of faith. So we know that this wasn’t meant for always. It’s just we don’t have any more. We GurleyGirls have no more grandparents. And they spoiled us with so much love that we can’t help but be selfish at such a time that this is.

When my daddie’s mommie went on home to the Lord, I turned a bit lifeless. I had no understanding of the words that came out of the phone. I unplugged the green v-tech phone from the wall and died a little in my Scooby Doo bed. I didn’t leave my suite in Saxon for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t have said more than 10 words that entire day. Nobody knew what happened. I literally told nobody.

Then my PawPaw. You gotta understand the unholy thing I became when I got that news. Maybe you don’t have to understand it. But my life ain’t been the same since. When I talk to you about my daddie’s love for me, PawPaw is where it was made. He authored every lovely thing inside my daddie. Then my daddie wrote it all in me. It was around Christmas time. I don’t really like Christmas anymore. I act like it though. Cause that’s the right thing to do, I think. And Jesus birthday party, so turn up.

At the funeral, Uncle Charles, began to share words with us from the pulpit. He said to us grand’chirren that it’s okay. That it’s hard to understand. But PawPaw gone on home. That he was chasing after heaven. Then he sang a song. It felt like each word was excavating my soul from inside of me. I could feel my insides coming undone. I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough. Left a trail of tears on that dirt road. I went to Texarkana and walked around the Mall for a while. Then I bought my daddie a book from the Christian Bookstore he likes.

The year my great granny (big mama) passed, I got to see her in the hospital in Texarkana. I hate hospitals. Maybe I’ll tell you about that another time. Anyway, she told me to come to her bedside. She knew I would soon be driving back to wherever the hell I was living at the time. She told me to go to school, learn all I can, and not to pick up any strangers on the road. I giggled. She smiled. Granny asked me to come to her funeral, so I did. I maybe lasted 10 minutes. I darted out of there so fast, you would have thought I was trying out for the USA Olympic track team.

Now she gone. And we ain’t got a single grandparent left. And there was no getting out of her Memorial Service. I had to do it. Even if part of me had to die in the process.

Funerals are terrible things for me because of how they work. We parade the grieving family in. We escort them out. We ornate them in hugs, kisses, condolences, without even asking if they want them. Do you know how many people touched me? Like just about everyone. And each unwelcomed touch burned a hole through my skin. I absolutely can’t stand being touched when I'm that emotional. When I did hurdles trying to get out of PawPaw’s funeral my Mama came after me. I wouldn’t even let her get close to me, and like, I lived in her uterus. Everyone wants to hug you, but it’s an emotional assault of the worst kind to me. It takes a lifetime to recover from.

I sat quietly while everyone ate. A chair, near the door. I needed the air. Like so quiet. I didn’t want to be touched or talked to. I was like the emperor not wearing clothes. Maybe if I act like I’m invisible, nobody will see me. A woman asked if I was okay, and if I needed something to eat. I didn’t want to eat their food. Stupid funeral food. She asked if I wanted water. If I wanted some dessert. She petitioned me to allow her to serve me in some way. I didn’t say to her what I was thinking in that moment. Because, granny would have been pissed.

But these are the places where God reveals Himself. That nature of who He is and the power that He has. I have known God in so many ways. As a Healer when my daddie got real sick. As a Provider when near the end of each month, my needs are consistently met. But I now know Him, like for real for real as a Comforter. When I told my friend-parents that granny died, they did exactly what I asked them to do. Not speak of it. While I was with them, my sister told me about the Memorial Service. They changed their day. Whatever I needed. They allowed me to hold their son while people spoke of the wonderful things my granny did. They didn’t touch me or grab me like other people. They just sat there. And, when track practice began again and I high-jumped over the baby’s car seat, he came after me just like Mama did. But he didn’t try to touch me. He was handing me the car keys. In my grief I said Don’t give me those dude, I’m a runner. I might take off. It’s hilarious now, but I would have left a trail of sorrow down Runnymede Street just like I did that dirt road.

See, the thing is, if your grandparents were anything like mine, then they personified strength. They had strong hands and stronger prayers. They were the gate keepers to our souls. They are the reason we black girls have magic. They are the reason we black girls ARE magic. It was their magic first. And all these years, they were teaching us how to use it. Now we gurley kids gotta figure it out on our own. #BlessGodForAuntsAndUnclesTho

…and I don't know where to begin.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

...where I firmly plant my feet. #AtADrumpfRally

I went to a drumpf rally. You’re mostly not surprised by this because well, you probably follow me on some kind of social media, so you already know. You were witness to my posts.

Had I returned from another trip courtesy of Delta – Don’t Give A Damn About My Life Or Schedule – Airlines, and told you, Hey, while I was in Chicago, I went to a donald drumpf rally, you would have replied, Bish, whet?…because, that’s the accurate and most appropriate response.

Before he became this thing we warn our children about at night while they say their prayers, he was never someone of interest to me. I mean, like never. Like, when people talk about ridiculously rich people I think about the Chinese Government, Wine Salesmen, and natural resources from Africa. I never think about that dude. Because, like, why?

Anyway, my only friend in Chicago told me that he was going to the drumpf rally. And I really wanted to see that friend, so one Evenbrite *that nobody checked at the entrance later* I was there – without him because he hadn’t made it to the venue yet and I was only a mile away.

Walking up to the UIC Pavilion was the easy part. The sun was still out. Traffic was moving normally – for what I assume about downtown Chicago. And for the most part, the fact that one of the vilest creatures that Hell ever made was planning to incite the worst in the poorly educated on a college campus, was just a couple hours away – people seemed okay. In good spirits. Selling their wares without dispute. Taking line selfies.

It was only then I realized I was there. At a drumpf rally. All. By. Myself.

The last time I was this scared I got a call about my Daddie being in the hospital. I felt real, palpable fear for my existence. I never want to know that again.

I tucked my fear way and conjured up some #BlackGirlMagic. Which was timely because a group of black girls (undergraduates from UIC) were in line. We made eye contact. I smiled. One approached and inquired *very* hesitantly, Are you a drumpf supporter? To which I casually responded, Hell to every naw, individually and collectively.

I was a lone wolf no longer. I had a pack. And my pack was the ish, bro. The. Ish. As we made our way through the lines, one young lady commented, Like how is my tuition paying for a building that this man is speaking in? Not only just my tuition, but my city too. #QuestionsThatNeedAnswers

Another stopped at a table of drumpf paraphernalia and curiously asked, So, what does ‘Make-America-Great-Again’ mean? Of course, of all the inquiries, no intelligible answer was given. Each time though, she engaged, listened without interruption, and invited discourse. Each time though, she left without a clear understanding of this ‘greatness’ drumpf is purporting to provide should he win. Unless that “bomb the hell out of ISIS” button was what he meant. *shrugs*

Entering was easy. Too easy. Easy like, I had a ticket, but not a soul who works there knows it – because nobody asked to see it. Not the event staff. Not the police. Not even the Secret Service dude that felt me up. I swear that look in his eye before I approached was like, Yeah, you next…gimme dat @$$... There is no feeling like the victimization that plays in your mind, knowing that some version of it is about to happen, and really, there is nothing you can do about it to change it. I was hella nervous. It wasn’t so much that he violated my lady parts (he didn’t), but the idea that the purpose for his gloved hands touching me is for the protection of the spawn of anti-christ. That somehow, the person that’s speaking here today is so important, so worthy of protection, that there might be something wrong with me, so I must be checked.

Who checks him? Who protects me from him? What damage can I do with a bag of snacks?

These beautiful black children (after throwing shade about my snacks) led me to the floor. You know, the place, where people gather around a stage, where the person on the program speaks. Orange wristbands and watchful eyes, we joined the crowd. In the eye of the storm. At the furthest point away from every exit. In a sea of hate. Drowning.

…and like their shade suggested, I went into Mom-Mode. Because this is war, and my babies are going to make it out alive. Look at all the hateful faces at our blackness. Like they legitimately were ready to pop off on us on site. Waiting for someone to do something so they can act up…like…when one of the kids attempted to join the rest of the wolfpack and navigate the crowd. Apparently, she “pushed” someone because people who are super close to each other in a crowd have sooooo much space to get around the people in said crowd.

I told her that she needed to step back next to me and wait. That her presence and attempt to join the melanin in the middle of the group would enrage the people around her and that would not be the best thing to do right now.

...my people though. #AboutThatLife #MakingMoralDecisions
She hung her once bright head, looking at me, and said, I wish my presence didn’t incite such anger. I wish I didn’t have to stand here.

I’m never having kids. Ever. Like what are you parents telling your children? I need answers! Because I sure as ish didn’t know what to say to her. How do I help her in her righteous social action and save her life at the same damn time? Those people were just waiting, impatiently, for one of them to say something, do something, hell, be more themselves so they could get it started. I had nothing for her.

Enter deep, dark, depression.

More people began to filter in. Our safety continued to decrease. Mostly because we got separated. Between the reporters, crazed costumed drumpf’ers, and speckles of blackness, I lost my pack. I took a seat in the stands. I figured I would watch it all happen, position myself to record as much as possible, and safely wait for my friend because this was his idea in the first darn place!

Drumpf supporters are poorly worded sound bites of hatred. Nothing was coherent about their cheers or their conversations with each other. Make Healthcare Great Again! Ma’am, did you know that most people with preexisting health conditions could not get health coverage prior to the Affordable Health Care Act? Was there something else that was great about healthcare? Because that part, all by itself, is really shitty.

No response.

*man standing silently before the speech (that didn’t happen) was supposed to start* He stood in the stands, off from the stage, holding a torn drumpf sign in his hands. Being unapologetically black and living with Melissa Harris Perry in that f**kless space where we all aspire to rent or own homes. #MyAgentIsLookingForADuplexAsWeBlog

Get him out of here! He’s causing a disruption! Look at him! He’s trash!!!

But what did he say to you?

*crickets* then make america great again cheers.

What did I learn?

Some of us don't love us too.
♫♪ my country, tis of thee, hates the ish outta me ♪♫ There just isn’t anything else to it. I am convinced. I am now more persuaded than I have ever been, that it is indeed the best in us, the magic in us black folks that have caused this – no our worst. The brutalization of people because they think differently at a political rally is contrary to the amendments those folks proudly stand for – but somehow I’m an okay exception? There were people there who really would not have given a broken, beat up, and busted f*ck if I had made it home alive. Like, how is it possible to share a national identity with people like that?

Why in the hell am I spending my time developing your children, when you don’t even extend to me the common courtesy of an excuse me?

Why, as tax payers, as citizens, as Americans (which wasn’t by choice, but, well, amurikkka), do we allow this to happen? It’s often the disposition that this is politics and we must conform to its structure. But if it’s meant to serve me and it doesn’t, why in the world and I conforming to it? We should have taken some Miss Sophia like advice and burned that building down #WorryAboutHeavenLater. But we did the next best thing. #ShutItDown

I don’t work for politicians. Politicians work for me. And it’s high time I put them to work. Or drag them like Congressman Matt Cartwright did the governor of Michigan. This is absurd in the most asinine ways. Jelani Cobb  said, which I believe in my entire being, from ovaries to overbite, that free speech stops being free at the moment it limits my freedom:

These are not abstractions. And this is where the arguments about the freedom of speech become most tone deaf. The freedom to offend the powerful is not equivalent to the freedom to bully the relatively disempowered. The enlightenment principles that undergird free speech also prescribed that the natural limits of one’s liberty lie at the precise point at which it begins to impose upon the liberty of another. #JelaniCobb

Who is defending that? Who is hell bent on bombing the ish out of people who intrude on my liberty? Where is the button for that?

I had a conversation with a friend about that young woman’s first line of questioning. About why colleges and universities hosts events like this. Events we know are counterintuitive to the mission, vision, and strategic goals of our institutions. I mean, where, like WHERE is anything drumpf says located in our institutional documents? He wants to deport undocumented persons. Our schools PROVIDE SERVICES for undocumented students. Sure though, politics, policy, pretending to adhere to some protocol that cannot be changed, right? #UselessPandering

Heavy the head that knows where the University President’s Office key is located. Because I imagine if it were me, I probably would have had an answer for that beautiful black girl. Your tuition dollars aren’t funding this. Because it ain’t happening here. Swerve, drumpf. Swerve.

His speech ain’t free. It damages the very fabric of everything all of these people at the rally claim they believe. Though at the time the Constitution was written, it wasn’t completely for me, some revisions have been made. There are protections in there for the 1st 3/5ths of me and the other 2/5ths. And he’s not defending it. He’s damaging it. And when we host him, we defend him.

We all come to a hill that we die on. This is mine. It's not just mine either. It should be yours. If John Oliver or his chrome extension doesn't convince you, I am not sure there is an argument anyone could make.

Nothing was free about this. We all paid a price in Chicago.

Our Humanity.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Someone posted something the other day about black people attending drumpf rallies. Something to the effect of, for, why? Like, nobody wants you there…so what’s the purpose of attending?

Uh, duh.

Here is a list of all the places I wouldn’t go because people didn’t want me there:

          1. Almost every damn where I’ve ever been. In life. Ever.

Bye. Miss me with that fake righteousness. You don’t get to take the decision from me. If I want to witness the present day incarnation of the violence my ancestors experienced so that I might have a choice, and disrupt it by making them uncomfortable then – present and accounted for. My time at UCLA helped me practice being in exactly the spaces you think I shouldn’t be in because, eff you.

Enter – drumpf rally.

Just like I don’t deserve God’s grace and I get it anyway, I don’t deserve the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune I received in that Pavilion – but I made people real anxious and will post pictures on facebook because, Shaun King will find you. #HeIsConnectedLikeTheNSA #OnlyBetter

I’m so disheartened by all of this. So very sad. Was this the better that was promised to me? Why is everyone so unwilling to do something about this man? We’ve clearly went way too far. Why won’t we just stop it? Why are we okay with this kind of hate?

What drumpf is doing to the american people is monstrous.

And the monsters are showing up. 

We are becoming them. 

All of us.

Friday, December 4, 2015

The Cape Doesn't Fit Yet

The last time I was up like this, I was writing to you all about my friend who had to say goodbye to his father. It turned out, I was managing the feelings I had about that, through the time my daddie said goodbye to me. It wasn’t a forever goodbye. It was, you’re in college now, and daddie can’t do this part with you goodbye. Different goodbyes, yet his father and my daddie were saying the same thing. We can’t do this part with you.

I’m up late right now thinking about another man and his father. This is a pretty special man to me. I can’t tell you all about him though, not for a lack of time or words – it’s just not the time yet, and those aren’t the words I have. I have been thinking about him and his father for a while now. But I know, while it’s genuine, it’s also a projection.

He and I just happen to be in the same place in our lives. Where something happens and your father, your pops, your dear old dad, and he has to become something else. And after they worked so hard their whole lives to give you all those wonderful experiences growing up, send you off to the best schools, and work day in and out paying for what all of that costs, you don’t have enough education or sense to figure out how to get through this.

His father needs him, more than he needs his father. It’s the not so fun side to raising your parents that we never status update about on social media. You know, the time when they like legit NEED you. Like, if you don’t figure out a way to come through for them, some bad stuff might really happen. And you might not be equipped for this, but you definitely ain’t prepared for the bad stuff that might happen. So you figure it out. And that wears you out. #ThisWomanIsGettingWeary #PretendingImMadeOfStone #projecting

You are oscillating back and forth between gratitude and grief. He’s thankful that his father is still here. I am certain of that. But the grief of this changing relationship, Lord? Having to be there in this new capacity? But it’s not new at all because it’s what his father has been doing for him his whole life. Growing up though, you never think the tables are going to be turned. You assume that your parents are always going to have this power, this authority, this control. They are always going to be able to veto that holiday plan you have, because ain’t nobody going to no damn Las Vegas Bowl the day after Christmas? Is you crazy? You can Las Vegas Bowl your butt on that couch! Child went off to school and came back crazy as I don’t know what!
#MyMotherDoesntBelieveInMe #DreamKiller #PopsIsATraitor #PopsDidntEvenHelpMeOutWithThatOne  

Grateful that you have the means to be able to do this. To fix the world up for them - even though it looks different every time you "fix" it. Grief because remaining patient and humble through that process takes an expert level of Jesus and you haven’t been to church in a few Sundays so… #Level:BasicJesus. And something tells me, even if you were on the front pew taking notes, it would still be a bit challenging. Like you actually need Jesus to be there with you through this kind of patience and humility – next to you, zapping you with patience and humble blessings as you care for your father. Because, #YouBasic.

And who, like WHO can you actually say this to and not sound like a jerk? I mean, I started this off with, my friend who had to say goodbye to his father – I mean, talk about your first world problems, right? For all the people who wish they had a father still here to worry over, there’s an equal opposite amount of those who wish they had the means to do what you’re doing right now. And you’re over there worrying over a mug of pomegranate tea sweetened with organic honey. Complain much?

You say nothing. It’s easier that way. You suck it up, and do it in silence. My friend isn’t looking for a handshake, hug, or help even. He is just trying to find his way. Just like I was some time ago. #StillLookingForThePath #TakeUsToTheKing

So I told him about it. In the black church, they call that a testimony. It was over a text message though. I told him what was actually happening to me all those times he was sitting right next to me. In the car. In the bar. At the tailgate. On the way to the game. All that time, he had no idea. I knew exactly what he was feeling, although a different father, it was the same emotion. More like emotions. It’s all of them bruh. Any given moment, you can be feeling anything on the inside, but that outside is like a rock. We become the rocks, like Tristan, that our fathers beat themselves (read: their pride) against. Unshaken. Steadfast. Unmovable. Strong  (read: humble-ish) enough to endure. Everlasting. Because we must. We have inherited this task.

You can’t give that kind of grief away. Save that for yourself. Gratitude is good. Use that for Dad.

His father is changing. His father is doing the most courageous thing a father can do for his son. He’s not being his son’s superhero anymore. He’s not moving the mountains, capturing criminals, or saving any more days. He is stepping down, so his son can learn to use his super powers.

My friend is going to have to figure this part out all on his own. Something like his father did the instant he knew he was passing his genetic material on to create the remarkable man I know today. The great man (my friend) who lets me order things we both know I won’t finish, but allows me to be great in that moment of ordering a beer I can’t pronounce because I want to be down. And never says a mumbling word about it. Okay, he says a few, but he lets me be great. Then drinks the rest of the beer. Because we don't waste alcohol. 

Things have to be this way. See, unlike Matthew McConaughey, my friend’s father won’t be able to leapfrog through time. The natural order, probability wise, will likely be preserved in this instance. This is what is left for us. A desperate, restless, search for all the horcruxes father has left you. So you can figure out how to make the cape fit. Lord knows it doesn’t fit yet – not even close. It too long. It's not the color you imagined your cape would be. Whoa - you actually never even imagined you would actually have a cape because you always thought your father would be here. I mean, you understood passing on the the figurative sense, but not in the "It's definitely going to impact my life" kind of way. An overwhelming panic is setting in. It's real. You have to do this. All on your own.

It’s then you realize just how all powerful your father was. And how ill-equipped you are for this task.

I have never doubted what it takes to be a mother. And I never will. But fathers have an incredible task to match.

Passing the cape on.

Knowing that it does not fit yet.

Unsure if they will ever see it fly.

I suppose that’s the real lesson fathers teach us. Faith. Believing in something they may never get to see. Believing in something they might not ever see. The great courage, the immeasurable love, it takes to have that kind of faith.

…and the burden to carry it. Like my friend said, it’s hard on the both of them.

It’s hard on us too homey.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

I Hate Jigs #TurkeyTrot2k15

I hate Jigs. Like I maybe liked her at one point in my life, but now? This point? Nope. #choices

Running is one of the most amazing, torturous experiences that have embarked on. Challenging in the best ways. And the perfect yin to my sweet potato pie binging yang. I have learned so much about myself and my will to achieve in these few years.

Like, the fact that: I. Hate. Running. In. The. Cold.

Which leads us back to my first statement. I hate Jigs. See, why did she have to be so wonderful and so lovely, and so good to me, and have a birthday, and get me all excited about running the Turkey Trot (again), and seeing her cross the finish line again. It’s all her fault!

Like why in the world would the sky gods allow the temperature stick to get below 40°? That is not the proper weather to be in a mood to give thanks. Like what am I thankful for below 40°? The warmth I have yet to lose?

Running in the cold is stupid. Happy Birthday Jigs.

START: I’m pretty sure I am in the wrong corral. Not on purpose like Vegas. Definitely on accident like I’m not moving away from the start line just to find the right corral. Nope. #MoreChoices

Mile 1: Take me away in a manger it is cold out here. Who turned off Nana’s heater to the Bay Area? Hace frio homey! Hace. Frio.

Mile 2: I don’t want to do this. I really don’t.

Mile 3: I have 3.2 miles left. I wonder how I would have figured that out using Common Core Math?

Mile 4: I always regret not taking the turn off for the shorter distance race at this point. What is the mile point exactly? *looks over at the Nike run app on the arm of the lady next to me* Eh. 4.7? I’m a quitter at 4.7miles – who knew?

Mile 5: I’m can’t believe I have been running this long and my body hasn’t warmed up. Like in my core, it’s like Elsa shot me with an ice dart or something. I want to build a snowman.

Mile 6: Those people look like they’ve finished. Naw, they were probably just out here supporting a friend or something. They don’t have medals around their necks. Like, why would they leave a race (like my sister) without their medals?

Mile 6(0.2): Oh my God. Are there no medals?!?!?!! I did not just go through that for NO. FREAKIN. MEDAL!!! Oh Hell Naw!!!!

FINISH: This is the worst race ever. I really hate Jigs.

And even though I knew, I traversed the Finish Line Festival feverishly looking for a medal. Because, who would spend their Thanksgiving morning NOT eating everything, out here running, and return home with nothing. It was like my very own grail quest…but there no clues, no signs, not markers that I was almost there. Nothing.

I mean, last year I left here with a medal. I was the talk of Thanksgiving Dinner! And by talk of Thanksgiving Dinner, everyone talked about how crazy I was to go running at the dinner table. Like I said…the talk of Thanksgiving! How can I have that kind of greatness without a medal Lord God??

I wandered aimlessly. So disappointed. I tried! I legit tried to do well at this race even with the cold! It was like a #LasVegasRedeption. I mean, the #ColdRainyWind without the #RainyWind. I can be great now! Well, greater than I was in Nevada at least. But no. I work all hard. Run all fast (read: not quite slow, but…). All for what?!?!! #NoMedal

Look, it’s like this. It’s not that every race I run HAS to have a medal. It’s just that, if I get out there and run, I’m expecting one, so, even if I’m the only person you give a medal to, that’s what you should probably do. My sense of accomplishment and validation that I am someone special is directly correlated with the shine of the bling about neck. And I have none. *wow…my future husband has his hands full…I am kind of a mess…welp*

…and since I’ve said nicer things about bad hair cuts, high gas prices, and shoes that give you bunions, I’ll just end with that.


Stupid Turkey Trot. #iHateJigs

#15ThingsIn2015 Challenge
5 new states (Louisiana, Texas – 2 down, 3 to go) #iShouldWorkOnThisOne #2MonthsLeft
4 new friends (OldieButNewbie #RunningHubby; My Child; WickedWineRunCrew (6 people!); Ragnar Napa Valley (10 people!); Cuzzo; NotQuiteTwinSister & BruinBuddy – 22 down)
3 new running events (Shamrock Half; St Charles Road Race; Orange County Half; Wicked Wine Run; Ragnar Napa Valley; Let’s Go 510…5k; Monster Dash 5k – 7 down)
2 back-to-back running events (Rock N Roll San Jose 5K & Half; Ragnar Napa Valley & Let’s Go 510…5K, Rock N Roll Las Vegas 5K & Half, 3 down)
1 Half Marathon PR (Rock N Roll San Diego Half! 6 minutes!, Rock N Roll Las Vegas 5K – 35 seconds to spare! – 2 down!)

1 Run A Race Without A Medal Because I Guess That’s A Thing Now -_- (SJ Turkey Trot 2015, 1 down)

Monday, November 30, 2015

Black Girl (Thanksgiving) Magic

Yo, I’m hella greedy. (I should stop being greedy.) I mean, I’m not even going to try to hide it.

But to be fair about my level of greediness, it’s not the gluttoness, day-to-day, eat’em’ups kind of greedy. I’m not judging that, because well, after I tell on myself, I really won’t have an argument worth defending. We’re just…just…opposite side of the same coin.

Anyway, back to what I was saying. I didn’t come to the realization that I was greedy by happenstance. It was actually when I was having a much better, kind of amazing, life epiphany.

It was when I realized one of the earliest times in my life when I saw Black Girl Magic.

So, take it back a minute. Sit back in your chair at work – you’re reading this at work, don’t front – and think a minute. *conjure up the spirit of Sanaa all of her brown sugariness* When was the first time you witnessed some Black Girl Magic?

Enter: My Greed.

Okay, so every Thanksgiving is so special. It takes me back to that time in my life when my mother was playing the starring role in I Don't Know How She Does It… I mean, 7 girls, a full time job, a husband with particular food needs, bowling league, usher board, and Lord bless it, pressing seven heads a week?! Can I get a witness up in here?

…she just did it. All of it. And for a time, she did all of the cooking, every holiday. All by herself. I seriously, not using the pun because it works, have NO IDEA how she did it, and I was growing up right in that house with her doing it.

Every Thanksgiving we would have a feast. And two to three days later we would be totally over the feasting. I had no idea that I would come to love Thanksgiving leftovers they way I didn’t love them back then. It was around this time, the magic began.

Mama would go into the kitchen and pull out the remains of the turkey. Our hearts would sink because this would be day three or four of eating the same darn thing, right? Well, not exactly. She’d pull out a really big bowl, and begin to picking. I watched her because when I was a kid I had this weird thing with dead things. Like, looking at the skeletons. Inspecting the deadness. That stayed with me all through UCLA #cadavers. Anyway, she would pick and we would sulk.

Something strange would happen next. Mama would start chopping. It was this bizarre wizardry, because it wasn’t cooking. Like she used no pots or pans. Just a knife and a spoon. OMG, did my mother go to Hogwarts? I bet she was a Gryffindor with her ole usher board righteous first lady self. Maybe she’s a witch? I bet she took one of Snape’s classes. I mean, she been in her late 30s forever. She must drink the blood of unicorns. Like Voldemont? OMG, my mother is a dark wizard!!!!! O_O My father is going to be heartbroken when he learns of this. Maybe we can have an exorcism or something?

Wait, like what in the entire hell was I talking about? Do I really get off topic this easily??

Oh, yea… Chopping away. All those leftover remains of turkey. Then some of that celery/onion/bell pepper crap she started all of the holiday cooking off with. Some hard boiled eggs. Then a bunch of other stuff my fragile mind was too young to understand because, look at all the glitter coming out of that spoon shaped wand #SheIsAWitchAtBest?!?!? I have no idea what’s happening but I am in a trance. Hypnotized by the symphony of stirring and chopping and tasting and sprinkling and OMG what is she doing now?!?!

Then, right at the moment when my little underdeveloped heart could take no more, Daddie would walk by, grab a ritz cracker and dip it in. Then walk off. Yo, he’s like a food sniper. You never see it coming, but you always see him going. He has a food radar that knows when a dish is just about done because his timing was more flawless than Beyoncé.

She would wipe the side of the bowl, and leave it on the counter. Grab the white bread, and make sandwiches. Spreading that magical concoction on the bread, sans edges, cut it in half, and hand it off to kiddies to and fro.

That’s when I tasted it. Magic. Black Girl Heavenly Magic. Thank You Jesus! Yes Lord! My Soul Says Yes! My soul is anchored in…this bowl!

Had to be magic. It never lasted long enough to be anything else. It was magic that only happened around the holidays. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Easter. Never more than three times a year. Never.

Eventually, my scheming got good enough to figure out that, if we don’t eat the turkey, like wait her out those three to four days, she would have more material to make magic. And so it happened. Every holiday we would eat less and less turkey, so Mama could make more magic. We banked on her failing memory (no magic, bruh…unless you count coffee) remembering to purchase the same size turkey every year because she like had a big family, so she needs the biggest effin turkey they have, right? Magic.

So what she caught on to us. The point was, negros was knee deep in magic for decades. I had to come clean with her one year. It was too obvious. One of my sisters got a little turkey happy, and I almost came across the table with the might of Moses and the Red Sea behind me. Like, what are you doing? Are you crazy? YOU EATING (MY) MAGIC! So, I told her what I was doing. How, I live for the magic that she creates after we’re done with the turkey.

The next year, I bought a separate turkey for her to make magical and still policed the Thanksgiving turkey because I’m hella greedy son. I told you that in the beginning.

I never realized the creativity it took for my mother to create dinner day after day, year after year, and almost always get it right. Anyone that’s gone out to dinner with me knows that I can be a smidge particular with my food order. I mean, the waiter gets a tip. My Mama got nothing from me yet she actually made double turkeys multiple years! Damn…like why yall never tell me how greedy I was #BeenEatinLongEnough? And you call yourself my friend?

From sweet potato pies, to strawberry shortcakes without the strawberries, and fried cabbage – yes Lord!, to turkey salad – I lived with incredible magic from the first black girl I knew. But the thing about magic is, if you stay around it long enough, you pick up some of your own. It’s not the same magic. It’s a magic you learn to harness, without even knowing you’re perfecting it. You just end up in the store one day, down the turkey aisle.

Yup. You are absolutely correct that I made a turkey this year. And ate like 3 pieces of it. #choices

Yes. There is a big bowl of turkey salad in my refrigerator right now.


Get your own Black Girl Magic Mama.

I ain’t sharing her either. #StillGreedy #IveLEarnedNothing #NotSureICareEither