I Finally Did It... #ShoopShoop

*takes a deep black breath*

Like I legit had a waiting to exhale moment in 2019. *queues up soundtrack because that whole thang slapped* I have seen that movie 50-11 million times, including my watching it on network television with all the commercials last week.

Man, listen. A whole exhale.

I have so many favorite parts of that movie/story/epic series of events in the lives of 30-something black women. However, my favorite (even above Robyn throwing that orange at Troy’s leather in the summertime wearing ass) was Bernie and James. Angela and Wesley. (but at some point we are going to have to talk about how Patricia (janet) came through with the most excellent remix of Bernie and that burnt car tho #ItIsTrash #ThatGolfClub #YouKnowHowMadYouGottaBe? *queues up Tweet* pass me a cigarette Bernie #iDigress)

How many of us have found ourselves in a completely vulnerable, devastatingly silent, and extremely public place dressed impeccably in the shambles of our life? Example: At the bar of a hotel looking at the remains of your broken marriage while a couple is taking wedding photos in the lobby. That was Bernie. If you're me *hypothetically, of course ... in my lyfe jennings voice* you're crashing a conference and you meet someone else who is crashing the conference too, and you go hang out together because the friends you're with are conferencing, and well, you're crashing. Anyway, later that evening Bernie and James would make the night beautiful and then return to their lives, to grieve the dead (her marriage) and dying (his wife). An isolated moment in time with reverberations so strong, they needed to be written, double enveloped, mailed, and well, read.

I’ve waiting as long as I could to contact you. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Bernie. Every day. All the time. I’m embarrassed to even write that down, but it’s true.

Bernie, I fell in love, in one night. You know what’s even harder for me to understand – is that what I feel for you has never undercut the love I have for my wife. Now, how is that possible?

I still watch her every day. So beautiful. So brave. I just wanna give her everything I’ve got in me – every moment. She’s hanging on, fighting to be here for me, and when she sleeps, I cry over how amazing she is, and how lucky I’ve been to have her in my life.

You’re the only person in this world I ever knew I could tell this to – and even if this never finds you, and we never speak again, you’ve changed my life.

I know it was the 90’s but this man wrote her a whole letter, y'all. He used all his words; he used all his real words. Have you ever felt that with someone? You tell them something you haven’t told your family, parents, spouse, or even closest friend. Sure, there may be something to the we’re never going to see each other again quality of the interaction, but that isn’t why you said it. You actually never planned to say it, but there you are, face to face, exchanging real words with each other. And everything about what is happening makes complete sense.

You know what inspiration is? It’s someone who lets you know life will go on and something beautiful can be waiting somewhere. Somewhere, when you least expect it.

I spent an entire day with a man who was absolutely curious about me, because me. The End. He looked at me, in both mine eyes, absolutely focused on me. He engaged with me in a way that showed me my life was going to continue, and something beautiful was waiting on me somewhere. When something dies, that thing that was everything, you begin to see the eventual death in everything living around you. We believe in the pain before we believe in peace because hurt is a more trustworthy emotion than happiness. Why is that? (hello, hello, hello heartbreak)

But he looked me in my eyes wrought with death and offered me real living words. He did it promising me absolutely nothing. Much like James never leaving his wife under any circumstances, what he offered me that night was basically las vegas, by way of los angeles (I mean, they are close enough, in distance and distraction). Though calculating and crisp with his words, he did not say it that way. He carefully remarked that he had one job, and we fist bumped because he did that job well. Splendid.

It was a good ass night. And you know me so you know that I have collected (and conspired) plenty a random of good ass night in my time with super great people that I literally just met as the night commenced. But everything about me now, about who I am, is a life after death experience *big ups to biggie* There was the time prior to mid-2017, and then there is all of this here. I have not had a good ass night in any of this here. What's worse than not having one, is believing with some certainty that there wouldn't be one ever again. Not because I was undeserving or unworthy, but because that's just what this here is all about. I couldn't see it as being possible. I mean, do you know how hard it is to see mustard seeds, fam? My faith-sight ain't what it used to be *somebody grandma pray for me...i need a fan wavin, control top stockings wearin, wig shakin prayer*. But he, doing his one job exceptionally well, shared the good rev. dr. line brother’s word about believing when we aren’t seeing, huddled over his sermon notes captured in a “smart device” likely done using this thing called “y-phi”... They help you work when you're far away from the office.

So, I went on and got some nerve. I did it. I closed my eyes. And I exhaled.

There is no guarantee that I am ever going to see this man again, I had a wonderfully innocent experience with him, and I’m certain that it changed my life. All imperfect pieces in a puzzle that we made fit, in just one night. We kind of left like Bernie and James, grieving, in a good way. Who we were beginning to pass to make space for who we are becoming... *so’which’one’a’yall gonna send me that book tho, #treysongzvoice*

He inspired me. And in turn, we made the night beautiful, in an old fashioned way.

Bear. Down. Y'all. #grrrrrrrr

Something I never do – call people when they are sick (and/or shut in), infirmed, or otherwise accessing their health benefits (should they have them). It’s like the worse call to get. You ever been really sick, and someone calls and is like, Hey, I heard you were sick! Are you okay?

I don’t even have to continue, right? You feel me, rogue. So, when it comes to the big sick(s and shut in’s) and totally infirmed, and absolutely accessing health benefits, I’m like a ghost. Don’t get me wrong, I take them to the Lord in prayer, and check up on them, but I ain’t sh!t, so there is always that. I mean, what in the hell do you say.

Aye dog, I heard you were sick. What happened? Awe nothing, I just got cancer and like a few months left to live. Really? That’s crazy?! I can’t believe it?! I‘m so shocked! I had no idea anything was wrong!

Right. That person probably had no idea that something was wrong, and well, didn’t feel like broadcasting it to the entire omniverse, but you found out, because that’s what people do, and it’s not wrong that you found out and want to show that you care, but what you intend doesn’t always have the impact you desired. So, with that, I keep the phone calls to nil.

The last thing I want to do to someone going through, is to have them comfort me. You know, the way I did some humans (being totally human) when they found out ole’Poochie was pressing a dying pillow. Everyone was so sorry for me. And wanted to hug me for them, not for me, because I really didn’t want to be touched, and it felt hella rude to give them a thizz-faced-heisman, so I hugged back. Because clearly they needed it.

Where am I going with this? I’m glad I asked, because I can go on and on. A sisterfriend messaged our circle of sisterfriends to tell us that one of our friends from grad school was in hospice. Our group chat is usually littered with memes. We used words to describe our replied emotions. Actual. Living. Words. Exactly – that’s how big of a shock it was. There was no time to type anything in a search bar or scroll through images.

Included in the message was an address to the hospice location. I looked at the group chat, then scrolled up to the address, opened up a google search, and typed it in. I located a phone number and dialed it. The woman transferred me to the actual location, and they transferred me to her room. It wasn’t until that moment I realized what I was doing. I almost hung up the phone, but the way my everlasting soul is set up, I don’t need no’mo’ red marks – so I stayed on the mainline (to tell’em what I wanted…which I wasn’t sure of, so there was awkward to follow).

My friend was resting which was a save for real. I asked that a message be passed along that I called to tell her that I love her (I improvised) and that she was in my thoughts and prayers (not the ones we give after school/mass shootings and such, actual ones). I shared a quick memory of always seeing her at conferences post-graduate school. If yall think I’m loud, let you get in ear or eye shot of her! That country accent will sail across the conference center, smacking you right in the heart. If love has anything to do with being remembered, then I was definitely loved by her – she always remembered me, smiling.

I ended the conversation with Thanks so much! Have a great rest of your day! because that’s what you tell friends and family and staff in hospice centers when someone is lying in a bed, yet holding on. I can’t be made after God’s complete image and likeness doing mess like that. Sheesh. My head hit my desk in horror. Father, God. Like, who raised me??

That evening I bought a card and printed a photo of us to send to her – my way of repenting for my awful salutation. That next morning I messaged my sisterfriends that we should maybe send some flowers from us, had to be like 8:30AM or so. Around 4:00PM that same sisterfriend shared that our friend had fought the good fight and ha[d] gone home to see her heavenly and earthly father. My God, today.



GRRRRRR! bih! GRRRRRRR!!

I’m not sure why I’m even writing this. Sure there are the obvious takeaways… Give folks they flowers while they yet alive *in my old Auntie voice* … Tell the people you love that you love them and mean it … Don’t wait on tomorrow, do it today … All of that stuff about living full and doing it well with so much intention. Like we did every conference meetup. There was a fun photo, bear paws, and a GRRRRR! because we absolutely, positively, always did it…like Big Bears! #UCA c/o2006 #DoItLikeABigBear #GRRRRRR

I just can’t help but wonder why I called her. It was specific, deliberate, and very intentional. It was so unlike myself. While it felt natural, it was completely uncharacteristic. I imagine the few people I told only believe me because I am so messed up about it. So many people who passed on before her, why was it that I called her? I imagine some will say it was for some greater good, or that I did some noble thing, or that it was a blessing to her. Even that it was for my own personal/emotional growth and development (because why am I not done with that already?!). Sure, all plausible.

I just don’t (won’t) believe it.

She got a name, then he walked away...

Every Father's Day, without fail, someone posts to some social media in the internets, the following question (in varying syntax and leveling degrees of mastery of said syntax), All these songs about mothers…where are the songs about fathers?

One year I replied with this one. Mostly because poor grammar upsets me, and my unconscious ability to be petty amuses others. AND any father worth their fathering is not somewhere looking for a song.

He’s looking for the remote. Or a kid to bring it to him.

I digress.

But, I love this song. Before I loved it, my father had to help me. Remember that time my Daddie did that awful thing? When he left me in Westwood all by myself (yes, I’m this dramatic, still) to go make a life and be great or whatever it was? Yea, that. He left me with roommates. A caucasian and mexican girl. And because I like my mexican people from my neighborhood in the bay area (who are the southern californians anyway? they smell like avocado – not that this is a bad thing or I know what that is at this point in my life). HOW CAN YOU LEAVE ME WITH STRANGERS?!

…anyway, because caucasion people listen to different music, my roommate worships the devil.

Daddie…I think my roommate worships the devil? Will I go to hell because I live with her? It’s not like I picked her. What? What are you talking about? She listens to weird music. I think it’s on MTV. These white guys are like bouncing around and making strange sounds with instruments and whatnot. I am not sure what this is, and I don’t want my soul to burn in that place *because even though we’re preacher’s kids, we don’t use that h-word…around him* I’m sure it’s not that. Well, what are the people saying in the song? They’re saying…well, he’s talking about…Daddie their hair is like these weird colors!!!!! Baby, just relax. You’re going to have to give different things a try. I don’t think she worships the devil. If she did, I think you would be more certain of it. Just relax. If you don’t like it, don’t listen to it. But I don’t think you even know what it is…

Daddie – A Gazillion; Me – like maybe 5 or 6. I mean, I’m not a complete idiot…sometimes I got a W. But I certainly took waaaayyy more L’s, like not listening to the song.

So I took his advice. I listened. It was awful. Until I listened long enough to hear what they were talking about. Oh…this is about his father; he must have been a great guy. Oh, he left you? Uh…my bad. You were scared? Uh….okay, not exactly devil worship, but it’s not that bad.

 

Our fathers are nothing alike, but I love this song. There's this one part..., ♫♪ …daddy gave me a name, my daddy gave me a name…then he walked away… ♫♪

Same thing happened to me. Only, it happened much faster for him. His dad gave him a name, he closed his eyes, his world disappeared, and his daddy was gone. My Daddie gave me a name, then 18 of the best years a daughter could have, took me to Westwood and walked away…to the parking lot, to drive back to the Bay Area.

My Daddie gave me a name. On that day, when the one who (earthly) made me provided me that protection, he also shared the story of my name. And everything it means.

At Wheaty’s graduation taco party, we were all making introductions. As such, I extended my hand and told a man my name. I was sitting next to my Daddie. He looked up from his taco and made that eye contact that feels like a finger is being pointed at you and said proudy-matter-of-fact(ly), I named her. That’s my baby.

…and like a few of the other people here at this party, but yes Daddie, I’m your baby.

He says that he and my mother (before she became a turncoat) were talking to each other one of the nights they were anticipating my arrival. He loved the sound of names that sound like mine, but he wanted the “na” because, lucky for me, that's what he liked. And he even decided the middle name. But mother wanted the extra “e” in my middle name…so he signed off on it.

Mother needed his approval for my name. He had to sign off on it, or it wasn’t going to happen. The name had to please him. It had to be the name that he liked. Loved.

Being the first born third, I have always felt some kind of way about my gender. I’m a girl. I was born female. I’m a woman, because that’s the adult version of girl, but Daddie called me his baby, and you read these blogs, so you’re thinking what I’m thinking – she’s technically got "lady parts", but beyond that, the jury is out.

My father is the first son. Because of that, he carries the name of a great man. Exactly that man’s name…with a Jr attached. Because Papa was the original, and Daddie was that fire remix. My father’s brothers? Just about all have a fire remix walking around here. One got a sample outchea somewhere on someone’s playground. I have always wondered, would he have felt differently, better-differently if I were that remix. If I could carry three stacks behind my name, be a remix of Daddie – a sample of Papa. Be the legacy in title and task.

I have felt less because of this thing. Even more so in thinking about meeting someone and loving someone, and wanting to do that forever thing with them, and my name changing. I don’t carry his first name, and if married, I might not even carry his last name. It would be forever lost.

So I did what any guilt ridden daughter would do. Spent my entire life leaving things at Daddie’s altar (the night stand by his bed) to purchase his non-existent grief about this. Awards. Perfect grades. Complementary reports. Certificates. Good behavior. Recognition. I wouldn’t even ditch school on Senior Ditch Day – nobody anticipates you to be there, and it’s kind of weird for the teachers when you show up. Remember when I told you spent part of the 8^th grade in CST? I got a Computer Literacy certificate. My Daddie had it in a folder near his bed. Without a scratch or blemish. If I can’t carry your name Daddie, I am going to make sure I do right by this one I got. This was how I “fixed it”.

Daddie, though, being smarter and having sight beyond sight knew that this might happen (maybe). So he did something better than pass on a great name. He created one. One that every time he heard would fill him up with so much pride, that every time he heard it, the world would stop. Like my High School graduation. The story? It was hot as a bih on the Menlo-Atherton High School football field. So Daddie and his other Daddie homeys were standing under the bleachers doing Daddie things. When they called the name of the child represented by the Daddie group, they would come from under the bleachers, listen to the speech, or clap at the awarding of the degree, and go back under the bleachers. Because, we love kids, but shade too.

He probably said the same thing at my high school graduation. When I made my approach to the stage, and gave my stunning and inspiring speech, using my inspiration at the time – Tupac, because #HellaResist. I named her. That’s my baby.

This is all postulate though. How can I be sure of these things now, anyway? Much like Everclear, ♫♪ …I never understood you then, and I guess I never will… ♫♪

Oh…and if you’re looking for a song about fathers, check this one out. 

I promise, it’s a winner. 

She was loved yall...

I recently submitted an SA Speaks for our regional student affairs conference. What’s that? Well it’s a like a 10 minute speech/conversation/talk that offers presenters and participants an innovative look at important topics and a means  to spread ideas about how we can change the student affairs profession and transform learning in higher education…because professional development. I’m still waiting to hear back about it.

What’s the topic? Glad you wondered. It’s about my last day as a student affairs professional. I know what you’re thinking, you quit? Nah, I haven’t. But I have thought it over, and over, and over…but there is no other way I could imagine my professional life – at this point at least.

When I first decided, intentionally, that I would become a Student Affairs Professional, I had all the hope in the world. All of it. I mean, before Barack Obama was like a thing we all terribly miss now, I believed it would be me who would inspire a man/woman like him. That something I did, via all this housing and residence life work, would help some young person (of color) achieve something so great that it would be a first…like the first black president. I told myself that I would be a difference maker in the ways that people like Pops made a difference for me. Crazy, right?

My first words were words of hope. They were dreams for the generation to come. My words these days? I hope you do come into this office talkin’ crazy, I *hand clap* Hope *hand clap* You *hand clap* Do... Because all hope is gone. Why have you forsaken us Lord? After 10+ years, I have almost perfected the what I’m gonna say on my last day, so much so, I’ve submitted an SA Speaks.

My last words are hopeful. But not in the ways my first words were.

A few months ago my Daddie called me. Out of the blue. Well, out of love, but you know what I mean. Probably one of the most random calls I have gotten accustomed to getting because my Daddie was awesome about calling just because. He had a mission though. He wanted to tell me about my life.

He said one day, he was leaving the house. I, just figuring out how to run in my little legs chased after him to the door. He told me that I couldn’t go with him, because my hair wasn’t combed and I wasn’t dressed. Because, clearly as a child I didn’t understand stay ready so you don’t have to get ready…Lord bless me in my ignorance. At that point, I eagerly went over to my mother so she could do my hair and dress me up. She hooked a playa up. New fit. New hair. I was outchea in these streets shining. Yeah.

Only, this was their clever plot to distract me while he left to the store. How could you leave me Daddie? And your accomplice? I should have known that I couldn’t trust her. Because, birth! I was fine in her uterus, but she persisted and pushed.

Anyway, payback is a BIH because I cried the entire time. At the door. Looking for him. He said I wailed something awful because, well, he heard it when he returned.

It broke his heart. So he made me a promise, before God, the Angels, and that turncoat I call a mother… I’ll never be the reason you cry again. I will never make you cry again.

Daddie pretty much kept his word. The next time he left me somewhere was UCLA in 1990 and 8. I thought the world ended when he told me he wasn’t staying in the triple room with me and my roommates in Hedrick Hall. HOW CAN YOU LEAVE ME LIKE THIS?! DON’T YOU LOVE ME?! I’m so dramatic. I have lived my life in his footsteps. In 1990 and 3 he was moving back to Texas for reasons I never care to know or understand. It was shortly after a major surgery. He told me that he was leaving. I replied,  I’m coming with you. I left every earthly thing I kid could leave. I never thought twice about it. Daddie had to purchase my plane ticket at the airport counter in San Francisco. Remember when that was a thing? The summer before the 8^th grade, I moved to CST.

I started to tear up on the other side of the phone, PST. I almost lost all composure. He knew it was more than I could handle – because he knows my silence, so he quickly got off the phone, as he would expertly do. I love you, I’m out. I called my best friend. My best friend told me to go see my father.  

While those weren’t his first words to me, they carried the sentiment of his very first words to me. He attempted to explain just how much he loved me, the second he saw me, he says. We were in a hospital. Those were also his first words to the township of Hooks, Texas at the time of my birth. Yall, the man drove around the town announcing it. Aside from the fact it’s a small country town, we are literally related to like half the people – everybody pretty much already knew…but announcement. I’m not exaggerating. This actually happened. In real life.   

Daddie’s first words to me were his very last words. The man is so detailed he even had the nerve to speak them from a hospital. He was always particular and specific that way. Daddie told me that I would never understand just how much he loved me. And because the man is like waaaayyy smarter than me and knows soooo much more than me, he is absolutely right. It was a Friday night. I had a plane ticket to CST that Sunday evening *red eye*… We had daddie/daughter shenanigans planned for that Tuesday.

I’ll see you in Fort Worth! You darn right! Is Mommie coming with you? Nah, I told her I was babysitting the granddaughter. She ain’t gonna wanna come for that. I’ll see the baby on Monday, and come on Tuesday. Wait, so you just gonna leave Mommie? You seriously told her that? *laughing hysterically* You darn right…if I can get away with it!

I can’t fathom how, in almost 4 decades, he feels the exact same way he felt on that first day. I can’t figure it out. I’ve been in a profession I love for more than 10 years and I got some feelings I don’t think they would understand. They’re hopeful feelings too…but not exactly in the same way they first were. And I actually do love the work I do. But, feelings yo…the feels.

I wonder what it must have been like… To live a life, where the happiest you thought you could be, the loveliest ways you thought you could feel, would be the exact happy and lovely you would feel at the end of it. This is what I am talking about! I honestly believed it was improbable and impossible to be loved this way. After all, I’ve been told I was loved, but that changed. Every. Single. Time.

Save, one. Daddie was genius, yall.

If you will allow me to pray for you, I will pray exactly this thing. That a person will love you something like the one perfect way I was loved. Because it was complete. The beginning and ending of it was perfect, though the man was not.

He seemed it though. #perfect