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.

Give Me 50 Feet... #AndSomeFansToo

There was this time when I thought it would be a great idea to move to New York. In my mind, I saw New York City. In my contract, the city listed was located in upstate New York. I grew up in California so you probably know where this is going, right?

Winter came. It never left.

So I got up outta there.

But before I left, I met my life partner. I know what you’re thinking. I said I was single. Well, I am, because ain’t no flowers come for me on Valentine’s Day. Think of it this way. He and I will absolutely get married and have (adopt) babies for tax purposes. We have a wonderful relationship with each other and we prefer to have our relations with other people. This is the only open type of commitment I would accept - one with him exactly as I described.

So there was this one day we were at work and I was having the worst day. I could not figure out why I was in such a foul mood. This was beyond my normal woman issues, petty issues, or hunger issues. I gave him a call to figure out what was going on with me, because in (un)healthy relationships, your partner often knows you better than you know yourself. The diagnosis?

We shouldn’t have watched A Time To Kill last night…

He right. The bruised, beaten, and battered blood of the ancestors was boiling in my blood all-the-day long. It simmered in my soul while I slept the evening prior. I mean every person who didn’t look like me just...well, I just could not even. Even over the phone. It was like, why are you even calling me? Sure I’m the person responsible for that task and you are required to speak to me about it, but you need to gone away from me with that right now Paul.

So before Evelyn from the Internets gave calling in black a name to the prescription to watching A Time To Kill the night before work, that’s really what I needed to do. I needed time to be Black in a safe space because we know that being Black at work isn’t always safe (like well, just being Black wherever you are because, well, you know…listen to Evelyn).

It just so happens that in some Last Week Tonight marco polo news, Jigs was in a staff meeting feeling like LeBron, but left the meeting sick of they ish like Rajon. LeBron was you sitting at the end of the conference room table with a few empty seats between you and everyone else because you have a "cough" trying to disguise your whole attitude as a partial sinus issue ... Rajon is you basically going to another team meeting because, just no, God, please no.  Rajon Rondo is me, is you, he is all of us mapping out the route to California Pizza Kitchen for an afternoon cocktail just *clap* as *clap* soon *clap* as the meeting ends. Have you ever been in a meeting, being the only kind of person that looks like you, and seeing it as a perfect opportunity to reclaim the dignity stripped away from your Great Uncles and Aunties at the hands of jim(bob)crow? Well, there we find Jigs.

It just so happens the film review was about The Help. I can’t even. A group of non black women sitting around a conference table talking about how wonderful a movie was, centered around the life of Jig’s great grandmother likely cleaning the floors and nursing the babies of the people that eventually birthed the people that birthed them. You know how they do – like ole girl on the streets of San Francisco – they say they loved the movie because it’s about black people, but somehow they totally get how awful that time was and how terribly black people were being treated. It’s totes wrong, like OMG, soooo terrible. But they did a wonderful job on the movie. Also, I did not vote for Trump.

...then they reach a hand out towards your fresh twist out without even asking. They mispronounce your name though you put a phonetic pronunciation in your email signature six years ago. But that’s not the worst of it. They actually treat you like, well, the *&^%^  &^^%  %#&## help! Sure you’re not in the office Viola stomping back and forth from the fax machine, but they’re part reason that the Eff it, I’ll do it. - signed Black Women, meme is a whole fact.

It just so happens that Jigs and I had a similar response to this at-work experience.

We left. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

The Work Will Go On. #JustLikeTheShow

*queues up theme music to Titanic*

Some time ago, I left a position. This clearly isn’t news because people leave jobs all the time for all manner of reasons, right? I am thinking of this one in particular because of the thought that came to me when I got this message from a former colleague:

          Girl, do you know we still haven’t filled your position!

The thought you ask?

          I know. [..and also, because I’m petty, HHAAAA!!! That’s what yall get!]

I mean, c’mon. If you can’t check me [boo], you damn sure can’t replace me [love]. Like, there are so many mathematical models that prove this equivalency.

And I went on with life taking that for face value. I mean, I knew that the work was being done. How many times had I been in meetings in which the other duties as assigned bullet point on my position description was highlighted and my exempt status duly noted? Too many. The organization [most times me] figured out how to get the work done in the wake of a vacancy near my place on the organizational chart.

I never held that in my consciousness, though. All I could think about was my not being there. Who is managing the day to day administrative tasks? What about all of the relationships I facilitated (and fixed) with industry partners and collaborators? The weekly, monthly, annual traditions - will someone remember them? And the shortcuts in the database?! I discovered quirks, developed work-arounds, and trained staff. Sure, the operation of these tasks are industry standards and knowledge, but I made them work in a way that well, only I can make work, (right?). When I leave, how will they work? (my life is littered with questions; i literally question everything)

The truth? The how doesn’t matter. The point is, they implement their best ‘make it work’ moment when they can’t just make it work EVERY *clap* SINGLE *clap* TIME *clap* someone leaves. There is never a time where the job doesn’t get done, even if the done-ness is not doing the job because magically that was okay considering the circumstances. It gets figured out without you. When you move on, however it is you decide to depart, they move on from you too [boo].

Foolishly, I believed that somehow MY doing it mattered. It mattered to me. It mattered to the people/projects/processes I served. It mattered to the organization. All of those are true. They are true AND they are time defined. Once I left the organization, the idea that MY doing it was going to impact the organization’s ability to get it done did not matter at all. The individuals I served maybe preferred my services to another, but they still need the services so whoever is doing it (or not) matters. And now that I am gone, why in the world does it matter to me? It’s in the past, right?

Well, our wise friend Rafiki would point out that the past still hurts. That’s probably why whatever it is you’re feeling about whatever it was is totes a thing. We have a choice to run from it (to that next position) or learn from it (in that new opportunity).

What did I learn?

photo taken from: podcast.elyserobinson.com

Let it go. *queues up Toni Braxton then Frozen because Disney movies are far better baby-sitters than me* We often think that letting go is the writing of that resignation letter; the move across country; the leap of faith; or the first day in that new role. Those are part of letting go, but if you’ve ever had a bad break up, then you know that the day you agree (or disagree) to end it isn’t always the day you let go. Letting go for me was accepting that I am an amazing professional with an exemplary work ethic who goes above and beyond to get the job done exceptionally well AND the organization will absolutely replace me the day I leave BOTH coexist harmoniously in a place where I am valuable and they are not (always) villains. Everyone did what they had to do. That’s life. There is no need to pass judgment on each other for doing as our nature demands.

Get rid of the guilt. Even when our leaving is because the position isn’t fulfilling, in whatever ways we need to be filled full, there is a lingering guilt - especially in helping and people facing professions. Humans naturally build relationships and deep connections with colleagues and constituents. Intersect that with the amount of time the (above) average person spends at work, and you are leaving behind a huge part of your life, not just a job. They’re staying. You’re choosing to leave. And you know once you do, everything about their experience staying will somehow be a little less because you are leaving. People with heartbeats feel ‘some kind of way’ about this. To whatever degree this is felt, you carry a little guilt with you to that next experience. For me, getting rid of the guilt was acknowledging it was THE thing nagging at me and not my reasons for leaving.

What you leave behind often finds you where you go (if you let it). I get that I’m not like most people. I make friends with strangers - literally. Since I was a little girl; it’s how I got lost all the time. Seriously (I get lost y'all). I’m never afraid to say hello or introduce myself (unless it’s related to someone super handsome, then I’m totes awkward, but I digress). I have moved across the country, with stops in almost all the regions to start my so called life all over again. Within a few months everyone knows me because I’m Southern and Baptist, so I introduce myself to everyone when I walk into rooms. Even with that, I get so anxious that I won’t have the people, the friends, the connections, the hook-ups, the happy hours - I won’t have the life I had before and I loved that before life. In a year’s time, people who’ve lived in the area their whole lives have learned something new/exciting about their hometown from something I accidentally discovered. I know what you are leaving behind is wonderful. Just know that there is wonder where you’re going too. Now get there and fill it until it’s full (and overflowing).

Some time ago, I left a position. This clearly isn’t news because people leave jobs all the time for all manner of reasons, right? I am thinking of this one in particular because my path crossed with someone leaving their position for a life with a less clear path. I said things to them that I didn’t realize I knew. I didn’t realize I believed these things until they came out of my mouth like my sport babblings.

There’s more to say. So much things to say. But I will have to continue it later.

I have some wonder of my own to fill so it can get full (with some overflow).

Proverbial Pill Poppin...

Ernie hasn’t seen The Matrix, and I take issue to that, with extreme prejudice. This shouldn’t surprise me, but c’mon! The Matrix?! I still remember walking back from Westwood with my hommies talking about what we had just seen. We were all Neo, stopping the imaginary bullets in our path, on our way up the hill.

I can’t with him, but I will. Don’t judge how we love/hate/whatever it is we do.

Why do I bring this up? Because I ASKED Y’ALL to close and lock up Iyanla’s house but noooooooo, yall just wanna leave it all open and what not, and all this stuff keeps pouring out of me. Thanks -_- so much.

But my man Morpheus was slanging those pills:

You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Image from dawgonnit.com (April 2018)

I would have done just as Neo, even with Morpheus cautioning that all he was offering was truth, because I don’t want to believe that fat meat comes with grease.

Now I know ALL THESE THINGS. And when you know all these things you have to make some hard choices. You know, be all moral and whatnot. I haven’t watched a professional football game in two NFL seasons. I barely know who plays on what team these days. I quit Chik-Fil-A knowing damn well how much I LIVED for those waffle fries and nuggets. I don’t listen to those dudes from Chicago who make music because, well, do I have to explain? I do my best to not assume one’s gender or pronouns forcing myself to go against my male/female/boy/girl nature – I struggle with this so much, but I would rather struggle with it, than oppress someone with my cis-gender privilege. *queues up Truth Hurts album because there isn’t a song on the album entitled Truth Hurts so we just gotta listen to the album and let the truth hurt our feelings*

My friend asked me about my professional football protesting, in the wake of the settlement agreement between the NFL and my man Kap. What happens now? I mean, they came to some resolution, so the protest is over, right? Well… That would be right, if I was protesting the NFL because of what they did to Kap and he was welcomed back to the league, then yeah, it worked. Let’s watch. But remember that red pill I took? What the NFL has done to Colin Kaepernick is absolutely disgusting, settled or not. But when I went down this rabbit hole, there were all these other issues that came up. Something is wrong with the NFL and I know that now. I cannot un-know it. I cannot watch it.

I was in Lolli & Pops with Jigs buying bougie boozy gummy bears. In my going back and forth with her, I made statements assuming the gender of the employee assisting us with our purchase. Seeing that I don’t whisper too good, this individual could have clearly overheard my assigning of their gender. We completed our purchase and walked out of the store. At the entrance, I realized what I had just done, and made an immediate about face to apologize to the individual. After the apology I confessed, I know better, I need to do better, and left. (Why am I like this?)

I understand Cypher better and his reasons for betraying the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar. I am not sure which burden is heavier: knowing the truth or having to tell it to someone. Regardless of the weight, ignorance sounds pretty blissful these days. I loved my life as a football fan and I know I can never have that life again. I’m so awkward asking someone their preferred pronouns, not because of them or any other outside influence – it just feels weird to me because I'm hardwired to Male/Female, which permeates my asking. I can’t listen to any of ole’boy’s albums following The College Dropout because although he’s cancelled, I cannot be asked to give up ALL THE THINGS – it’s just too hard, Lord. Haven’t I been through enough??

…and much like Cypher, I am lamenting my proverbial pill popping choices too. I have yet to get to the bottom of the rabbit hole.

Please Forgive Me, I Do*

*(queues up Anita Baker)

There was this one time, that an ex and I had to be in the same place at the same damn time and it almost went very well, which means it was actually awful and there were so many reasons why. *queues up EWF*

Those weren’t the reasons at all though. At least not for me. I had made my peace with what we were and weren’t by that time. So many years had passed. There had been so much to misunderstand, and even more silence to miss it with. One thing lingered though.

An apology. In all of it, he never apologized. And I really needed it. Hell, being honest, I still need that ‘ish. And it’s not like I am looking for heartfelt (or other felt) apologies from the people who have come and gone. It would behoove many of them to never reach my wavelength again. But because of who we are, and what we were, I seem to need it so much, if we are ever to be anything again.

I know, I know. In the words of Pop’s: I got issues. (I’m not working on them, in case you were wondering. That sounds too much like right.) But there was point I was looking for.

Courtesy of my feelings and IG: @22visionary

So, this one day, I was looking around on the internets and ‘webs minding all yall business and came across this: We talk a lot about the apologies we’ll never receive. What about the ones we’ll never be able to offer?

I have been (not) waiting for his and other apologies for so long, that I never thought about the apologies I have been holding on to. I mean, it’s not like I’ve left a cobblestone path of transgressions or anything in my past, but it’s just that, one or two people might wanna hear me admit some of the ain’t shit things I’ve done – whether I intended them or otherwise.

I don’t know how to live like this in a world where the things I really want are the things I really need to do. But here’s a valiant attempt (beginning chronologically because I ain’t got a mental health professional on retainer to fix me once I admit the recent stuff):

When I was in 8^th grade (or around that age) I had a boyfriend for like two days. Okay, maybe three days. Let’s just agree that it was not even a week. Anyway, this arrangement was made between he and I, so like, only the people in our locus knew about it. Which means it was perfect, because there was no way on this side of Jordan’s River that I was going to tell my Daddie about it.

Until the day the young man came to my house to see me. Not as a kid coming to play with the other kids who lived in my home, but as a suitor – a boyfriend coming to see his girlfriend.

I panicked yall. I looked out the window and made a decision. Inside is good. Stay there. Whatever you do, don’t go outside. Salvation could have been waiting for me on the other side of the front door, and I would have condemned myself to everlasting damnation. Which is basically what I did.

We broke up. Not because we talked about it, or one of us communicated to the other that the relationship was over on a note passed between friends. I literally never went back outside, which was a big deal. This was the 90’s yall – we LIVED for being outside. I died.

It seems a small thing to apologize for. (This is me, apologizing.) But it’s a big thing. A huge thing. It was the foundation for my entire life as a woman attempting to authentically engage in a relationship. I never did. Not once. In all my loving somebody’s son, not one of those sons met my father. I was never brave enough to stand before my Daddie and profess my love/infatuation/care/misguided-lust for the man I entertained at the time.

I apologize. A LEO is supposed to be brave, supposed to have courage. Jesus didn’t die on the cross to see me out here simpin’ but here I am. I saved none of that courage, none of that bravery, none of it for the men who came to eventually pass. I wish I knew the why. I suppose I wondered what tragic thing would (not) of happened if I had introduced a then boyfriend to my always father. What would Daddie of said (or not) to them? What would have changed in my relationship with Daddie? Being Daddie’s girl seemed *subconsciously because, like I had real-time awareness of this?* more important than being that man’s woman, so maybe it just made sense to keep both those lives separated? Who can know such things in such times that these are?

It doesn’t feel good to offer that. Probably the reason why I never did it. I’m not trying to clear the skeletons in my closet. I’ve made adequate space for them and all my shoes. It’s just, I know what having that apology would have meant for me that day, and well, I’ve got enough baggage of my own to be in 2019 holding on to something for which I have little use.

Now I asked yall to close the gate at Iyanla’s house. Who left one of her window’s open??

I clearly need new people.