In the Room

Admission is the first step; I am a work-a-holic.  I am actively taking steps to become a recovering work-a-holic.  I woke up this morning with one thing on my mind: to tend to my needs first.  To check-in with myself and to step away from work, I often take walks.  While walking, one of my favorite things to do is to listen to an insightful podcast.  This morning, I found myself working double-time to focus on each speaker’s voice and message on each podcast, but I couldn’t do it.  My mind kept replaying all of the things that took place this week. As I continued to walk, rewinding, and fast-forwarding through each mental clip from the week’s happenings, my soul began to feel heavier and heavier with each footstep.  There were moments during the walk where my anxiety manifests in the physical form. I experienced an increase in my heart rate and short burst of air in my lungs. I began to replay the pain of every tortured soul that I encountered this week.

I am typically pretty level-headed and can find the opportunity in each misfortune.  I found myself second-guessing my instincts and honestly allowing cynicism to take root.  The question that I cannot answer for myself is, “why will this time be any different?” My asking of this question is not born out of bitterness, but of realness.  To end the murder of black people in America at the hands of those who commit themselves “to serve and to protect” will require more than police training and invokes the need for the end of systemic racism.  Dr. Jelani Cobb, of Columbia University, shares that corrupt and murderous police practices are a symptom of ills of our country that are far greater than the police force.

To place your knee on another human’s neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds, is not about training; it is a mentality, a mindset, a belief.  A mentality, a mindset, a belief that millions of people in America share that in this country that being black is somehow less than human, and that black lives matter less. To shift the mindset of a people who have benefited from the enslavement and disenfranchisement of black people in this country would take more than an act of Congress.  It would take an act of God.  Philosophers such as Socrates, have argued that humans’ inherent nature is one of selfishness.  Although other philosophers advocate that people tend to act in favor of the “good of the group” when placed in situations where they must collaborate; this latter perspective is more positive, but it still doesn’t give me much hope.   

When I think about my visit to the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC, last summer, I remember the feelings of rage.  I was enraged after seeing the wealth created from the back-breaking work, destruction of family units, rape, brutality, and murder of my ancestors who were stolen from their country to toil the American fields, to fight in American wars, and to build American monuments even though their rights are absent from the US constitution.  It was yet another reminder of just how much they have the deck stacked against us.  I ask myself, why would someone give up their privilege and/or wealth after all these years so that people like me can have several seats at the table?  Why would they dismantle their system of generational wealth that provides the financial stability of their families for generations to come? Why would anyone forfeit their quality of life, healthcare, and even their wealth to ensure that black people in this country after nearly 500 years can experience the fruits of their ancestors’ labor?  It seems inconceivable.  I keep reciting the words of Jesus “with man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26).     I wonder if I say it 100 more times if it will stick so that I can feel a little more hopeful.

I am a fighter.  I am all about doing things that seem to be and what others believe is impossible.  I am taking steps to figure out where I can have the most impact.  This morning I took the time to donate to causes to end systemic racism.  I support every person who is using their bodies and voices to protest across the world.  However, I realize that I can do more even if I can’t quite see the road ahead. In the role that I play in an education organization, one could say that I have a seat at the table.  I am often in the room when our executive team makes, discusses, and shares the decisions that impact our staff members and the thousands of students that we serve.

This week being in the room felt more like a two-ton brick placed on my shoulders.   As one of three minorities on the team, I often found myself feeling as if I was having an out of body experience when listening to the dialogue about “what we were going to do.” I also heard the whispers of the African-American team members echo in my ears who spent the week distressed, angered, and disgusted with the matters of the world, the racial conditions within our organization, and our organization’s response to current events or lack thereof.  I experienced the magnitude of the burden of being black, female, and in a position of “power” in this organization like none other this week.  To educate my colleagues on what actions to take when they have little comfort in responding in this space, and to keep the needs of those who expect change tomorrow front of mind, while also trying to ensure we all have something to return to in the fall when parents and students will expect us to deliver high-quality daily instruction in some form was more than I could bear.  Today, I am going to sit with my feelings and listen to Audre Lorde’s urgings that “caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

A few years back, my best friend took me to see Hamilton on Broadway, in New York.  It is, by far, the best musical that I have ever seen—several of the tunes from the musical stick with me. One that played in my mind this morning is “The Room Where it Happens.” In the musical toward the end of the tune Alexander Hamilton says the following to Aaron Burr:

               “Hold your nose and close your eyes.

                We want our leaders to save the day.

                But we don’t get a say in what they trade away.

                We dream of a brand new start.

                But we dream in the dark for the most part.

                Dark as a tomb where it happens

                I’ve got to be in the room (where it happens).”

So today, I will take care of my mind, body, and soul.  But on Monday, I need to be ready to assume my seat at the table that my ancestors could have never imagined having the opportunity to have.  On Monday, I need to thank God for keeping me in my right mind and having the wit and intellect to enter the room with both courage and confidence.  On Monday, I need to be ready to fight for what is right in the room where it happens.

Black Butterfly

April 11, 2020

On New Year’s Eve night in 2007, I sat next to my best friend as the clock was nearly approaching midnight at Watch Night service at our home church.  A young man who was in residency while in seminary spoke to us briefly before changing his voice to fit a melodic tune in which he uttered at key intervals “It’s time to turn the page.” As people in the audience rose to their feet to clap to the beat, Common, the rapper, came up to the front of the church and began to freestyle and matched the young seminarian’s rhythm and theme in his flow and repeated what now became the chorus of this soul-stirring tune “It’s time to turn the page.” I could feel the collective effervescence in the church that manifests into goosebumps on my skin.  It stirred my soul and catapulted me into thinking about the possibilities that lie ahead in 2008 and cautiously excited about what chapter in my life was closing as I turned the page to close out 2007.

It was in 2008 when I made the decision to go into formal leadership and applied for my second graduate school degree.  At the time, I had no idea of the possibilities that were ahead and how this new chapter in my life would bear a story with many plot twists.  I now know that there is a collection of moments and complexities that propel us forward to seek out or take our first step in a new direction.

I rarely talk about what it was like for me to leave my family and to start a new life in a new city alone.  Nor do I share the impetus for change.  Honestly, as I dig deep and press myself to think of the reasons why I left home in 2013, I can only come up with a few reasons:

  • feeling taken advantage of by my employer
  • feeling trapped in a “relationship” that in all the ways it felt fulfilling it was equally as dysfunctional
  • intrigued by the possibility to do what I love

However, as I look back at these reasons, I can agree that these were all good on their surface, but if I take a closer look with my 2020 vision, I now know that I turned the page in 2013 to start a new chapter in my life that is more in line with my purpose. 

I can admit that although I know in my heart my purpose, I still lack the courage to claim it out loud and to live in it each day.  Sometimes I want to be bolder and to say the things that need to be said aloud so that I can quickly extinguish the fire that blazes in my bones.  I get frustrated when I lack the courage to speak up to others who only speak from their perspectives as if their point of view is the only one that matters.  I grow tired of those who attempt to hurt me or others and pass judgement based on their insecurities, although they couldn’t take an ounce of the “honesty” they served if I reciprocated the tone and tenor of their verbal pronouncements.  I am offended by those who speak of equity to me as if I am not aware of what it is and if this newfound “hip” term somehow makes them seem more thoughtful or caring or woke.  I am skeptical of looking through the lens of equity and not addressing the power structure that exists in this world.  We can all work to create equitable environments in our workplaces and schools, but if the privileged stay in their protected class, this race for equity will always begin in a false start.

I also realize that when we turn the page in our lives, there is always a transition.  When I don’t get up in the morning to take care of my body by working out, or feed my spirit by making space for God, or get enough sleep to rest my overtaxed mind, I am not creating the conditions for living out my purpose. Moreover, not intentionally building the courage to speak and live boldly. 

I have come to accept that I am okay with my imperfect state.  I understand that to walk in my purpose and to live boldly takes intentional practice and will come with more experience.  I am growing more patient with myself and I accept that I am in a period of transition. 

The black butterfly is said to symbolize rebirth, transition, and freedom.  When thinking about the last decade of my life, it has been a period of both rebirth and transition.  Although the days are long and the road ahead is a bit foggy, I can ‘t help but get excited by the possibilities that lie ahead.  The transition feels hard.  The hope of having the freedom to live boldly and unapologetic about my convictions feels akin to the wind being at my back, gently pushing me forward on my journey.  The freedom that is written on the next page of my life is what I seek.  I want to experience the words sang by Deniece Williams as she proclaimed to the black butterfly, “…now that you’re free and the world has come to see just how proud and beautiful you are.”  I commit to turning the page in the pursuit of my purpose.

Uncle Vern’s Nina

Seeing the world with 40-year old eyes feels different.  Different in a way that is hard to capture in written language and even to distill into a few cogent thoughts that rumble through my head when trying to synthesize my streams of consciousness.  As a black woman who has lived a life of duality,  one of privilege and one that has come with experiences of inequities of being born black and a woman, I can say without hesitation that time has brought about new perspectives, and wisdom that lies beyond the reach of my comprehension at times. 

I have slowly edged myself toward acceptance of who I am, my purpose, and the flaws that I see within my character and my physical appearance.  Like many other Type A personalities, I am highly critical of my every utterance, work products, and how I appear to others.  I have privately tried to withhold the hurts of my past from being exposed to the open air and listening ears of people who care for me; but realize that when my soul seeps out through my words, my eyes, and my touch; others around me can see my brokenness and patiently wait for me to turn my pain into words.  People view me as strong.  My heart longs for others to see me as soft and as delicate as they see their own hearts. I find myself thinking more and more these days of how I can ignite the synergy between my confidence and the kindness of my heart so that others experience me fully.  I have realized that vulnerability and showing up as who I am, helps me take one step closer to healing and wholeness.

When considering the desires of my heart, I have been blessed and anointed to have the confidence to take on any professional challenge. Still, I also shy away from opportunities to open my heart to give and experience love.  I have no problem being who I am with my gal pals and closest confidantes, but I struggle when I find someone with whom my soul feels a connection to, to show up and give my whole self.  I convince myself that I am trying to protect my heart from being broken and that somewhere deep down inside the other person is not worthy.  In those moments, I feel voiceless, and the power that I hold at other moments in the day and other parts of my life erode my every being.  I silently retreat into myself and create a narrative about my flaws or the other person’s intentions.

For over 15 years, I have carried this desire around in the back of my mind, the notion that I don’t want to be “Uncle Vern’s Nina.”  My uncle Luther Vernon had a girlfriend, who, from what I recall from scant details, was highly intelligent and went on to be a professor at an Ivy League university.  To my family, she seemed like a catch for my uncle, whose college football career came to a tragic end when he experienced a career-ending injury.  My uncle broke up with Nina, and over the years, as he and her both moved on, they stayed in contact and dated from time to time.  I recall thinking when I broke up with my long-time boyfriend; I didn’t want to be “Uncle Vern’s Nina.”  Meaning, I didn’t want to be the one that got away, the one who was brilliant and high achieving who gave her heart to someone who at the time didn’t deserve it.  I didn’t want to float in an out of someone’s life who had moved on and chosen someone else to share their life with or be the woman who he could always retreat to when other relationships went south.

As I think about this narrative that I created about Uncle Vern and Nina, with my 40-year-old eyes, I realize that I created this narrative outside of the truth regarding what happened with Uncle Vern and Nina.  I actually don’t know what happened in their relationship, and I don’t even know if the feelings I have attached to their story are even true.  Maybe, just maybe, I have created this story about “Uncle Vern’s Nina” because I was afraid that I would become and be the version of Nina for my long-time boyfriend or for some other love that I have had in my life. 

I ask myself at this moment what I am afraid of.  I am afraid:

  • that the rejection and someone not wanting to reciprocate the feelings that I have for them
  • that the partner that I chose would at some point choose someone else
  • that my physical appearance isn’t good or beautiful enough if I let myself go (I feel like in some ways I already have)
  • that one day it won’t work, and I will have put my energy and heart into something that didn’t work

I ask myself, so what? So what if he rejects you? So what if he is unfaithful or chooses someone else? So what if your physical appearance isn’t good enough? So what if it just doesn’t work?

I will:

  • feel hurt
  • be angry
  • feel betrayed

I will be human.

I will be loved by my friends and family. 

I will be able to say I gave my heart and my all.

I will find love again.

I will go on to live my life like “Uncle Vern’s Nina.”