One of my favorite quotes is by Margaret Trudeau: “I can’t be a rose in any man’s lapel.”  For years, these words have sung to the very core of my being, yet I failed to understand its significance to my life.  A conversation I had yesterday led me to recall situations in coming-of-age that have awakened my reality. 

A black man who I respect and absolutely adore disagreed with me and two other black professional women with regard to whether or not we (black women) have difficulty advancing in our chosen careers due the young, fresh-out-of-college, perky white girl whose energy (and maybe her father’s network of friends) keeps us from having a fair shot at promotional opportunities.  Don’t get me wrong, our point was not that this happens in every single case.  The point was that even a black man who has his own dealings with discrimination, finds it difficult to even fathom the hardships that black women encounter when trying to move to a certain level. 

I’ve had the very best role models one can ask for in this life.  My childhood was filled with strong people who were determined to thrive and succeed.  These people didn’t have any plans from day to day on how they’d win in the end.  They only knew that each day that breath found their bodies they’d have to keep fighting – for education, justice, freedom, respect.  I had permanent fixtures in my life that I didn’t realize then, but now I know that they stood as examples of excellence.  Most of these “fixtures” were men. 

I’ve pontificated over why the men stood out so much to me.  Maybe it’s because as a young girl, I attached my idea of power to my father and thus individuals who looked like, sounded like and acted like he did.  Maybe it’s because the role of the woman, in my mind, wasn’t as “in your face” as that of their masculine brethren.  There’s no question that they were there, at the meetings, planning, organizing, marching, etc.  I remember seeing them even in my faintest recollection.  However, their efforts are overshadowed by the deep, loud proclamations made by the men.  Could it be that the women I remember being there did the ground work and the men swallowed the fanfare?  Hmmmm.

Being raised in an environment that subconsciously influenced me to believe that women, although capable, were in some way inferior to men has –dare I say- confused the hell out of me.  My ideas about feminism and womanhood have been fused with ignorance and attachment.  Ignorant because as a woman, I didn’t really understand why the memories that have shaped who I am today didn’t magnify people who shared my gender.  Embedded deep within the core of me, resided the outlandish idea that power belonged to men.  Where did that leave me? I’m supposed to be powerful, but I am not a man.  I was supposed to be just as capable; just as strong; just as smart.  But where were the women who I was to pattern myself after.  They were all men.

Don’t get me wrong, since I met adulthood, there have been plenty of powerful, strong, Soldier Sisters in my life.  No doubt about that.  However, it’s during youth that we begin collecting that which will form the mentality we carry through life. My youth showed me men run the world.  Men are the ones who fight and create change.  Men are the ones who actually get the win.  No matter how much assistance they have from women, men are ultimately the ones who plant the flags and get pinned for the victories.

Men have the luxury of choosing whether or not they wish to acknowledge women.  Much like the employee on the job can choose whether they want the strong, opinionated, openly vocal – yet professional, 30 year old black woman OR the 22 year old, easily trainable, highly connected white woman to work for them.  Fair?

It has become obvious to me that while I stand firmly on my beliefs and dare to be crossed.  I have yet to formulate them all.  I know today that the women aren’t prevalent in my memories because they were holding down another part of the struggle.  They’d already marched before my Daddy got me to the parade.  They’d already reached the finish line before the men even suited up. 

I have given the torch away without even being asked for it.  I have succumbed to what my sisters (black and white) have already accepted.  I am a woman with strength unrecognized; a woman with power unmatched.  I am a woman who can accomplish much with your agreement or without.  I am a woman who does not now, nor will I ever need approval to succeed.  I am a woman and I will never again serve as a simple flower to your lapel.  I am a woman; the entire garden isn’t big enough to hold my might.  I am a woman.  I. Am. A. WOMAN.

Here’s a piece of information you may not know about me…… I have serious anger issues.  Where they come from, I have no idea.  I should probably seek some psychological therapy to try to figure out where it comes from.  Is this anger left over from my father’s death at the tender age of 13?  I remember feeling like I was being punished and I was truly angry at God for taking my daddy away.  Is it anger that exploded into my psyche after being dumped by an abuser?  I remember being very upset with myself that I wasn’t woman enough to leave this man even after he cheated and physically abused me for years.  How dare he put me out after I’d stayed with him through all of that?  Maybe I’m angry at the fact that I’m not at the place I want to be in my career.  Can I really call this a career?  I have a government job and I get paid very little.  I thought by now I’d have my own business and I’d be changing lives somehow.  I could be angry at white people for all the years of slavery and segregation.  Some would argue that I wasn’t directly affected so that wouldn’t be the cause.  That’s crazy!  I won’t even get into that.

Fact of the matter is it could be any or all of these things that linger in my soul and cause me to be a walking box of anger.  But, how important is it really to know what has caused my anger?  Does it really matter in the grand scheme of life what has caused it?  I’m sure many would tell me that in order to get past this anger, I need to know where it came from.  So, for the sake of that argument, I’ll just say it came from all of those things.  Now, how in the hell do I move past it.  How do I remove this anger from my mind, my heart, my soul?  This anger can easily cost me my marriage or my relationship with my family/friends.  I don’t want to be ruled by anger anymore.  I want the peace I was promised.  I want to enjoy life and enjoy the people around me.  Besides, these headaches, all this crying and the faint-filled moments are starting to come way too frequently for my taste.

This morning, I had a talk with a good friend – my friends are the people who God placed in my life to “keep me on track”.  These are the people who stay clear of the ego stroke.  They can’t be fake with me.  They simply are not built that way.  I may not even talk to these “friends” regularly but every conversation is meaningful and contributes to evolution. 

I was told by this friend that I “won’t let go”.  I thought she might have me confused with someone else. 

I won’t let go? 

Let go of what? 

She continued after glancing at the confusion plastered over my face, “You have so much pain and you hold on to it.  You refuse to let it go.”

Okay!  That makes sense.  I can’t argue that fact.  However, I don’t think I agree with her that I don’t “let it go”.

She stated, “You block yourself off as if you don’t want any help with your pain or releasing your pain."  Basically she said that I had plenty to offer but I limit myself.  I limit the amount of help I'll accept and the amount of help I'll give. 

Booooyah!

There we go!  Here’s something that I’ve never thought about and can't recall ever being told.  I have announced to myself and adapted in my mind that I want to do something for people.  I want to offer my life experiences to others so they don’t have to go through the pain I’ve gone through.  What I have not done a very good job of, however, is letting anyone help me through my pain.  So, does it ever really leave?  Do I ever really work through it?

Most people who are familiar with my writing know that I talk all the time (and write all the time) about how writing heals me.  Is that not funny?  Writing is only a vessel to get things out that are resting on my heart.  But I don’t receive input back from my writing.  I don’t get chastised from my writing.  As a matter of fact, I don’t like being chastised.  I’ve had very little chastising since my father died in 1988.  I’d venture to say that I have had three people tell me about myself in the past five years.  Two people who have earned that term “friend”.  Guess what!  Now this will shock you.  Although there was never a falling out with these two, I’m not close to either of them anymore.  Does that mean that I can’t take being corrected or given a piece of myself that I don’t want to face?  Uh, probably so!

The third person is my husband.  He gets onto me all the time.  But that’s different, I think I’ve pretty much accepted that correcting wives is just what husbands do.  My husband is VERY good at it too.  I mean he is Mr. Correction!  Still though, he’ll tell you, I’m not a big fan of hearing it and often I scream at him so loud that the conversation gets deflected from what I’ve done to cause the conversation in the first place, to “why the hell are you screaming at me?”  So, I suppose it’s safe to say that I have very little interest in hearing what I’ve done wrong and what I need to do to make it right.

This has probably kept me from opening up about myself and my pain.  I’ve known I’ve had anger issues for most of my adult life.  So maybe subconsciously I decided if I don’t share my pain with people, I don’t have to hear about what I need to do to correct it or what I’ve done to contribute to the pain. 

It’s much easier for me to offer words of wisdom to people who will listen than it is for me to listen to words of wisdom from people.  I’m not at all proud of that.  I didn’t know that I was so limited in this way.  But, I accept it.  I recognize that this life is about changing and growing.  If this deficiency has caused me to hold anger or to limit myself to opening up, I want it to stop.  If this hurt and pain has found a permanent resting place in my soul, I can’t exist peacefully.  If my biggest contribution to the world is through offering wisdom, and this limitation is keeping me from experiences true, wise experiences, then I am failing.  There’s more to me than this and I can’t allow pain and anger to control me any longer.  I love my life and I figure now’s a good enough time to start really living it.

So i have to thank my "friend" for speaking openly to me about me and owning no remorse.  We have to learn to accept constructive critisim.  I know it's hard to fathom, but sometimes when people correct you or tell you about yourself, they really do care.  They really do want to see you improve.   They just may see what you can be when you can't see.  Be thankful for those people and know that they are genuine.  Besides, even if they are not and mean to crush your spirit, you control that!  I control that!  Evaluate their comments, see if they have merit and then make it positive even if it wasn't meant for that purpose. 

I've learned that The Creator can use anyone to serve his purpose.  Be mindful of that and take the good with the bad.  If it's bad, make it good!  Be thankful for those who take the time to offer you constructive critisim.  There are blessings all around you, embrace them!

Dear Caylee,

I am not your mother; I don’t even know you personally. But I’m sorry. Many of us speculate on what occurred when you expired, but no one truly knows but you and the person who stole your life. I’m not in a position to judge but I can say to you that as a mother, as a woman, as a human being, I am filled with sorrow that your pure, young, heart is no longer beating.

I've cried for you.  I've cried for your mother.  Even though she gave birth to you, you have become a child to millions of women around the world and we all love you.  There's a picture of you that keeps popping up and every time I see it, I am drawn to your eyes.  It's clear to me that you knew you were never meant to be here long.  Your eyes tell the story of a very peaceful spirit. That speaks volumes for how you have touched lives that you never would have come in contact with had you lived longer. 

We have all been blessed by you.

Rest well sweet, sweet baby! Your life’s meaning will begin to unravel soon. I’ve prayed that once the dust blows over we will see the light that your life brought to us. Laws will be passed to protect other children in a situation like yours. Mothers will begin to be more careful and make better decisions. Society will be changed by the effect your death has had on us all and for that your living – even in only 2 years- shall not be in vain. 

You have been lifted by the heavens and shall fly around the earth sprinkling peace and wonderful baby-joy amongst us all.

My heart and soul loves that you lived Caylee.

Sojourner Truth bolded stated:

“That man over there say a woman needs to be helped into carriages and lifted over ditches and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helped me into carriages or over mud puddles or gives me a best place. . . And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm!
I have plowed and planted and gathered into barns and no man could head me. . .
And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man--when I could get to it--
and bear the lash as well. And ain't I a woman? I have born 13 children and seen most all sold into slavery and when I cried out a mother's grief none but Jesus heard me. . .
And ain't I a woman? That little man in black there say a woman can't have as much rights as a man cause Christ wasn't a woman. Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman!
Man had nothing to do with him! If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down, all alone together women ought to be able to turn it right side up again.”

I learned this “poem” early in my life as a homework assignment. Of course at that time, I had no appreciation for what the poem means and its value was lost on me. However, my father, made me learn it and recite it to him for days. This, along with many other poems, speeches, writings, articles, I was able to recite upon demand without having any understanding of it. Daddy knew it would one day mean something to me, I suppose. 

Well, today, it does!  Today, I celebrate WOMANKIND with my tribute to Sojourner Truth’s “Ain’t I a Woman”.

YES I AM A WOMAN!

Yes, I am a woman! I work a full time job every day eight hours a day for little money. Then I go home every night and work a part time job and my title is MOMMY/WIFE. It pays with love; not money.

Yes, I am a woman! I teach myself – when time permits because I can’t afford to stop working to go to school.

Yes I am a woman! I get passed over for jobs that I can do with ease because I don’t know the right people. I don’t have the right package.

Yes I am a woman! I have to hide from my pain, tuck away my fears, cry to myself, and laugh in privacy.

Yes I am a woman! I blow dirt from eyes; clear up runny noses; rub tummies; rock and sing through nightmares. I am a doctor.

Yes I am a woman! I encourage and support; I cry and laugh; I correct and endure; I smile when I want to frown; I am a friend and confidant.

Yes I am a woman! I listen to lies and act like I don't know; I watch the clock in the middle of the night; I pray for safety; I pace the floor; I provoke thought and analysis. I am a mother.

Yes I am a woman! I act like it's good when it isn't; I hold my piece to keep the peace; I allow simple mistakes when I know a better way; I let foolishness occur just so a lesson is learned. I am a lover, a partner, a wife.

Yes I am a woman! I cook; I clean; I iron; I wash; I dry; I mop and dust and sweep because no one does it to my satisfaction -- but ME.  I am a maid.

Yes I am a woman! Because I do all of this for FREE.

Yes I am a woman! No man can work through the monthly pain that I function through with no choice and all the while, a big smile.

Yes I am a woman! No man can be beat down physically, mentally, emotionally and still look like a million bucks.

Yes I am a woman! No man can watch the suffering of a loved one and hurt like they hurt, cry like they cry and hug away the pain.

Yes I am a woman! No man can endure the insults spoken and unspoken that I have and still look oppression straight in the eye.

Yes I am a woman! No man can take $20 and purchase an entire outfit with accessories and shoes to match.

Yes I am a woman! No man can take $5 and feed a family of four with leftovers for lunch the next day.

Yes I am a woman! No man can take my joy because no man gave it to me!

Yes I am a woman! I come from a woman! I am the strongest living, breathing being on this earth. I am next to God and I don’t care if you recognize it or not.

YES I AM A WOMAN!

While I’m sure that everyone has low times in their lives, I can’t help but feel alone. Have you ever gotten to a point in your life where you just feel like something “ain’t right”? Without being able to put your finger on any significant issues, you can’t shake it. Well that cloud of distress is circling around me presently and I don’t like it – at all.

Recently, I administrated a hearing and the defendant was a care giver who referred to her receiver as being a great person who influenced her life greatly. She said this person to whom she provided care was like an angel and when she “expired” it left a hole in her heart. At that moment, without any form of notice, my spirit sank and I’ve been struggling to lift it ever since.

I immediately excused myself and ran out the quickest exit and began to cry uncontrollably. Ironically, this was a cloudy day and rain was forecasted. I looked up at the sky and I begged The Creator to make it go away. Although I am use to being affected by other’s pain and hurt and often shedding tears for them, this time, it seemed as though this pain was not that of another, but my own. I asked The Creator right then and there to reveal to me why I was so hurt and why I could not control my tears. 

“You miss her. She’s your mother, Funmi.”

I’ve had not one moment of peace since I received that voice in my spirit that day. I’ve been melancholy. I’ve been sad and distraught. I’ve been feeling overlooked, ignored and neglected – mostly by my husband and family. They’re doing nothing any different than usual. But what I’ve come to realize is that these people are the closest to me and I expect them to notice when I am not at my best. My mother did. Why can’t they?

Soon I began to understand that there simply is no other love; no other relationship; no other being that will ever come close to the one that gives life. My mother would call me in the middle of a breakdown for no apparent reason and say, “hey baby, what’s wrong?” We didn’t play around with it. I’d immediately go into whatever was bothering me. I never asked how she knew something was wrong because she always knew. She was always there. That’s what mama’s do; it’s their job. I realize that I’d wrapped my entire existence around having Mama there to soak up all the tears and actually feel what I was saying. Despite the issues, whether it was an issue with my kids or my husband or my job or my friends. She knew all about and could make it go away. I became dependent on that. I had 36 years to perfect my dependency on my mother. Then, all of a sudden, she’s gone. 

How is one to adapt to that?

Some of my religious friends tell me to take it to The Creator and let Him work it out. 

Others say that time will make it better.

Many don’t know what to say and just assure me that they are here for me.

Contrary to popular opinion, none of that helps. I tried all of that. Friends offer a shoulder during that moment, but they can’t be there in the middle of the night when I wake up drenched with sorrow. Praying makes it better each time, but it always comes back. Time – well time is taking too long.

I don’t like being this way. I don’t like being affected in this manner. It makes me feel weak and incomplete. I like feeling like I am in control of me, but seems as though I have no say so what-so-ever about this pain and hurt that comes from missing my mother.

I thought losing Daddy was bad. But facing the loss of my mother, my angel, my very best friend is the hardest thing I’ve endured thus far in my life. 

The hurt seeps in and out at will. There's no warning that I’m about to enter this dark place where I’ll cry for two or three days straight. There is absolutely no method to it. It just happens – at work, at home, in my car. It just happens and there’s nothing I can do about it except to just let it happen and hope that I am not noticed.

I’m learning that this life we call ours, really isn’t ours at all. Our human bodies are only boxes that house our real true selves. We are controlled by energy and spirits that we have little knowledge about. The regular things we think matter and mean something, in the grand scheme of things, really mean nothing. It’s our spiritual lives that really mean something. The best we can do is get to know our spiritual selves and work to get along with it. Allow our inner being to do it’s will because control isn’t ours. It never has been and it won’t be even after our “boxes” get old and worn. The spirit that lives in us from birth, gets stronger as we grow older. When that spirit is hurt or in pain or sorrow, we can’t do anything about that. All we can do is allow it to heal itself. It will, at some point……. I think.

“Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me around; turn me around; turn me around. Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me around. I’m gonna keep on a-walking, keep on a-talking, march into the freedom land.”

My father taught the students at the Black and Proud School the words to this song that was sung by many during marches, boycotts, and gatherings in the honor of pressing forward. This song (as well as others) has been embedded in my spirit for as long as I can remember. This week, as we – Mississippians- celebrate the steadfast dedication of the Freedom Riders; I sing this song in their honor for their dedication to our freedom.

Returning to Mississippi, I'm sure many of the Riders found it a relief to see that so much has changed.  It certainly has.  Yet, it must not go unnoted that we still have a long way to go. There is a deep evil drenched in the soft clay dirt that covers Mississippi land. An evil that directs its attention to ignorance and lends a blind eye to the emotional pain that still lingers among those affected by the inequality Mississippi so proudly claimed that lead to the Civil Rights Movement.

One can easily see improvement. Sure. Black people are afforded every opportunity as whites in this state now, right? We can vote. We can ride in the front of the bus. We can drink from the same water fountain; sit in the same restaurants; run for public office; we can even speak our minds without being hang or beaten. However, there is a level of left-over bitterness that lingers in the Mississippi air that comes to threaten our reconciliation. 

We are told to forget, move on, and get over it.

We are expected to act like we are not hurt as a people.

We are supposed to erase the pain of our mistreatment because we never picked cotton. We never got beat. We aren’t the ones who had to march, boycott, or ride those buses in protest. We should not feel this pain, this hurt, this disappointment, and this brutality.

But yet we do.

The fact that we do and we are expected not to is a big problem. The fact that we are willing to release the pain in an effort to “get along”, but we are not heard or understood, problem. The fact that we are constantly told that we are “pulling the race card” each time we try to expose to the ignorant that their actions/words are indicative of one who supports racism or racist actions equal – problem.

Without the Freedom Riders and the fathers and mothers who gave their lives so that we didn’t have to live in a society such as the one that birthed them, we’d STILL be there. Without them standing up and screaming out to the wrongful actions of white Mississippi, we would STILL be there. So, I have to wonder, what then will it take for us – today – to stand together and scream out to the underlining racism that is STILL here. The racism that shows up on blog sites anonymously. The racism that hides deep within non-blacks that pretend they don’t see color. Or the ones who can’t love who they are because they are ashamed and therefore act as if they are the savior for the black race. That does not help us. It only points back to racism because those individuals think they are smarter, better, superior to us and thus creating the same inequality that they so despise.

We are a work in progress, but we are progressing.

I’ve said it many times before, we will continue to walk in circles, if we do not make an opportunity to heal from the pain that is ours passed down from generation to generation. I didn’t have to pick cotton to be enslaved; and white people didn’t have to own slaves to live like masters. Just as we can acknowledge white privilege, we must acknowledge black pain. Neither of the two has disappeared. They still exist and they still block the togetherness of these two races. 

Fifty years ago the Freedom Riders made the conscious decision to put their lives on the line for justice and equality. This week we embrace them for their efforts and honor their actions. The best way, in my opinion, to honor their actions and celebrate their lives is to stand steadfast for righteousness just as they did. Our fight today may not be in the streets with picket signs, or staging boycotts. Our fight could simply be opening our hearts and our minds to acknowledging that even though racism isn’t as blatant as it’s been in the past, it most certainly still lives among us. 

If only we owned the same tenacity and drive today as our brave parents and grandparents before us - we too might be able to call ourselves Freedom Riders. 

I recently went to a birthday dinner for my niece at one of my favorite family restaurants. There had to be at least 20 16 year olds in attendance to help her celebrate. While I sat there observing the kids, I began to reminisce on the time when I was 16. That year was pivotal for my development.

I don’t recall exactly what I did to celebrate turning 16, but I can imagine that it was a worthwhile celebration. My 16^th year was big for me. I graduated from Clinton High School and entered Tougaloo College eager to begin my adult life. I had attended Upward Bound at Tougaloo College and although none of my classmates were going with me to Tougaloo, I had made a good amount of friends at UB who’d be coming to Tougaloo. Besides, I had begun to be defiant and ridiculously rebellious with my mother. So I could only assume I was capable of taking care of myself. 

I was ready to be grown.

Little did I know, I wasn’t ready AT ALL. I had not yet learned how to be responsible. I was a child. My friends were all at least one year older than I was because I skipped a grade in elementary school. I’m not sure that turned out to be the best decision my parents could have made for me. I lost a year of my childhood in that process. Therefore, when I got to college, I wasn’t equipped with the maturity I needed to stay focused. The fact that I didn’t have anyone waking me up for class or making me study or turn in homework was not a good thing for me. There was no pressure to come in on time. There was no one guiding me or motivating me to thrive. So, I didn’t. I managed to keep my GPA at a descent level at the start of my freshman year, but by second semester, things started to just spiral out of control.

Not only was I partying REALLY hard as often as I possibly could, I also started seeing a guy that would consume my life for the next 11 years. Once I started dating him seriously, school work, my future, my dreams for success, became secondary. I didn’t give a damn one day to the next about what I’d be doing in five years. All I cared about was making sure that he didn’t cheat on me (since when I met him he was already dating at least three different women). Before I knew it, I’d lost all interest in school. The only part of my experience in education at The Loo that made any good sense was taking Creative Writing under the instruction of Dr. Hillary Jacque Knight. He was brilliant. He was inspiring. I learned in his class that I LOVED writing. I loved poetry. I wanted to express myself and this would be how I’d do it. 

Even my love for writing and being around writers wasn’t enough to keep me at school. I’d been in a car accident one night brought on by a physical altercation with the guy I was dating.

We’d just left revival at Davis Temple COGIC. We’d had a lovely time. But I suppose I’d done something wrong or looked at someone wrong. I may have even been too flirtatious with the wrong guy. Whatever the reason, my boyfriend, while driving the car, began attacking me and ran head on into a parked car as two men sat on the hood. As he argued with the two men outside the car, I remember holding my hands open in front of me watching the warm gush of blood pour into my lap. I'd been slammed into the windshield. Thank God I didn’t go through it, as I probably wouldn’t have lived. As a result, my hair was shaved on the right side of my head and I was gifted with 27 stitches. Ironically, of the four of us who traveled in the car, no one else was hurt – not even the driver.

I went back to that car months later to access the damage. Actually, I sort of felt compelled to see it. My boyfriend tried to convince me to stay away from it. He wasn’t in favor of me seeing the car. Needless to say, he couldn’t stop me. I can still clearly see the car in my mind. I can still feel the pain of my heart and jaw dropping once I realized that I could have easily been killed. There was broken glass and blood everywhere. The passenger seat that held me was off track and turned to the left. My hair dangled from a piece of glass protruding from the windshield. 

A part of me died standing there as I relived that awful night.  The part of me that was strong and confident – gone. The part of me that was a go-getter- evaporated.  The part of me that was vibrant and anxious to face the world – deceased. Those parts of me hung in despair on that windshield with a huge chunk of my hair.

I didn’t feel beautiful. I didn’t feel smart. I didn’t feel strong. I felt alone, unprotected, shattered. 

I was terrified each time I had to look in the mirror and see that scar on my forehead and the bald place where my hair would never return.  I often stood there crying for hours trying to figure out a way to disguise the scar and the pain. Doctors told me I could have surgery to replace the skin that was there so that my hair could possibly grow back. But after all the bandage dressings I’d gone through, I didn’t want to spend any more of my life doing that. My choice to NOT go through the surgery ultimately influenced my choice to discontinue my college experience.

I had no desire to return to school.  I was embarrassed about how I looked. I was ashamed of the reason I looked that way. I’d been assaulted by a man I loved – and I STILL loved him- and was STILL with him. The accident, its cause, my leaving school all during a year when I was supposed to be starting my life was the genesis to the diminishing self-esteem and lack of confidence that would plaque my soul for many years to come. 

It would take years of depression and shame before I was even able to begin to live again after my 16^th year. That car accident set in motion the person that I was to become. The one who doesn’t trust any drivers but myself and is particularly phobic about riding in the passenger seat of a car driven by a man I’m with. My husband can attest to that. Through it all though, I think it’s amazing that while my niece’s 16 year old life seems so easy and stress-free (by my standards), my book tells a totally different story for a 16 year old. People always make a big deal of Sweet 16. Sixteen wasn’t that sweet to me on one count. On the other, however, that year -- solely-- set the trend that would shape the Queen that I am today. I am still saddened and that 16 year old in me is still distraught.  Yet, I am peaceful and proud once more. I am thankful for the adversity. For, without it there would be no measure of happiness.

I’ve been wondering why according to internet blogs, FB statuses, tweets and day to day conversations why women tend to be more forgiving and tolerant of Chris Brown and his public displays of immaturity. As a Chris Brown fan, from the first time he stepped onto the scene, I must say that I genuinely want to see him succeed. He sort of reminds me of my son. Maybe my allegiance to him is related to that fact. But I’ve noted that many women, even some without sons are really pulling for him too.

As the story goes, everyone knows that he physically abused singer, Rhianna, a couple of years past. He took some domestic violence classes as well as performed some community service and just a couple of days ago a judge lifted the restraining order Rhianna had against him – at the singer’s request. This week, he was on Good Morning America being interviewed by Robyn Robinson and became agitated with questions asked about the Rhianna incident. He carried himself to his dressing room and there commenced to acting like a straight fool by tearing up the room and throwing a chair out of the window. Mind you, this is the same day that his new album dropped (F.A.M.E.). Publicity stunt??? Maybe.

Still though, the public (women) seem to be forgiving and understanding. 

So here’s my assessment – my very feminine assessment:

I won’t speak about the Rhianna incident because I don’t want to suffer his wrath. He might come find me and thrash my house. LOL! Really though, I will speak to the fact that this 21 year old kid has some serious issues with anger and frustration. He hasn’t a clue how to work through either of these things and what he knows is that punching something makes the hurt and pain disappear (even for a moment it's worth it to him). How did he go through hours our classes on violence and no one go this through to him? Did Charlie Sheen teach the class? It would be the first thing I’d try to help him recognize about himself if I were his therapist or instructor.  Chris you have go to find ways to relieve yourself of the anger once you reach your boiling point.  Thank goodness he was able to not slap the shit out of Robyn. 

Some think that Chris is young and immature. Yes! I follow him on twitter and one of his tweets read, “I have gas. LOL!” I’d venture to say that’s immature.

Some think he’s a victim. Yes! He has admitted that he watched his mother being abused growing up. This makes him a victim of domestic violence. One may think (of course who have never been through or witnessed this abuse) that since he saw it happening that he should know better. Unfortunately, that’s not what happens in abusive situations especially to young, tender hearts and minds.

I think that if he does not get it together and begin to hold himself accountable for his actions he will find that anger will have taken over his existence. I’ve seen how that plays out for a very particular man and he hasn’t embraced happiness to this day. I’d hate to see it happen to Chris.

Am I defending him? NO. 

Do I think he has issues? Yes.

Do we throw him away because he just so happens to be in the public eye fighting against these issues? Absolutely not!

I am a firm believer that enough good will eventually take over bad. I believe that anyone who wants help and wants improvement can have it. What remains to be seen is whether Chris wants to be better. I tend to think he does. Hell, apparently so does Rhianna.

Chris Brown is his own champion. If he wants to get it together, he can. If he doesn’t see a problem, he won’t. But I will continue to pray for him. Maybe it’s because I’m a mother. Maybe it’s because I look at him and see a little boy going through the trials all men face when becoming a man. I don’t mean that all men beat women during this time of life. I am simply stating that the transition from boy to man is thorough and precise. If one is not ready to face it in all areas of life, there will be situations to arise that can either make or break him. All men go through it in some fashion. Some just don’t have to do it publicly.

Maybe when men see this situation they only see the action and not the reason for the action. This would explain why women, filled with emotion and hope, continue to believe in Chris. While men, the unattached, unemotional creature we love, tend to think that he just needs to get it together. It seems very obvious to my feminine spirit that this young man is drench in pain and doesn’t know how to manage his anger because of it. While I don’t condone his erratic behavior, I can’t dismiss that he’s clearly broken. If you’ve never had anger fill your heart, then you can easily determine that he needs to go to jail or needs to “get it together”. Well, speaking as one who has been angry and seen anger consume others, it’s simply not as easy to do as it is to say.

Praying for you Chris.

It's no secret to anyone who's ever ventured to this blog before that I write as therapy.  In an effort to evaluate who I am - bad and good - I come here and I have talks with myself.  In exposing myself, I hope to create dialogue about topics that most people are too uncomfortable to discuss openly.  I tend to give of myself by offering personal (true) experiences so that any one of you reading this will a) know a little more about me and b) hopefully learn something more about yourself.  This entry will be no different except that it's not about something I've overcome.  It's about something I am working through.   

I’ve spoken openly and very candidly about being a victim of domestic violence. I’ve spoken openly about how losing my father at the tender age of 13 has shaped my life. I’ve spoken about the eternal roller coaster ride that lasted fourteen years of me trying to bring my little girl into the world. Most recently, I have spoken about my mother’s transition which I am still coping with. 

All of these things (plus some that I haven’t even cracked open the door to) have made me into the perfect mass of imperfection that I am today.

In trying to work through these imperfections I have to face who I am as a result of these life changing events. I’m not exactly proud of some of the realizations this evaluation has brought forth, but I am proud of acknowledging these issues so that I can move pass them.

I am untrusting.

I tend to want to own and protect anything that I love. That, in itself, isn’t really that bad. However, it makes it very difficult to let go of things. Since I know this, over time I’ve created a thick wall around my heart to protect myself from the hurt that accompanies losing things that I love, or relationships with people I love. This doesn’t really work because we don’t really – truly- control our emotions. People get paid big bucks to tell us that we do, but, actually we can only learn how to handle our emotions, not control them. 

I’ve had plenty of relationships/friendships that suffered at the hands of my inability to love without ownership, but they all happened after one particular situation with a friend that really began my journey into not trusting and being guarded which eventually lead me to being selfish with my heart.

I had a very close friend in college who was more like a big sister. I entered college the same year I turned 16, so of course I was still mentally a kid and not prepared for making decisions or for evaluating people to determine their "realness". I was very trusting at this point of my life and simply put - niave.  She was “saved” and she owned a beautiful spirit. I wanted to be around her all the time. She was pleasant and she smiled a lot (I’m a sucker for smiles. They warm my heart – due to growing up with a mother whose smile made the sunshine seem dim). 

Let’s call my friend Amy – not her real name by the way. 

Amy eventually fell head over heels in love with a guy who just happened to be my best friend. He didn’t like her the way she liked him, but he liked her. Who could not like a person who was so friendly and pleasant? He was a nice guy. I put both of them on this spiritual pedestal, of which I tore down and it hasn’t been replaced since then. I expected them to be what they presented themselves as which was really “holy” people who couldn’t possibly fall short of God’s glory. 

Well, since this is about me – not them, I’ll make a long story short. Amy lied to him and to me about something that never should be lied about and certainly not from a person of her “holy” caliber. In that lie, she stole my faith in female friendship and belief that a female could be a true, upstanding friend to another. (YES, this one incident weighed that heavily on my young, gentle soul.) This action birthed a total distrust and doubt in “holiness”. It also convinced me that women, even the good ones, can be capable of all types of ridiculous, unfathomable acts when it comes to a man they want. 

I’ve had close females friends since then, but I have not really been able to get back to the place where I can be friends with someone I admired as much as I did Amy. Fact of the matter is, I haven't really admired a woman (my age or close) since Amy.  Don't get me wrong, I’ve had women come into my life that were admirable, but the level of friendship only reached a certain level before I began to find reasons not to offer my trust to these women.  I believed that I had to protect myself from the inevitable moment when it would become obvious that she too couldn’t be trusted. Being on guard and standing ready for this moment would shelter me from the pain of being let down by someone – a woman. I was never really convinced that a woman could truly be a real friend. It was easy for me to create this in my head because every male friend I’ve ever had in my life is STILL a great friend. I didn’t have to worry about men pretending with me, they didn’t bother with that type of behavior, at least in my experience.

I’ve know this to be a problem in my soul for years. I didn’t know how to “work it out” and I still don’t. But I know that I must. This hurt and pain (and ignorance to be blunt) is what lead me to founding SIPPI. My strong desires to get pass this imperfection lead me to reach out to women who I thought highly of and ask them to share in my space. Since most of them had already spoken about having similar disappointments with female/female friendships, I figured we could help each other to heal. 

I’m clear now though that the reason why SIPPI has started and stopped numerous times since its inception is because its founder has NOT healed. I can’t very well lead an organization that promotes sisterhood if I, myself, have issues to work out to that same regard. 

It’s getting better though.   The universe is working with me. I’ve found myself in the midst of true friendships with women happening without me even noticing so I haven’t had time to prepare for the “let down”. I’ve not had to build up a wall to protect me from them because I didn’t see the friendship happening….it just did. 

I guess that’s what developing relationships is all about.

It’s unfortunate that I’ve been wrapped in pain and living in fear for so much of my life. *here come the tears*  I’m sure that I’ve lost great friends. I’m sure I’ve put many people through a lot of mess that could have been avoided. But, this goes to show that what happens in the developmental stages of life really do come back to haunt us at some point.  I hadn’t given much thought to how much Amy hurt me. I pushed that situation out of my mind and with it went my belief in friendship and women. I let one incident, one woman, one crushing moment in my youth dictate every relationship with a woman I’d have from that moment on. Every female to me was Amy and I refused to let her get me again. SMH!

Now, thanks to the fact that I have to create a better existence for my little girl than the one I’ve had, I know that I must treat women better. I must begin to accept women in my heart.  Most importantly, I must let Amy be Amy and everyone else be who they are to me. I can't go on cheating myself of the experience of having real friendships without doubt and fences.  I have to allow people to treat me well; love me and me love them; see positive first.

I am afraid; I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. I don’t particularly care for being hurt. I’d much rather just avoid it all together. That's been my motto for most of life's challenges - avoid it.  However, the chance that a true friend could come from each relationship is reason enough to try, believe and let go.

This is my confession.