Just a Simple Confession

 Me and my dad during a family vacation to Florida 1989

I have been feeling some kind of way for the past two weeks.  It’s been weird.  I’ve been anxious, unable to sleep, and off balance.  I have vacillated between feelings of happiness and inexplicable sadness.  And if I’m not sad, I’ve been feeling like I should be.  Initially, I simply attributed my mood swings to loneliness.  My baby has been gone visiting her father so I just assumed Oh I miss her and my usual schedule is thrown off.  But she’s back home now and I still have insomnia.  I still have this weird anxious feeling.  It wasn’t until I was perusing Facebook last night that it hit me.  A friend of mine tagged me in a picture and the picture was of my father and Isaac Hayes.  The caption stated that they passed 5 years ago and they were taken way too soon. 

Today is the fifth anniversary of my father’s death.  And it’s not like I haven’t known that.  I couldn’t forget August 9 if I wanted to (and trust me there are times that I definitely want to).  I’ve even mentioned it quite a few times within the month of July.  I guess knowing and experiencing truly are two different things because now that the moment is here, I am hit with a deep sadness.  Upon his passing, a friend of mine told me, I couldn’t tell you that it gets easier, but I can tell you that it gets more manageable.  In my oh so humble opinion, she is absolutely correct.  The pain I feel isn’t any less today than it was the moment the doctor informed us (my mother and me) that he was gone.   However, the pain is no longer such a shock to my system.  It’s familiar now.  The ache and longing in my soul is no longer foreign.  It’s with me every day, as it has been for the past 5 years.  And please understand that I’m not depressed.  I’m not in a dark place.  I am healed.  I just know that the void of my father’s absence will never be filled and it’s ok.  I’m in a space where I can laugh more than I cry.  I can remember good times.  I’ve even reconciled the fact that I am so much like him (something I detested when he was alive).  I catch myself sounding just like him and I smile.  I know that as long as I live, a part of him does and that makes me so proud.  I can talk to my daughter about her grandfather with affection and pride without feeling sad that her memories are so scarce.  I can relish that he at least had the opportunity to enjoy her for a whole year and a half.   

But, I’ll admit, that I am not always able to be so up beat.  On certain days of the year, the ache feels more agonizing, the void feels deeper, my heart feels heavier, and my soul just a little more weary.  Today is one of those days.  Today is the day where I admit that one of my biggest fears is living life longer without him than I did with him (in the physical sense).  Today is the day where perspective truly takes meaning because I know that 30 years is a significant amount of time, yet I don’t feel like it was enough time with my Daddy.  Today is the day where I cry more than I usually do—not that I intend to.  It always just sort of happens.  But above all else, today is the day that I remember a little more.  I remember his smile. I remember his laughter.  I remember all the lessons.  I remember all the times he got on my nerves and wish he was here to do it again.  I remember hearing his voice and thinking, “Man does he know how to be quiet?”  I remember his face the day I told him I was pregnant, and how he cried upon hearing the news. And most importantly, I remember how much I love him.  Thankfully, I don’t have any regrets.  I know that we do the best that we can in the moments.  We both did the best we could by one another, and in my humble opinion, we did pretty damn good.  Today as they say, is just one of those day.  So because I feel this way, I usually like to do something significant.  It makes me feel good to do something really significant.  But I don’t do it because he died.  I like to do it because he lived.  And I know that because he lived, I do as well.  I guess all I’m saying is that I love and miss my Daddy. And in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

Pedestal Pushing

So I was recently made aware that a friend of mine whom I am quite fond of has entertained some more than friend-ly thoughts about me.  It was intriguing to say the least.  I count this particular friend as a member among my favorite people list.  He’s just one of those people who I find extremely easy to get along with AND he seems to inspire me to think and challenge myself.  So it’s not the worst thing I could hear at all.  Shocking to me, but not gross by any means.  Actually, had the brother seriously pursued, he could have stood a really good chance.  But I also learned something else in addition to that.  According to my source, this particular friend does not (or at that time did not) feel “worthy” of me.  I also found that little tidbit intriguing.  My source told me that I give off this vibe that a brother has to be damn near perfect to get with me (I’m paraphrasing, but that was his point).  Unfortunately, that wasn’t shocking information.  I’ve heard this since my teenage years.  After graduation, so many guys decided to let me know that they had huge crushes on me and when I asked why didn’t you tell me before, I was told, “It just seemed like I wasn’t good enough”.  In college, I was barely approached and when I would inquire, my friends would say “Baby you look like you’re too much work.” 

Sadly, I’ve received this treatment not only from men, but from my fellow women as well.  More than a few females have told me that they would like to be my friend, but they are hesitant to try because I give off this “vibe” that I’m better than—or at the very least I think so has told me.  Now here’s where it gets tricky for me.  I’m really a nice person!  And I don’t say that in the “I’m really nice once you get to know me” manner.  No, I’m really nice.  I’m easy going.  I’m approachable.  And these same people who have told me about my “vibe” concur.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve received the “Oh my gosh you are nothing like what I thought you’d be!  You are so nice!”  Yet they maintain that I still have this thing about me that says to others “I’m better and you need to get to where I am”.  I even have family members who believe this.   My god sis concurred.  She also agreed that it’s not that I’m mean or uppity, but she’s of the belief that to most people (herself included), I appear to be damn near perfect and it makes them feel like they are not good enough to share my space.  Now here is my question:  Is it really I; or is it these people who choose to put me on this incredibly high pedestal?  I tend to think it’s the latter.  If I’m approachable, authentic, giving, and kind, how can I be blamed for “vibing” that I’m better than another? 

Honestly, I find this pedestal pushing to be quite tiresome, even a bit alienating.  So you mean to tell me that I have to suffer (well not suffer, but I feel like being dramatic) through lack of dates, friends, whatever because of your issues?  How is that fair to me?  Some months ago, a wonderful reader told me that I had a Healer aura.  She said that I was very strong and my purpose was to bring healing to people.  But she told me to expect difficulty because strength can frighten people.  She was right.  Now in no way do I like myself to Jesus the Christ, but I really understand how he must have felt in the Garden of Gethsemane. Sometimes I want to shout “Really?!  Nobody can watch with me one doggone hour?!!”  I’ve always said that strength is a quiet trait.  It doesn’t boast about itself.  It doesn’t shout.  It merely shows up when it’s needed.  There’s something about being a strong person that makes others believe you need nothing.  After all, you’re strong; you can take care of it all.  Nobody bothers to keep in mind that the strongest person you know may also be the most in need of help.  I know that I’m a strong person.  It’s just one of those ABCs of me.  But being strong doesn’t mean that I’m perfect.  And I won’t even pretend to be.  I have no problem telling you about my issues. Hell, if you read this blog you can see I’ll share my stuff with you.  About a year and a half ago, one of my aunts told me that she believed that the family failed me after my dad died.  (In some ways, I agree, but that’s a whole ‘nother post!) You see, after my dad died, my family didn’t support me. At all!  No one in my family so much as said, “How are you?”  According to my aunt, no one thought to be there for me.  They just thought I would be ok.  I can’t tell you how much that stung when I heard that.  Now that some healing has taken place, I am able to offer compassion and some understanding.  Maybe because they see me as being so strong they just thought, “Je’Niece doesn’t need us.  She’ll be ok” And while I understand it, it still sucks.  I was in a bad place then.  I could have used a lot of support—and especially from the people who claim they love me most.  But that’s not the point to today’s post. 

Anywhoo, I find this to be a prime example of the blessing and curse reality of life.  My strength has kept me going and helped me get through so much, yet it alienates me in some ways (or at least I’m choosing to believe it’s the strength).  I hate putting people on pedestals.  It’s so unfair.  It’s one of the reasons I’m not a fan of the whole celebrities as role models phenomenon. Once you’re on a pedestal, there’s only one place to go:  down. And the fall is usually hard and fast.  But while you’re on the pedestal, people tend to put super human powers upon you, which prevents them from seeing you as you truly are.  I have always had an innate desire to be seen—truly seen—and even more, loved for me.  I don’t want to have to be what someone else thinks or wants me to be.  I want people who see me as I am, love me for it, and aren’t afraid to let me know.  Now because I want that from mere mortals like myself, I know I’ll have to be patient and compassionate with my fellow brethren. But hey, a girl can still dream.

Talking Ish and More Ish

 So I have allowed myself to get sucked back into the ridiculousness that is Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I don’t know why, but it just pulled me in.  This season has had me looking like Chris Rock’s Pookie from New Jack City.  “It just keeps calling me and calling me” And I feel the same way after each episode.  The Hayle did I just waste my life for?!  But oh well, like the insane person I seem to be at times I keep going back to it.  So yesterday’s episode featured Ms. Kenya Moore dishing out her own special brand of cray cray by showing up Phaedra at a charity event.  Seems she was a bit po’d that Phaedra was saying not so flattering things about her so she decided to stick it to her and show up to the event wearing a mesh dress with a thong bikini a la Phaedra on the Anguilla trip—complete with a big church lady hat.  Now here’s where I’m tripping.  When did making yourself look like a fool mean you are showing up someone?  Seriously, no one at the event besides the other housewives knew where she was going with it.  She just looked like a crazy fool to everyone else.  But that’s a special brand of craziness of which I have no knowledge.  This also made me ponder why we human beings spend so much time obsessing over what someone else says about us. 

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the desire to be liked and seen for who we believe we truly are.  I even understand using that to gauge whether you can trust that person.  But beyond that, why do we spend so much time worrying, stressing over, and upsetting ourselves over what someone says behind our backs?  I mean we obsess, cry, complain, and obsess some more over what others have to say when we’re not around.  I’ve had quite a bit of experience with this and I must admit that in my opinion, people love to talk about other people.  And it seems that when they do, they prefer to talk about something unflattering.  And if they don’t have anything unflattering to talk about, they’ll make something up.  So it seems to me that it would be easier on us if we just learned to acknowledge our feelings about it and keep on living our lives.  Now I know this falls into the easier said than done category.  But I think spending time talking about it, dwelling on it, and thinking of ways to “show them” just adds fuel to the fire.  Instead of living joyously, you’re feeling stressed, worried, sometimes even depressed, and all because of someone else.  The power we give to others and their words would serve us much better if we channeled the energy into ourselves. 

I’ve had my own experience with this.  After my dad died, I learned that my relatives (many of whom I adored) were speaking very ill of me.  They said things like I’m spoiled, I needed a man, I was jealous of my mother, and other foolish things.  I was beyond hurt.  I was in a state of shock and I think my dad’s death exacerbated the pain I felt by their words.   I spent a lot of time playing the words over in my head.  I spent probably even more time talking about their words.  I couldn’t believe that’s how they saw me.  It felt betrayed.  I even felt like I got kicked out of an elite members only group.  I finally had an epiphany and realized a few things.  One is that my relatives love talking about other people.  It’s what they do.  It’s the culture of the group to talk about people behind their backs, yet not fully address their thoughts and feelings with the subjects of their discussions.  Another realization I had is that small-minded people like to discuss and dissect other people.  And my discussion and dissection of their discussion and dissection only made me small minded too.  And lastly, it didn’t matter what they called me or said behind my back because all that mattered is what I answered to.  The way I learned to see it, I could waste a lot of time worrying about what people are saying about me—which would only detract from the peace and happiness I claim I want so badly.  I mean honestly, don’t I have more pressing things to do with my life than worry about some smack talking folks who are really only hiding out from their own life to-do list?!

What say you?  How do you feel about folks talking behind your back?  Do you work to “get back” at those who do?  Would you go to the lengths Kenya went through to show someone who talked about you behind your back?  Let’s discuss.

Guess This Means I'm a Daddy's Girl

Time really waits for no man.  I’ve experienced a few moments in my life where it felt as if time stood still.  I’ve even lived in a way where I was simply being still. But the thing is, time kept on ticking.  Today is a day that lets me know just how true that is.  Today is the fourth year anniversary of my dad’s death.  I can hardly believe it’s been four years.  Depending on the perspective, four years can seem like a long time or a mere passing phase.  For me, these four years seems like an eternity.  My secret fear has been living in this world without my dad longer than I lived with him.  I guess when I’m 61; I’ll be able to know what that feels like.  I imagine that I will probably feel as I do today.  While I’m grateful for all the years, the lessons, the laughs, the fights, the memories, and all the moments I had with him, I miss my Dad terribly.  There are days where I feel so overwhelmed and all I want is to hear his voice telling me what to do.  And I want that even though I know that when he was here, I wouldn’t have dared “burdened” him with my troubles, and it would have chapped my ever loving hide to have him tell me what to do anyway.  But now those are the things I miss.

When I was 21, my dad and I were really in a combative phase.  If he said left, I was going right.  If he said dip, I slid.  I just wanted to prove him wrong.  We had a huge blowup one day when he came to New Orleans for the Kings of Comedy Tour.  I was livid and I laid into him like I never had before.  All the fear I once had was replaced with anger and I let it loose.  After I was done, I felt fine and I didn’t hesitate to tell him that I was now done with the issue and to go have a great show.  I walked away and an instant later I realized that I was so much like him.  Talk about an epiphany!  But I didn’t like it one bit.  I made it my mission to prove just how unlike him I could be, and I epically failed.  It wasn’t until he passed that I truly made peace with how alike we were.  I recognize that fighting against who I was made my journey more difficult than it possibly could have been had I just accepted myself.  But that’s what we’re here for.  We live and we learn. 

There are so many things I miss about my dad.  Even though I’m in a space where I can smile more than I cry, I miss him everyday.   I miss his smile.  I miss his laughter.  I miss his eyes.  I miss his hands.  Our hands are the same.  It still can be difficult to look into a mirror because when I look, all I see is my dad.  I wonder how my daughter would be if he were here.  She’s so much like him.  That strong masculine energy just radiates from within.  Whenever she says something that has me speechless or in fits of laughter, he’s the first person I want to call.  But I can’t.  So I just talk aloud to him as if he’s here.  Most days it’s comforting.  But on today, it’s just not enough. 

I remember feeling so alone when my dad died.  There was no one who I felt understood my pain or even cared for that matter.  It was very hard for me because of all the people that were around who claimed to love my dad, very few of them even asked me if I was ok—my own mother didn’t bother to comfort me.  I took that really hard.  My thinking was how can you claim to have loved him, and here I am, his flesh and blood, his heart, and for that matter his legacy, and you just ignore me.  Like I said, I took it way personally.  Today I am in a different space.  I hold no ill feelings toward anyone.  I recognize that grief hits people in different ways.  I’m not sure if it was just too hard (or maybe still is) for most to be near me because seeing me is a reminder of him.  Or maybe it’s because I’m so much like him they assume that I’m fine.  Whatever it is, we’re all human, and everybody was navigating through grief’s murky waters just trying to come out with some sense of normalcy. 

I went through a terrible depression.  I didn’t want to live.  I had a suicide plan.  My first plan was to go to the basement in my parent’s home, grab one of his guns and just blow my brains out.  I came close one night.  I was in the basement crying and I walked into the room where his guns were, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I thought that would be cruel to have my mother find me that way.  So my next plan was to take my daughter to daycare, and just drive onto Interstate 57 and drive onto the Southbound traffic (which would be driving opposite me) and just get taken out by how ever many drivers would get to me.  I almost did that one too.  But as soon as I got on, I thought of Jasmine so I just kept driving.  After that I simply prayed for death.  I would wake up feeling so defeated that I actually was able to wake up.  Besides my daughter, I couldn’t find one thing about life to bring comfort or gratitude. 

For a while I was angry.  I was angry with God.  How could you take my father away at a time like this?  (As if there is really a “good” time for death to strike).  I was especially angry as old people.  Upon seeing an older gentleman with his family, I’d be immediately pissed off.  My first thoughts were why does this old bastard get to live and my dad didn’t?  I was mad at some relatives too.  I felt like they were useless so I questioned why were they allowed to stay here while my dad wasn’t.  I was angry with grandfathers.  Why did my baby have to grow up without hers?  It wasn’t fair and I was madder than any analogy I could ever come up with about it. 

It’s said that time heals all wounds and I realize today that it isn’t true.  What you do in that time leads to healing.  I could be stuck in that very space.  I could still be angry, depressed and suffering.  I could still be in a place where I couldn’t recognize the blessing I experienced by having my dad for 30 years.  I could have carried out my suicide plan and my daughter could be motherless. But I didn’t.  And I can’t take the credit for it.  God had something else in mind.  Even though the people I expected to support me didn’t, He/She sent other people.  My friends rallied around me.   My daughter was my motivation to keep going.   I found a wonderful counselor who helped me through my grief.  I even met some new friends who have shown me love and acceptance, as I never knew before. It was not all for naught.  It was for a reason.  I am blessed by all of it.  And even though some things change, some things remain the same.  My dad is still my compass.  I still look to him to get me through things.  How could I not?  He started the theme song to my life.  The song may not be the same, but the melody plays in harmony with his.   And I still hope and pray for the same thing when he sees me.  I pray that I make you proud Daddy because I’m so proud of you.

No Flowers For Me

I’ve been so busy with travel and spending time with my little one that I have not been keeping an accurate account of my thoughts and activities. But the beautiful thing about writing is that there is no expiration date, so to speak, so I can always stop and write about things.  Well last month, I experienced something that I thought was an incredible display of love.  My bestie and I went to a party.  I know that doesn't sound like that would be such a moving experience, but it wasn't just any kind of party.  It was a celebration of life party for the owner of the salon we both go to.  His name is Phillip McCain, and while he doesn’t personally do either of our hair, he’s always been extremely courteous and kind whenever we’ve been there.  I have never heard a bad word about him.  Each of his employees seems to hold him in the highest esteem.  But Phillip now has Stage 4 Cancer.  I am not particularly sure as to what kind, but Stage 4 of any kind has got to be pretty somber.  It was actually held at the salon, and as I understand, it was at his request.  I was told he said he wanted to gather all the people he loved and who in turn loved him to celebrate.  It was a beautiful event.  The salon was packed! There were even crowds of folks outside. There was food, libations, music, and dancing.   As Phillip’s cancer is currently in stage 4, he was of course rather weak, he was unable to move around, and so he sat on a couch on the upper deck of the salon.  Towards the end of the night, there was a beautiful slideshow presentation, showcasing his life and there was not a dry eye in the building.  I really thought it was a beautiful display of love for this man.

My best friend, however, disagreed.  She felt the night was extremely depressing and that “they” were wrong for having him sit on a couch all night.  I told her it was by his request but that didn’t seem to make a difference.  Another friend of ours was in agreement with her. They both felt that it was in poor taste and depressing.  Personally, I think they were just uncomfortable with the display.  But it’s all a matter of perspective.  I probably would have been in agreement with her 4 years ago.  I was terribly uncomfortable regarding sickness and death.  Now I recognize that for me, going through the devastating loss of my dad and seeing how all of us who claimed to love him reacted in the aftermath, left me feeling differently.  I personally have never liked funerals.  If you want to talk about depressing, I find them completely depressing.  And I don’t find them to be depressing because of the obvious sadness and crying.  It’s just that I’ve never liked the way they work.  I’ve never liked sitting a corpse in front of people on display, singing depressing and somber songs, and hearing a “word” about death to be an appropriate way to celebrate someone’s life.  My bestie is already aware that should I leave this plane prior to her, I do not, under any uncertain terms, want a funeral.  I do not want my body on display.  I do not want sad songs to be sung.  I want a party.  She is to throw an elaborate party with all the fixings.  I want all my favorite music being played and all my favorite food to be served.  A slideshow can be showed and there can be allotted time for people to get up and speak, but the caveat is that they can only tell a happy story.  They have to say what they love most about me, or talk about their favorite moment with me.  I don’t mind tears being shed (if they are authentic), but I don’t want the occasion to be a somber one.  I want dancing and laughter and merriment.  She knows she is to follow this to the letter; otherwise I will haunt her for the rest of her life.  And she also knows I don’t want any flowers!  No flowers at my party.  I’d rather have all my flowers while I’m here on this side.

I think too often, we spend our time with those we love creating drama, focusing on what we don’t like, and living as if we will never have to say goodbye.  If you ask me (which you really didn’t, but it’s my blog so I’ll answer imaginary questions if I want to), there aren’t enough hugs, enough smiles, enough laughter, enough peaceful disagreements, and acceptance between loved ones.  Too many are not in peace when left to face the aftermath of their loved ones departure.  And I’m not referring to grief.  Grief is natural and inevitable.  I’m talking about all the residual feelings that are left: the guilt, the shame, the regrets and all over what wasn’t said or done or what could have been said and done better.  While we all must forgive ourselves and recognize that we do the best that we can, I think there are instances where we can agree we sometimes opt to not do better, even when we know we should.  Sometimes we do it out of fear, sometimes it’s pride, but whatever our reasons, in my humble opinion, they’re not good enough.  That’s why I thought Phillip’s party was a beautiful display.  Why should everyone wait until he’s gone to celebrate him, show up for him, and pay respects to him?  He’s here today.  Isn’t it better to tell him while he’s here?  Shouldn’t we all do that?  And again, I get it’s a matter of perspective.  But when I leave this earth, I don’t want anyone to bring flowers.  If you love me and you feel like you want to showcase that love, give me my flowers while I’m here. 

 *Incidentally, if anyone is interested, a love offering can be made for Phillip McCain* 

through PayPal at loveofferingforphillip@yahoo.com or

checks can be made payable to Phillip McCain c/o Toss the Hair Salon and Spa

60 East 13^th Street

Chicago, IL  60605

Attention:  Robert Lewis

Why Should I Care?

                                I gotta say this could very well be one of the best things you could teach your kid (language aside). 

Before I begin, I just have to say that this scene still cracks me up!  I have to admit that I did receive a speech very similar if not identical to this from him on many occasions in my life.  Seeing as how it was so colorfully stated, you’d think I’d have really taken it to heart.  I think on some level I did, but alas, as Ced the Entertainer described Luther Vandross’ curl in the Kings of Comedy; it just “wasn’t quite right” with me.  I listened to what he said, but I didn't really hear it.  How could I?  I didn't really know what I was listening to because I hadn't really experienced it yet.

  So this past Sunday was Father’s Day and I must admit it was a semi-bittersweet day for me.  It’s amazing how this one day never seemed like a big deal to me until my father passed away.  If he were alive, odds are we might not have even spent the day together.  Oh sure I would have seen him to give him his card and gift (which would probably would have been some crazy novelty gift like a magic trick from his favorite magic store, a laughing pin, or something grotesque like a farting monkey—he really did love that stuff), but he probably would have gone off to do his own thing like play golf, or go to the gun range, or better yet, go sit on his boat. And that would have been fine because I would have said “It’s your day and you should spend it as you want.”  But now all I want to do is spend the day with him.   I’m so eerily aware of the fact that my reason for celebrating the day is no longer on this physical plane and the only thing I can say about that is that it sucks.  Yet in the midst of it all, as weird as it sounds, I can honestly say that I felt pretty darn good.  I’m grateful that I’m now at the point in my grief where I can smile more than I cry.  I can feel grateful for the time we spent together rather than feel sad for the time we don’t get to share.  I was able to fondly remember so many of our infamous head to head moments and laugh as I recognize just how much alike we truly are.  And even now, I can still hear him talking to me.  What he was speaking of in the above scene is so fitting because for quite a while, that was one of the things I could hear him telling me. 

Everyone who has passed high school (well nowadays, everyone who’s at least made it to the 5^th grade) has experienced not being liked or being negatively talked about.  And let’s be honest, it isn’t a good feeling to know that people are using less than flattering words to talk about you.  More times than not, it’s usually easier to brush off the negative remarks of others if we: don’t like or know the person, can find something equally or even more disparaging to say about the other person.  But why must we resort to playing games or the tit for tat tactics in order to be at peace with what someone else says about us?  In other words, why should we or why do we even care?

I’ve heard it said that you only care about what someone says about you because you think it’s true.  I’m not so sure I entirely agree with that.  I think there are moments where that can be true, but overall, I think most times it just hurts.  It hurts to hear negative (especially negative and false) comments about you. It especially hurts when you know the intent of such comments is to tear you down.  I know I had a terrible time dealing with the after shock of other’s negative comments about me.  And I struggled mainly because I was a grade A people pleaser who only wanted juices and berries, no chemicals in my life (Shout Out to Prince Akeem!). I was very guilty of thinking that other people were like me, so I couldn’t imagine sitting around talking negatively about someone just for the fun of it, just out of spite, jealousy, or my own misery. And for me, the negativity has always had a tendency to come not from those with whom I have minimal to no connection with, but those who at one point were closest to me.  My dad always warned me that no one has the power to hurt you like those closest to you.  I understand that today more than ever. 

You see my dad was my protector.  He protected me from a lot of drama and BS.  Folks didn’t play around him.  They knew he could be a force to reckon with (plus he was rich) so most of the time, people were on their best behavior.  While I knew there would be people who would want to use me, or who wouldn’t like me, I didn’t think those people would be close to me.  Oh boy was I wrong!  Once my dad passed away, much was revealed to me.  It was as if I had been asleep in a coma and then I woke up with all of my senses in hyper drive.   And once that happened, I reached a point from which I will never be able to return.  But the good thing is that I’ve actually learned my lesson in not caring about what others say about me.  And to be honest, I didn’t get here on my own.  I have to thank some people who probably didn’t even intend to help me.  They’re my relatives.  And it’s not all of them.  It’s some.  And it’s the few whom I actually thought the most of.  One of those people is someone I took under my wing, brought into my home when things got bad with her mom, and have been there for since she was born.  One of those people gave birth to me.  Some of those people I call “Auntie” and “Cousin”.  And I love these people dearly (even today), so when I first learned of their betrayal, I was beyond hurt.  I couldn’t fathom that this is how they saw me.  And when did they start this?  It would be a while before I realized that they probably always have.

 

Well these people have no problem lying on me, and talking about me as negatively as they can.  And I really can't say enough how hurtful it was.   When it would get back to me about something I supposedly said, it was so far from sounding anything like me that I couldn’t believe anyone would actually believe I said those things!  Yet I still fought like mad to see past it and hope that they would see me and love me and change.  I still chose to cling to my naiveté, hoping that because my intentions were pure, theirs would be as well.  I was a crying fool for a while.  I mean tear stained face, bloody red eyed, snot nosed, crying mess.  I felt betrayed, yet I wanted my betrayers to tell me they didn’t mean it and they loved me so we could go on acting as if nothing happened.  And then it hit me.  I don’t know the exact moment it came, but my epiphany arrived.  I realized that all of these people were CHOOSING to be this way.  They were not being coerced.  They were not being tricked.  They were making conscious choices to treat me as they were and they didn’t care that they were hurting me. What in DEE HAYLE?!  And you mean to tell me I’m sitting here crying over these people?  This had to stop!

 So first I became angry.  And if you’ve learned anything about anger, you know that the main person you are angry with is yourself.  And so I was.  I was mad at myself for caring.  I was mad at myself for being so kind and good-hearted.  I wanted to be someone else. I didn't want to be the nice person with the good heart who only wanted good things for everyone.  But the problem was that I couldn’t give someone so much power that they had the ability to make me become someone I wasn’t.  And then, I went deeper within.  I took a closer look at those people and then my anger dissipated and I was actually able to feel compassion.  If we all take a closer look at the sources of our defamation, we would see that there really is no reason to give a shiny new Farfegnugen what they say.  In my experience, those who were spending a great deal of time talking negatively about me have been very petty and negative people to begin with.  They usually haven’t had much going (so they believe) as they seemed to much rather prefer talking badly about others than actually doing anything for themselves, and they are cowards.  They’d much rather lie and talk about me behind my back and then try to manipulate me into feeling like it’s my fault than to simply let me know that they don’t like me.  Seriously, if you have something to say about a person, you may as well say it to their face, and as Kevin Hart’s Uncle Richard, Jr. would say, “Say it with your chest!” at that.  So when I examined this I recognized that not only were they spreading lies, but once I moved past the titles they hold in my life; none of them are people who I would really like to be around.  So why was I spending so much time lamenting over what they were saying about me?  I had some people advising me to watch what I say and censor myself and I can see where they were coming from.  But I felt like that was still changing myself for them.  I stand by the words I speak because I know that I carefully choose my words.  I don’t just fly off the handle saying things for the sake of hearing myself speak.  My intentions are pure.  I speak truthfully and with Love.  I don’t seek to tear anyone down.  So I no longer mind if another person chooses to purposefully misconstrue what I have said all to try to defame my character.  I recognize that they are only succeeding at defaming their own.  Besides, I realized that they were probably talking about me all along anyway so if I don’t give them anything to say (which I really wasn’t anyway), they’ll just make something up (which they were doing). 

I think I had such difficulty in this area because it seemed for me that my lesson approached too quickly upon the heels of too much change.  See for me, my dad’s death brought forth a hailstorm of change. It wasn’t just that my father died.  When my father died, many of my relationships followed suit (as you see from what I have just shared).  And this was before I had matured to be able to recognize that relationships are simply containers for growth.  So once you outgrow one, the container is removed.  But at that time, my dad’s death was more than enough change for me so I was fighting like mad to hang on to whatever familiar pieces I could.   I finally recognized that it was my resistance to all of the change; as opposed to what was actually being said about me; that had me so upset.  Once I stopped assigning a value to the words and actions of everyone else, stopped looking for those people to be what I hoped, accepted them all for who they are, and simply allowed things to be, I became content.  It doesn’t bother me now when I hear something I supposedly said or I hear what has been said about me.  I actually feel a little flattered.  That means these people are that concerned with the affairs of little ole me.  That means they see something worthwhile in me.  That means I'm shining way too bright for them.  Why else would they try so hard to darken my light?And that’s what we all have to remember.  People will talk about us until the day we die.  And then they’ll talk about us in our death.  While I’m sure most of us would like the words spoken about us to be positive and full of love, the most important words that are spoken are the ones which will come from us.  

The Aftermath

                                                     This is what has truly been lost

 The world is still spinning on its axis from the news of Whitney Houston’s shocking death. I didn’t know her personally, so my opinion isn't that precious, but I can attest that her presence is sorely missed.  Each time I scroll through the television channels, I can’t help but to come across a news flash, ticker, or program highlighting Ms. Houston. It’s definitely a heart wrenching moment for many, as she was definitely a true talent beloved by the world. However, loving her voice and her beauty does not give any of us the right or privilege to judge her and the life she lived.

I know a little something about experiencing the loss of a celebrity.  It has been almost 4 years since my father passed away. And I can honestly say that has been the most devastating moment in my life.  I wish I didn’t remember the exact moment as well as I do.  He passed away in the middle of the night before 3 am.  By the time my mom and I made it back to my parents’ home,it was all over the news.  Every channel was broadcasting the news of his death, along with other celebrity’s reactions.  The phone rang off the hook with every publication wanting an official family statement. Throughout my dad’s career, we’d never been harassed by paparazzi, yet on that day there they were camped out across the street from my parents’ home. It was such a surreal experience.  Never before in my life had I become so aware of the phenomenon of celebrity as it pertained to my father. He was always simply Daddy, and it was so awkward to have to publicly grieve, and deal with the petty remarks and opinions of others. I remember watching Larry King debate Ashton Kutcher over whether or not my dad was a good actor and I remember thinking “Who the hell cares?!  He’s now dead! Do you think I care if you thought he could act or not? No, I just care that I lost my father!”  There were rumors that he died of AIDS. It pissed me off because I felt like I had to do crowd control instead of simply grieve the loss of my dad. Then there were the people who would come up to me and tell me things like “You’re not grieving alone. We lost him too.” Depending on the day, I would find comfort in those words, and other days I would want to pull a Roland Martin and smack the ish out of them.  No you didn’t lose him! You didn’t even know him! I, on the other hand, am the only person in this world who lost Bernie Mac . . . her father!   I know that those people meant well, but they had no idea how I really felt. 

I really do get that they were fans and when it comes to celebrities who we invite into our homes through their music, jokes, movies,shows, etc. we begin to feel like we know them. They become to a certain extent, an extension of our families. We talk about them during family get togethers, over the dinner table, at social functions. And we do it as if we’re talking about another family member.So when they show us just how human they are—especially by doing something as human as dying—we’re left feeling the emptiness their death has left us.  However, we need to remember that the person was more than a celebrity. They are, in my father’s wise words, ordinary people with extraordinary jobs.  What you miss is the fact that you’ll never hear them tell a new joke, or sing a new song, or sing your favorite song again.  You miss that there will never be a new movie with your favorite actor.  You don’t miss the person.  How could you? You didn’t even know them.  Which is why you have no business making any kind of judgment about the way they lived their life. 

That is why I feel so for all of Whitney’s loved ones who have been left to tend to their gaping wounds so openly—particularly her daughter, Bobbi Kristina.  I was 30 years old when I lost my dad and it utterly devastated me.  But at least I had grown into adulthood and was able to share in some major milestones with him. This young lady is only 18 and has to deal with the loss of her mom.  On the day she gets married, her mother will not be there.She will not be able to go to her mom for advice during her pregnancy or watch her mother joyfully play with her grandchildren.  When she graduates from college, gets her first job, has a bad day, she can no longer call upon her mom to help her through.  Essentially, each new experience in her life will be a constant and painful reminder of what she is missing.  She’ll of course begin to heal a bit,but the pain will never ever go away. And she has to endure this pain publicly.  Now people want to criticize Whitney for her drug addiction,her friends, Bobby Brown, and anyone else they can just to be able to blame someone.  Blame is a monstrous beast that only increases an already existing problem. It never takes into account that at any given moment, most of us in this world are really doing the very best that we can.  Ms. Houston is no exception. 

I get it though. That’s part of the deal when you become a celebrity. Opening yourself to the public makes them privy to details of your life, which wouldn’t be open for discussion if you were the average citizen.  And since you will make more money than most will ever see in their lives, you’ll get very little sympathy when you complain about your lack of privacy or empathy from the world.  Fame is a most titillating yet harsh suitor.  It is proof that every single thing is both a blessing and a curse.  People love you as long as you do what they want.  However, they’ll rip you to shreds when you have the audacity to show your human-ness.  I said this the other day, and I'll say it again. I really wish we understood that death is not a punishment that is solely dispensed to those who are imperfect or act in what we consider the more heinous of ways.  We are no better than a person simply because they reached the end of their earthly journey before we did.  One dying at what we deem an early age is not indicative of them being a terrible person.  It is simply a symptom of being human.  Whitney Houston is more than her drug addictions. She is more than a golden voice. She is more than a troubled singer. She is a mother, daughter, girlfriend, cousin, best friend, lover, and human being who just completed her human journey. She has left behind a host of fans, but more importantly, loved ones who are forever scarred by the painful loss of her life. Let’s try to remember that when we remember her.