The Boy from Virginia Follows Through (Part 3)

When I last wrote, I had every intention on completing this series of “following through”. However, since I’ve started it, I have been either too busy to dedicate time to this, or have been too lazy to sit in front of the computer. Either way, I haven’t followed through and completed one of the only things I possibly care about, which is writing, and communicating what’s going on with me while I’m living in Scotland. So today, I begin again…

            Since the last time I wrote, which was in April, I have done the following things:

• Planned and performed my one man cabaret, which I names after my blog “The Boy Virginia Made.”
• Finished my classes.
• Started rehearsals for Jerry Springer the Opera to be performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
• Also started rehearsals for Rocket Science, a new musical for the Edinburgh Fringe festival.
• Performed in Elgin, Scotland with my classmates.
• Filmed a short student film called “Slag”
• Been approached by an outside venue here to do my cabaret again in October (Yay!)
• Made some new friends outside of my college.
• Heard about Michael Jackson’s death.
• Saw Thriller Live, a musical tribute show that included ALL of MJ’s hits.
• Celebrated July 4^th (again…no fireworks)
• Been broke.
• Watched Michael Jackson’s memorial service.

 

So as one can see, the past couple months have been a blur of activity. However, it took Michael Jackson’s memorial service to bring me into focus. I actually cried yesterday when they sang “We Are the World”, and “Heal the World.” And Stevie Wonder singing “I Never Dreamed You’d Leave in Summer” will always bring a tear to my eye. I never thought I would see MJ’s pass before I turned 25. But then, seeing his coffin yesterday, as well as the thousands of mourners who were at his home-going, I knew it was the end of an era. This man, who despite his flaws (and everybody who criticizes him, needs to stop acting as if they don’t have any. One’s personal opinions of that man have nothing to do with the music he made and the impact he made on this Earth. Not a lot of people can say that they affected people around the world), still found a way to give his heart to those in need of love. He got me to thinking about myself and the field I’m in. I have now asked myself, in this career, where performances are being forgotten with every new movie, song, or music video, how does one remain relevant? My first answer would’ve been: make a comeback! But after the memorial service, I’ve realized, you will always remain relevant if you live how God wants you to live. By staying true to yourself, and acting with God’s love, you’ll never go out of style.

I have feared, lately, that I might be going out of season. The people who I once used to be friends with are scattered across the US or the globe. I’m disconnected from people I used to talk to all the time. It may seem to many that I’ve forgotten them, but I haven’t. I’ve been working my butt off to ensure that my future will be a secure one and that I will soon –hopefully- change lives through the medium of theater and cinema. In many ways, writing this blog is my comeback and I have every intention of sticking around! And in an effort to stick around, I will finish what I started so long ago… (There are about 2, if not 3 entries left of it and I NEED you all to know what happened…so I can finally put it to rest.)

 

Friday’s Flight Home

 

      Everything was in order for me to come home that Friday. I’d packed enough clothes for 10 days (including extra shoes just in case I went somewhere special.) I made sure to wear the boots my grandmother said she liked when I was home 2 weeks prior…when she was still alive. I was going to arrive in Norfolk, Virginia in style, because not only would my grandmother have wanted it that way, but it would also shock the many family members who hadn’t seen me since I left Virginia at 14 years old.

God had a different plan for me, however.

I’d left my house that morning (around 7 am) realizing that I didn’t have taxi fare and I had to get the cabbie to pull over at a gas station so I could pull out the past 30 pounds I had. Whatever, I thought; at least I’ll make it to the airport on time for my flight. I ate breakfast at Starbucks, boarded my plane…and arrived in London where I had to wait until noon to depart. We left London late…2 hours late meaning when we’d pull into the Philadelphia airport my flight would either be boarding or taking off. I hadn’t made any contingency plan for something like this happening and I was panicked.

Back-story: I was supposed to arrive home at around 7 or 8pm. Once I got home, I was going to be zoomed to the funeral home, where my grandmother’s body was on display and I would also see my family who had been convening together at the funeral home and my grandmother’s house all week. But get this: the funeral parlor was to stay open late that evening because everyone knew I’d be arriving a little late. Of course…someone upstairs was having a laugh.

As soon as the plane touched down in Philadelphia, I knew that this city would burn me as it did when I was living there. It was quite warm for a march evening, but I couldn’t relish in the weather. I had running to do. I hurried off my flight and zipped in and out of people to hurry to customs and grab my luggage which I’d have to recheck anyway. Everything was checked…immigrations knew I was American…cool. Keep running. I get to baggage check and I ask quickly, “Has the flight to Norfolk left yet?”

“It’s boarding now sir. There’s no way you’re going to make it.”

But my grandmother just passed away and I’m supposed to be at her wake. (and I’m wearing the shoes she liked I wanted to say.)

“Well…at least you’ll make the funeral.” (Side note: this bitch didn’t hafta say that!)

“WHAT?” I had two choices. I could’ve acted a fucking fool…or calmly figured out an alternative. Unfortunately, I dejectedly chose the latter. (Had to. I was wearing dress clothes and suspenders. “Acting a fool” clashed heavily with that ensemble.) “Um…ok…so where’s the terminal and how do I get there?”

I was directed to where I could catch a bus to the terminal. A looong bus ride later….I knew I’d missed my flight, but something in me still hoped! I prayed hard and then looked at my cell phone for the time. According to my phone, I still had 10 minutes until the flight would take off, which meant that they could still be boarding.

I raced from the bus, past the food court, and rushed….to an empty gate. I knew the surly, young chick at the counter wouldn’t be at all helpful, but I had to ask.

“Did the flight to Norfolk just leave?” It was a stupid question and I was pissed I’d even asked it.

“Yeah,” she didn’t make eye contact with me…nor did she try to calm me down. She nonchalantly gathered boarding passes and prepared to leave the gate.

“Is there another flight I can get on, then?”

“Go down there.” She turned her head in the direction of a very long line. I would’ve loved to tell her that customer service means greeting people with a smile or trying to keep customers feeling secure, but I decided not to bestow any wisdom upon her as it was evident she didn’t want anyone’s help, nor did she want to be truly helpful. A head turn was as much help as I was gonna get.

I got in line and asked the woman behind the desk what my next step was. She and the woman from the gate must’ve gone through the exact same job training because she pursed her lips and looked at me like missing my plane was my fault. She gave an exasperated sigh. “I can book you for another flight that leaves at 8. (Yes, I thought), but since that flight is overbooked (Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you), you might not get a seat. But I will also book you on a later flight that leaves at 10.”

I didn’t say anything. I accepted my overbooked tickets and went to Sbarros. Pizza, one of my favorite foods, couldn’t even comfort me in my time of need. I was so close to my family, yet so far away. And there wasn’t a word for how I felt. I called Treasure and she was pissed to know what I had gone through. Then I called Rena, my homegirl from Philly.

“Well, you know how Philly is, Tommy,” she said, being a real as ever.

“I know which is why I promise to never book a flight that has a layover here again!” She laughed. I was feeling a little better. My new gate was being announced and I rushed over to the overbooked flight.

After waiting in that damn line…someone else who booked their overbooked ticket after me got a spot on the damn plane…I’d have to wait another 2 hours until 10pm.

I questioned God again…I wanted to know what his purpose was in making me wait to see my grandmother. Why was I being punished? Why Philly!!!! Was Philly taking its revenge on me for leaving and not saying goodbye? I didn’t get it. I called my homie, J, to chat with him. He calmed me down as I headed to another terminal. While I chatted with him, I noticed there were a lot of people waiting her, including some intimidating athletics brothers. Turned out, they were part of a college basketball team from South Carolina. Their plane was supposed to leave at 9. When I looked at the board again, their plane was delayed until 9:45 and five minutes after I saw that change…I noticed that their flight had been cancelled. They were pissed…I was finally happy that my plane was not cancelled in any sense of the word. 10pm came; I briskly walked onto my flight.

Arriving home at 11pm was not what I had in mind for that Friday.  But seeing the smiles of my little brother, and my sister and my mother brightened my heart. I was home with family at least and even if I didn’t see the others until the next day, my core family was all I needed to be happy. I could now join the grievers and not have to do so from afar. We had some familial banter as we went down to the baggage claim and once downstairs, we realized…my baggage hadn’t arrived. None of the clothes I packed were there. But because Momma and Grandmomma didn’t raise no fool, I had to thank God for remembering to pack my funeral suit into my carry-on luggage. I may not have had all my cool clothes (and I ain’t gonna lie, I was kinda salty about it), but at least my grandmother would see me decked out in my best as I paid tribute to her the next day.

 

The Boy from Virginia Follows Through (Part 2)

The day after I turned 24, I was big on making To-Do lists. For some reason, I felt like I was being more productive than just sitting around all day, and it focused me. For example, I planned to go to Urban Male Retreat to get my haircut, my face shaved, and my body massaged. I followed through and did everything I set out to do. I’d even made sure I set aside some money to go to The Corinthian later on that evening. Each day after that, I would make a list of things that needed to get done each day and I had a pretty good system going…until school started again. And now, I sit here unfocused, unkempt (still waiting on my loan check so I can pay my rent and get another great haircut at Urban Male Retreat), and unimpressed with myself.

            Since school has begun, I find myself doing the one thing that I hate: not following through. With the amount of free time on my hands, and trust me, it’s a LOT of free time lately, I should have been able to produce a couple blogs, learn the 2-3 monologues that I set out to learn, as well as come up with a witty, yet totally Tommy-fied concept for my cabaret which I will be performing next month. Instead, I’ve started things and upon returning to finish them, I realize that I can’t be bothered. Why am I so motivated to be ultimately unproductive?

 

Life After Death

           

I think back to the day after I received the news. I woke up and found something black to wear. I figured I would mourn as early as possible, just in case I wasn’t able to return home for the funeral. My heart was heavy and I didn’t feel too hungry. But for someone whose soul felt so utterly aimless, I was on a mission. I needed to inform all of my teachers about what had just occurred. It would seem abrupt, considering I’d been in America two weeks prior to visit my grandmother before she died, but I didn’t care. Life was happening to me and I could only deal with it as best as I knew how: to find a way to get home without drawing too much attention to myself. Yes, for me, my grandmother’s passing was a huge issue, but I didn’t want to inform my classmates who would feel compelled to pummel me with embraces or awkward words of condolences. (I swear if I heard anyone say, “I’m sorry” I would’ve ripped out someone’s voice box. Why be sorry if you didn’t cause the death?)

I sought out the head of the Musical Theatre department and told him what had happened. I also told him not to tell anyone else except those who mattered (other professors). I was also quick to ask how I was to make up for the things I would learn. (For some reason, I had made a terrific to-do list that week. Funny how when bad things occur, the reactionary impulses guide you to be insanely rational…) My mind had never been so clear, and I had never been so adamant about getting through the week without unnecessarily cursing someone out. Thankfully, after inarticulately explaining myself to the head of the department, he seemed to understand where I was coming from.

Next, I needed to call my mother to see if and when I could possible come back to the states. There was no way I was going to miss the funeral!

“I’d kill myself before I’d let that happen,” I said to my mother, matter-of-factly. I wanted to her to know I wasn’t playing games.

            “Don’t talk stupidly, Tom!”

            “It just wouldn’t make sense to me if I missed her funeral. She is the only other woman besides you who believed in me as much as you!” Tears were coming up and my words were coming out garbled.

            “Tom, it’s okay. Let it out.” I hated when she got all Oprah on me. But I couldn’t make a coherent sentence at the time without gasping in between sobs.

            “I’m not sad-gasp-I’m just-gasp-so mad that she died-gasp-on the floor-gasp-alone” My hands were like windshield wipers. Suddenly a rush of anger swept over me as I realized the injustice. It’s just so messed up. She didn’t deserve to go out like that!”  (I was unexpectedly articulate).

            “Well…no…Tom. She’s at peace now. You should’ve seen her face. She was fine. She knew she was leaving and she made peace with God and said, ‘Alright y’all. I’m outta here. I just wish she would’ve told me she was leaving. She caught me off guard too, Tom.”

            Off guard. That’s how life catches us the most. Yes, it makes for some very interesting moments to deal with, but sometime, I swear God is just trying to test and see how much grace one can muster up during the tough times. I cloaked myself with grace, when I really wanted to say a big huge “FUCK YOU” to the world. Here I am in Scotland, I thought, with no one to talk to except my roommate, and no family. (That’s what I get for not being the most open person sociably in my class) But my mask of grace would pay off and eventually become my face, if I wore it long enough. But there were still things to do before the week ended…like book a flight home.

            Luckily, my mom was able to book a flight for me to come home on Friday. It would feel like a year getting from Tuesday to Friday, but I could do it (might have been easier if I had the assistance of a mind-altering substance or two). So I smiled through the pain, danced what I could, learned what I could, sang a very depressing song for my singing teacher (who also understood my low-key mourning) and prayed each night that I could just make it to Friday. I also prayed for protection. Not for me, but for others, because at this point, I would not tolerate inconsiderate babblings. (P.S. when someone really important to you dies, you suddenly realize that complaining about every little thing makes one seem very unappreciative of the life he/she already has)

            I spent the next couple days listening to people spew aimless talk about how badly their bodies were hurting from dancing (puh-leeze, try living with less limbs that you’re supposed to, or having cancer or something legitimate. When you dance, you fucking hurt!), or not getting sufficient rest the night before among other irrelevant items. I now think about the things I have control over and the things I don’t. A deteriorating body, I can’t fix. A good night’s sleep? I’ll use Nyquil or Tylenol PM.

            But that week, I used the salt of my tears to get me to sleep. The more I wept, the more exhausted I was. Eventually, a couple friends noticed the change and I had to tell them what happened. I had to tell my scene partner I would be gone for a week. I had to tell my classmate and new good friend that I would be leaving soon, but “thanks for not being overly dramatic” (He’d noticed a facebook status of mine). Lastly, I told my friend, the beautiful pianist, that I was leaving and she generously helped me prepare the song that I would eventually sing at my grandmother’s funeral that coming Saturday.

I’d done everything I’d set out to do that week, talked to the appropriate people, avoided the ones who didn’t matter, cried and questioned God (the thing you’re not supposed to do). Yes, I’d done everything except go home. Then Friday came….

 

The Boy from Virginia Follows Through (Part 1)

Without the appropriate words. That is the state I’ve been in for the past couple weeks. But an author friend of mine told me that all I had to do was start writing and the right words would just come. I trust that as I type this tonight, that the words I’ve been unable to think of will manifest themselves…so here goes:

Today is my birthday and the only thing on my mind is my grandmother’s death. A month ago (today), she decided to leave this earth and leave her family in emotional turmoil. I can’t believe that I have survived this month without her being in my life, but I have no choice. I have the rest of my life to live without her as well. Why did her death hit me so damn hard? This is the question I’ve asked myself multiple times until I realized the answer. The reason I no longer feel the same is because I lost someone I truly loved.  I get it now. It also makes sense to me why my soul feels like it’s been sucked away. It makes sense to me that I feel alone sometimes with no one to talk to. But it also makes sense why at times I feel like I don’t want to do anything. A lot of what I did in my life was to make my mother and my grandmother proud of me. If I were to become successful, I wanted both of them to be present to say “Tom, you made the family name something special.” Now, Nellie May Jones will never be able to say those words to me…and I will grieve forever.

 

The News

 

I was rushing to catch the 75 (the bus I normally take to and from school) and trying to dial my mother’s number at the same time. There was some important news I needed to relay to her about my best friend from high school, Whitney. You see, after having been so busy with school this term, I’ve not had much time to talk to any of my friends and I discovered (through the lovely medium of Facebook) that Whitney’s mother had suffered a stroke. Aghast, I hurriedly called my mother to tell her to put her mom in prayer. But as soon as my mother picked up the phone, I never got a chance to tell her the news.

“Ma,” I greeted as I stepped onto the bus fishing for my bus pass. “I just wanted to know if…”

“Tom, I got some bad news.” My mother’s voice sounded serious. (But then again, why wouldn’t she sound that way if she had bad news to tell me?) I thought that she was going to say Sprint had cut off my phone (which actually would’ve been great news) but what she did say taught me to never have expectations: “You’re grandmother is dead.”

There was a slight pause as I put my bus pass away and climbed the steps to the upper level. Keeping my voice to a minimum, I exhaled, not really knowing what to say. As I opened my mouth to ask ‘What?’ (as if I didn’t hear the news the first time), my mother gave me even more disturbing news.

“She died this morning. They found her in her room on the floor.”

“The floor?” I was baffled (and strangely pissed off). “Was anybody there with her?” Deep in my heart, I already knew that the answer would be no, because had someone been home, she would’ve died in a hospital or in her bed, not the fucking floor.

“No,” my mother confirmed. I was fuming. My grandfather (the 2^nd husband), who had a history of leaving my grandmother alone, knowing how ill she was, was not there when she died. How could he not be there to help out his wife? The woman who he was married to all these years? I didn’t understand. “For better or worse,” right? That’s what you pledge when you get married. For better or worse….not for better or when-you’re-not-too-much-of-a-burden-to-me.

“Why wasn’t he there?” I asked, still flummoxed that my grandmama was gone, and yet trying to stay as calm as possible.

“I DON’T KNOW, TOM,” my mother screamed. She breathed and then told me that she was on her way to view the body, which was still on the floor. Alone. That’s not how my grandmother deserved to die. Especially not on the floor of her home. I would’ve been more at peace if she’d slipped away in her sleep, but to have died crumpled and in ruins was unfair.

I thought this as I hung up with my mother and called my homegirl, Kia. I informed her of what had happened and told her how surprised I was that I wasn’t crying. The bus stopped, but my mind kept running. I got off the bus, and proceeded to walk home. If memory serves me correctly, I called my mother a second time. She didn’t answer the phone. So I did something crazy: I dialed my grandmother’s number. I guess I figured I call the house one last time. Maybe I half expected to hear her voice. The last time I spoke to her was two days before that and she was so out of breath that I hurried her off the phone just so she wouldn’t expell too much energy.

My grandfather answered the phone. I listened for sadness in his voice, some sort of sorrowful tone. Nothing. He answered the phone as if nothing had happened…as if my grandmother wasn’t lying dead on the floor of her bedroom. Suspicious? Hell yes, I was. (and I’m still waiting on the tears, to be honest.)

 He eventually passed the phone to my mother (who, I discovered later, had fainted upon seeing her mother’s body). She informed me that the undertakers (who were close with our family) would be there to pick up her body soon.

“She’s at peace, baby. It’s all over her face.” My mom sounded eerily calm. It almost sounded as if she was smiling through the phone. Either she was smiling or convicing herself that everything would be alright. Whatever it was, it wasn’t working for me.  I felt like someone had sucked something away from me and I couldn’t breathe. (It was at this time I thanked God for giving me the skills to act and perform because I was doing a damn good job pretending I had my shit together).

“Alright, Ma.” I could feel my lower lip start quivering, which meant that blurry vision would soon follow.  “Give me a call when everything is worked out over there. Or I’ll call you.”

“Alright, baby.” I listened to the noise going on behind her. It seemed like a lot of people were at my grandmother’s house. No one sounded like they were crying. But I knew if I didn’t hang up soon…

“It’s gonna be alright, baby. She’s fine.”

“Ok.” I hung up. I still had another block to go and I didn’t think my tears would wait until I got in the door. So I tried to hurry along the street, but they came and I sniffled and I fought the tears as much as I could. Once I got in the door, and began untying my shoes, I cried every tear I hadn’t cried before. I was crumpled on the floor with one shoe off, my head in my hands and my heart in ruins. I couldn’t believe it…the floor is what my grandmother and I had in common.

The rest of the night, I sat in front of the TV. I didn’t move…I couldn’t. But my stomach began to growl and so I peeled my weary body off the leather couch (it was my first day of choreography project at my school which meant I’d just danced for 4 straight hours), and sulked into the kitchen to make something to eat then it was off to bed.

There was one final call to my mother, but I’m not sure what the conversation was about. I think I asked her if I needed to do anything, to which she told me I’d done enough already. Apparently, I‘d forgotten that when I was 16, I typed my grandmother’s obituary, as well as what she wanted for her funeral (casket color, songs sung, etc.). Once my mother reminded me, I remembered, as plain as day, everything she wanted. My mother hung up and began the process of preparing for her mother’s funeral.

That night, as I said a tear-filled prayer, I began to wonder if my grandmother was sitting next to God. I wondered if she could see her family in their various emotional states. But of most of all I wondered (now that she was with the All-Knowing) if she knew everything that was about to unfold. Would she know my future? Would she be an angel? Would she know how much she affected the lives of others around her?

 

As I turn 24 today, I still wonder these things. But I wonder if she’s mad at me for not finishing her chronicles. Many would say “no”, but I feel I didn’t follow through. So I have a lot of catching up to do. Stay tuned…a lot of people wanted to know what I’ve been up to this past month…trust me, you’re going to find out!

 

The Boy from Virginia Remembers (Part 2)

I find that since I’ve begun this New Year, I’ve done way more reflecting than I’ve ever done. Maybe it has to do with the promise I made to my grandmother, or maybe it has to do with the fact that since I’ve been in Scotland, I’m around nothing that s truly familiar to me. Yes, they have fast food chains galore (McDonalds, Subway, KFC and Pizza Hut) and even an H&M, but recipes and fashion sense don’t transfer as well as one would imagine. What I’ve concluded, however, is that experiences and emotions can never be lost in translation. Therefore, I will continue to pay tribute to the woman who has influenced me her whole life: Nellie Jones, my grandmother.

Last week, I started at the beginning of my grandmother’s life. Now I want to share with you the moment she helped to bring another person into this world: me.

            It was April of 1985 and I guess I’d fooled my mother the day before, making her think I was ready to show my face to the world. But it wasn’t until the second of April that I decided to make my debut.

            “It was a hard birth, “ my mother recalls. “I was in labor for 18 hours with you. I’d expected you to come in March, but you just didn’t want to leave” (Maybe I was just waiting for the right time. What if March just wasn’t my month? Or can babies be fashionably one week late?) But my mother told me an interesting tale of a significant someone who did want to leave…during my birth: “Your father told me that he needed to go home and put the lights on.”

            In his absence, fear, and lack of concern for his wife, my grandmother (a nurse at the time) dutifully rushed to her daughter’s side. She got off work at five o’clock and waited for me to take the stage in the delivery room and scream my very first note of life. She didn’t wait patiently, but instead was an active participant in the delivery. My mother says, “You were a hard birth, Tom. And your grandmama kept telling me to “push push push push push” and I was like ‘YOU PUSH!!! This mess hurts!’”

I remember my grandmother saying to me, “Baby, I never pushed so hard in my life. I kept telling your Momma to ‘PUSH Push push push push!’ (She still gets winded when she tells this story) I was sweating and ooooo I was tired. I needed a drink after that. Shoot…I never pushed so much in my life. ”

            I arrived at 10:29pm. No sooner was I born did my grandmother take me into her arms and cradle me, making her the very first family member to touch me at all. Our bond has been tight ever since. (My mom had to ask her mother, “Um…can I hold my child please?”) My grandmother left to go home not too long after, but it wasn’t until 2 am in the morning that my father decided to return to the hospital. I guess turning the lights on was difficult. (Turns out he was actually turning on someone else, which eventually turned my mother’s love off of him)

            The story goes that for 19 days after, my mother was parylyzed in the hospital due to the epidural she took while giving birth. This meant that I spent my first 19 days getting to know my grandmother. I apparently would cry from the moment she left for work until the moment she came home. And when I was able to walk, I knew what time she would be home because I was at the door (in my walker, mind you) waiting for her.

            There was a time when waiting for her was scary for me though. When I was six, she took my cousin and I on a trip to Disney World. Talk about first times! I’d never been south of Virginia before and to do so, with one of the coolest women in the world, was more than I could’ve asked for! The waiting occurred when we’d decided to get on a sensible ride that promoted aviation (I think we were in Tomorrowland, or something). Once we’d gone through the long line to actually get on the ride, I noticed that the floor was moving. So basically the gist was that we had to run and climb into our seat in this moving aero-car vehicle before it went through a door leading to the land of flying.

My cousin and I hurried into the car, but it took my grandmother a little longer to get to us. It was then that I became aware of my grandmother’s age. Getting older, from then on, would mean not being able to move as fast as you once could. My grandmother made it into the moving car seconds before we went through the door to whereevers-ville. That moment would be forever etched in my mind as “Grandmama’s Indiana Jones moment.”

Miss Jones (as every family member so lovingly calls her), had other moments of bravery as well. She was courageous enough to teeter about every Sunday in 3-5 inch heels. Her suits were always dignified and her hats were some of the most beautiful architecture pieces anyone would wear. She was very stately and the epitome of strength and beauty. It made me proud to see her on Sunday’s because she looked rich, aristocratic, and queenly. Those images of my grandmother in her Sunday best are the best memories. But none of them make me laugh as much as the following instant:

“ Once,” she told me, as she was talking about the return of bellbottoms to the fashion scene, “I decided I was going to put on a pair of my old bellbottoms. I thought I was hot shit. I mean, I had on my platforms and my favorite bellbottoms and so I went for a walk. Well, I was heading across the street. I forgot where I was going, but there was no need to remember it because I never made it there. While I was walking, my platform heel got caught in my bellbottoms and I tripped and fell right in the middle of the street. Talk about embarassin’! Babay, I skinned my knee and my elbow. Once I got up, I trotted right back home and put those clothes away. I’m too old for those young girl looks.”

Truth is, she never looked like she aged to me. How could I think she was old when her favorite song was “My Baby Daddy?” When it came on, she sometimes danced as much as me. I once taught her how to do the Bankhead Bounce (back when that was the dance of choice) and she picked it up easy. What wasn’t easy for her, I’m sure, was being at her father’s funeral.

It was August of 1990. It was hot outside, but the emotions inside the church were in the negative degrees. All I remember was constantly looking to my grandmother and her siblings to see if they were crying. (I figured that every funeral was going to have people falling to their knees, losing their minds, like in the TV shows and movies I’d seen) I was waiting for the wailing to begin, but it never happened. That’s because the look on my grandmother’s face was terse. Her jaw looked as if it were clinched so hard she could’ve drawn blood. The only tear that escaped her eye trickled down her right cheek and seemed to hang there (as if falling completely from her face would give my great-grandfather too much power). He was dead, and though I’m sure all the children were sad about it, they kept it all inside, with the rest of their pent-up anger. I on the other hand, thought the man deserved some sort of proper sympathy, so once the funeral was over, I wailed (which made my grandmother and my mother say, “Aww…bless his heart”). They were the first smiles I’d seen that day.

I remember a lot of my grandmother’s smiling moments. One of her best moments was when I spent a summer living with her. I was working as a Librarian’s assistant for the Norfolk Public Library and keeping my grandmother company as well. It was during this time that my grandmother would make me lunch (usually a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a soda). She’d put it in a brown bag and have it waiting in the fridge for me to grab before I left in the morning. There was a morning, however, when my grab bag had been seized by another..

“Baby,” my grandmother started. I heard the smile in her voice though I knew she was not really pleased. “Your cousin came in here last night and must’ve gotten the idea that your food was his. (He had the munchies…that was the truth of the matter)     He ate your lunch. That’s why I’m up making you a new one.” It was a situation that would only happen in my grandmother’s house. I laughed at it’s absurdity, and realized that no matter what, my grandmother was still taking care of me. At 7 am, here she was spreading mayo on white bread and putting a Sprite in my bag. She had never given up her duty of grandmotherhood, nor of being a complete matriarch for the entire family. One year we honored her with a surprise.

It was either Christmas of 1997 or 1998, but my grandmother decided to have a Christmas program for the family. It was a night of singing, eating, and children reciting Christmas poems. We’d never done it before so it took a lot of planning and my grandmother asked me to help her. A project? Where I could be creative? Hell yeah, I was on board! Little did she know that my mother and my uncles were planning to give my grandmother a plaque that would celebrate her as a key figure in our family. The program went off with no problems, it was a pure success, and so was the surprise. My grandmother teared up and so did my mother (who presented the mauve plaque to her). The moment was more than Kodak…it was priceless.

 

As I finish this particular instalment in the Chronicles of Nellie, I’ve received news that she is back in the hospital making me realize that I best get cracking on part 3 of her life story. Her blood count is low and she’s going to continue fighting with the strength she has left. Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the last of my special memories…

 

The Boy Virginia Made Remembers (Part 1)

I entered into 2009 without any slogans or little mantras (where the last word rhymed with the number nine). Instead, I was asking the question, how dare any of us think our problems are more important than anyone else’s? I skimmed the many statuses written by my facebooking peers upon crossing the threshold into the new year and realized that everyone was trying to forget the “bad things” that happened to them. In a world full of homeless people, children born into unfortunate situations, and a dwindling economy, no one’s problems, including my own, seem that bad.

At different points in our lives, things will go wrong, and the best thing to do is accept that they’re happening. The solution: lift yourself out of the pit, and find some lighted area, even if there’s only a sliver of sunshine twinkling through a sky of clouds. You see, while many people are choosing to forget their past, I choose to remember as much of it as I can because everything that influenced who I am right now, came from my experiences pre-January 1, 2009. So I will share one of my recent remembrances with you now.

            For some years now, I have been wondering what my response would be to the “bad” news that was sure to come. Would I drop my phone and stare blankly into space, while clutching my chest as if the oxygen had left my lungs? Would my tears begin immediately, prompting my classmates (who I often tell never to touch me) to try and come comfort me? Would I be so dramatic as to fall to my knees and start wailing uncontrollably? Or… would I be as calm as I had been when my mother called me on New Year’s Eve to say, “Tom, you’re grandmother is dying. The doctors told gave us the news on Monday.”

“Well,” I told my mom, “that explains the reason I was unable to sleep on Monday and Tuesday of last week.” I guess even over here, my spirit is still connected to my family. “I figured something was wrong. (I sighed.) So I guess I’d better get started on the assignment Grandmamma gave me so many years ago.”

My mother was curious. “And what project was that, baby?”

I told her how so many years ago, my grandmother told me that she loved the way I write, and requested that before she died I’d pen a literary piece about her. Having been to a lot of funerals in her lifetime, my grandmother told me “I’d rather hear the good things people have to say about me now as opposed to when I’m dead, because when I’m dead I won’t be able to appreciate it.” Though it’s been years since she said that to me, I finally think I’m ready to begin the task she gave me. Besides, according to the doctors, her time is limited, so I must start now. She just went home two days ago after having congestive heart failure on Christmas Day. “If she has another one, the doctors have been told not to resuscitate her.”

Shit! Information like that should’ve been enough to make me crumple to the floor in ruins, but for the first time, I understand why she wants it that way. Having been on dialysis for a number of years and having been recently diagnosed with bone cancer (which has only succeeded in making her lose her beauty, her health, and her ability to be independent), she is choosing to stop the suffering. I get it. Finally! At least I don’t have to worry about feeling as if I never told her how much I love her. Growing up, I was probably her only grandson to hug and kiss her, without fail, every time I saw her. To this day I still do. The only difference is I’m not little anymore; she is. And she continues to waste away as the cancer consumes her body. But my philosophy is that she won’t be forgotten if I remember her now, flaws and all. If you would like to, I want you all to meet the woman I have known as my grandmother, Nellie Jones…as I remember her:

The story I remember (in it’s fragmented pieces) goes like this: My grandmother was born Nellie Mae Gilliam on October 16 1943. I remembered that year because it was after World War II was ended. She was instantly interesting to me because she lived through the things I studied in school. But the most intriguing part of her story begins at 14, when she ran away from home, thus catapulting her into a tough world where being a black woman was neither easy nor desirable.

            “My father was a mean man, and he was an alcoholic. But he was a good father.” I’ll always remember my grandmother saying that to me. I’d known my great grandfather for 5 years before he died in 1990 and I could understand the alcoholic part (as he slurred his speech constantly), but mean? That was new information to me. Apparently, he used to physically abuse my great grandmother (the bullshit women put up with back in the day was appalling) and when she wasn’t enough of a punching bag, he started on the children, 5 in all.

            At 14, my grandmother and her older sister, my Aunt Martha, left home to start a life for themselves, leaving their youngest sister behind. I don’t know much about her 3 brothers and where they were at the time, but it’s quite clear that these women were clearly the more ambitious of the Gilliam bunch. Not too long after, my grandmother met my grandfather and had her first child (my uncle), then her second (my mother-the next year) and then her third (my uncle-the year after that). I’m unsure as to how long she stayed with my grandfather, as well as the reason they decided to divorce, but I’m sure it had something to do with being too young.

            Alone, my grandmother had to find ways to survive, if not for herself, for her three children. I recall a story she told me about being in Chicago.

            “Baby, it was cold. The snow seemed like it wasn’t gonna stop no time soon. And the first time I ever saw a rat was in Chicago. Those things were so big, they looked like cats. But Chicago was the first time I ever caught the subway. I remember one time I was on the subway and I had my babies with me and all I wanted was enough money to get my babies some milk. So I’m on the subway, cold and shivering and this man across from me sees me sitting there trying to keep my babies warm and he gave me a dollar and some change (a big deal back in the 50s) and I just had to say ‘Thank You, sir.’ I must’ve looked pitiful sitting there like that, but my babies were gonna eat that night, at least.”

            Knowing that my grandmother lived through my favorite time period, the Civil Rights years, I’d asked her multiple times if she ever marched or did sit-ins or if anyone in our family was a Black Panther. She told me that she never marched and that back then the people were kinda scared of the Black Panthers because they carried guns. I was disspointed. This would mean that no one in my family was bold enough to try and make a difference. Were they complacent? Did they not want change? What the hell? Then I discovered that not all forms of change are broadcast in black and white.

One day, when my mother was cleaning my grandmother’s kitchen floor on her hands and knees, my grandmother needed to know: “Why don’t you use the mop? Even I don’t get on my hands and knees to scrub my floor.” I giggled and she went on to tell me one of the best stories I’ve ever heard from her lips.

            “When I was younger, I used to go in and clean people’s houses. I was basically a maid. Well one of the white lady’s houses I cleaned was big. So I started cleaning it and when I got to the kitchen, I found her mop and I used it to clean the floor. When she got home, she was hot with me. Talking about ‘why is my mop wet?’ I told her I used it to mop the floor. Then she said ‘In my house, you get down on your hands and knees and scrub my floors.’ I looked at her and the wet mop she was holding, and said ‘well then I suggest you do it yourself or find someone else that will get on their hands and knees, because I don’t even do that in my own house. And I went home. And I never worked for her again.”

            Sometimes, smaller, unrecorded moments of rebellion like that mean a lot more to me than marches on Washington or Freedom Rides. And that’s only a snippet of the fire my grandmother had inside of her….

 

My Journey To Happiness

Friday will end my first term here at the academy. My second one will begin January 12^th. I am not returning to America during the interval, but instead looking for work and a reason to rest because, dammit, a brother is tired!

I am typing right now with the most mucous throat I’ve ever had while singing. Deep in my heart I feel that someone should at least say, “Oh Tommy, your voice sounds a mess; let’s allow you rest for a while.” Instead, I have been plowing away and been given slight remedies to rectify the gravel-type sound that ha plagued my voice for the past week. At the present moment I am uncomfortable. I cannot believe that I went onstage last night, sang “This Christmas” and then segued into Stevie Wonder’s “I Wish” (a song that is in no shape way or form made for me to sing). I’m having mini melt-downs every single morning when I wake up because I have to figure out if my voice is going to  come back clear, or if I’ll continue sounding like someone is crushing rocks in my larynx. Yes, I understand that your worst day should always be your best day, but this has never happened to me before and I’m not sure if I’m handling the situation properly. I feel awful and I really wish I didn’t have to perform while awful. But a former boss of mine said it best: smile through the pain! So I will.

My classmates and I get along very well. This week, though I love many of them, they are stressing me out with their constant check-ups. I understand that we all want to care about and for one another, but sometimes, alone time (along with QUIET time) is more valuable than any other time one would need. Most people are simply afraid to be alone with themselves for too long, and I notice that in many of my classmates. It’s as if many of us do not want to just sit mull over who we are and how to make ourselves better. I hope we al find ways to “get better” for our next term Why is getting to know ourselves such a big fear? Is it that we are afraid to try and conquer ourselves, or have we given up on progress?

I have been doing a lot of thinking about home lately and the things that are happening there (that I’m not apart of). My family is still dysfunctional (as most REAL families are). My grandmother is now in a nursing home, and her sanity is going. There is a discussion concerning my oldest uncle right now where they are considering amputating his leg because of his diabetes. A younger uncle who has been recently released from prison is not doing a good job at reinstating himself in the family. Lastly, my mother (the rock of a woman she is) still manages to support me while I’m here, keep me updated on the family, and raise my little brother and sister in the best way she knows how. And then there’s the whole Obama brilliance going on right now which, to be honest, doesn’t have much of an effect on me over here. I kind of wish I was home to participate in a lot of the goings-on, but that would be stress on top of stress and here, I am totally happy; frustrated at times with myself and sometimes others, but mostly happy.

And here is the crux of what has been going on with me today. I have been thinking about my happiness too much since I’ve been here. What constitutes happiness? How do I maintain it? Am I lying to myself when I say that I’ve found it? Or am I just not willing to accept the truth: that I have actually found it?

All my life I feel as if I’ve worked hard, (yes, I’ve had my lazy moments but who hasn’t?), but when I was at home, I was slowly beginning to condition myself to the fact that excelling too much was a bad thing. So I would only push myself to an extent that wasn’t intimidating to others. I reflect on moments from middle school when I would get an A on an assignment, but to be cool and accepted, I would “help” someone with their math quiz or something. That was my way of giving back to the community because it would keep people from calling me names or looking down on me. Then I got older and realized that people still have negative shit to say about you regardless of your intellect or lack of it. So I began to thrust myself into my work even more. And it was then that I realized my race to discover happiness was more about me than anybody else. Therefore I needed to take the thought of others out of the equation and push myself. But of course self, motivation only goes so far. So I turned to the women in my life who have always gotten me through. And they have been more than supportive. But what of the men in my life? How were they helping me, if even?

Well, my father was the example of a life wasted (in my eyes he had the potential to be so much more than he became) therefore I used him as an example of what not to be. But I did take away certain aspects from him, like his voice, his looks, and his loveable outgoing spirit. My uncles, though encouraging, weren’t the greatest of role models either, and at a young age, I realized I didn’t want to be like them, so I didn’t try. My maternal grandfather, though far away always showed me love and I took that idea with me everywhere I traveled. But the most effective men in my life were those who believed in me and weren’t afraid of helping me go further.

In high school, I was sent to a guidance counsellor when I had thoughts of suicide and he and I forged a friendship that I still value to this day. He was more of a father to me than anyone had ever been in my life and he pushed me to be myself in all aspects of my life. To this day that’s what I’ve worked hard to do. The next person I met was an accidental friend who ended up becoming almost a brother/ almost a soul mate. I’ve never had a male friend who wasn’t afraid of saying “Go for it!” and he did so without the negative, contradictory, behind-the-back commentary for which many are known. I haven’t allowed that friendship to die. Lastly, I was introduced to a professor in my last year who exemplified triumph to me. His wisdom about life was (and still is) a treasure that I appreciate. And if anyone is responsible for getting me to this place I’m in (in my life), it is him (combined with the efforts of the women, of course).

After looking back on these people, who I miss and love and appreciate, I evaluate my happiness. It wasn’t my own initially. The funny thing is…in a way, my happiness doesn’t belong to me. It kinda belongs to everyone who helped me get to where I am. And I don’t mind sharing it with the ones who’ve always believed in me and helped me. Most of them know exactly who they are because I always tell them that I love them. For those who don’t know…trust me…when I want you to know, you will.

 

The Boy Virginia Made…in SCOTLAND!

For me to start this blog with anything except an apology would be unacceptable. I should never leave you all without an update. Please forgive me. So here goes:

 

            For anyone to be able to map out where he’s headed next, he has to figure out where he’s been, or more importantly, how he got there. I speand a lot of my days here wondering…how in the hell did I end up all the way in Scotland? I mean, it wasn’t initially part of my life plan. I was supposed to move to Chicago, embrace the cold, and inundate myself with artistic, theatrical, and musical knowledge. But when the new year began, I guess God had a new plan for me. I auditioned for The Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama on a whim back in January. I was looking for a program in classical text but that had a great dance program (because as we all know, I like to cut a rug every now and again). But then, I was asked to sing, and then I was asked to participate in a dance call, and the rest is history.

           The summer brought about some obstacles, as I had to take another class and work to get money to travel over here, but after everything (including two weeks of homelessness), I made it over here.

            It took 3 cities (New York, Dublin, London), and 10 hours before I finally arrived in Glasgow, my new home. After touching down onto Scottish soil, I realized that a lot of my emotions had shifted during flight. The apprehension and fear that I had about leaving America quickly dissolved like sugar in warm tea. I was afraid that I wouldn’t understand the accents over here; that I would walk up to someone, ask for directions, and end up somewhere entirely in a different part of the city. I was afraid that I wouldn’t click with my roommate, a person who I’d only spoken to online like 2 weeks before coming into town. But what I was truly and deathly afraid of was that I wouldn’t see my grandmother again. Before I’d left home, she was in the hospital and she wasn’t in the best shape. (I’ve since learned that she only left the hospital about 2-3 days ago to go into a nursing home.)

            As I dragged myself and my luggage across the airport, I eagerly awaited my roommate. Would he be chill? Would I have enough closet space at home? Would I understand him? More importantly, would I be able to pay him with the loan money I would soon receive? The answer to all the above questions: YES!

            After giving me a brief tour of the house, I learned that my roomie was a flight attendant and would be gone most of the time. And since I would be in class from about 9 am until 8 pm most nights, I figured, “that’s fine.” So begans Day 1 of my first 7 weeks here in Glasgow.

           In brief, I met all of my classmates the next day and realized we were a big melting pot of a Musical Theatre program. With people hailing from Brazil, Canada, St. Louis, Boston, California, Singapore, China, London, and Scotland, I figured I was in for quite an experience! The first week was basically an orientation (but no overnights or dance parties.) The final day of the week, was our first performance class. I sang “Family” from Dreamgirls (which was my audition song, and also the thing that keeps me grounded). That was the day I learned that everyone in our class could saaaaaaaaaang. No one was under par and it felt great to finally be a part of something where everyone was doing the same thing. We’d all wanted to be here! This was our dream! And we’re definitely living it to the fullest….or are we? (more on that later)

            Since that first Friday, we’ve started spending our Friday evenings at a local Pub around the corner from the school called Trader Joes; a sort of tradition. But weekends are for homework and for doing as we please….therefore I sleep, or venture into town and window shop.

            I’m quite fascinated by everything I’ve gone through in the past 7 weeks (it really is too much to try to put into a blog, but just know that it is a lot).  But just so you all know what I’m doing academically, I will lay it out right now:

 

I have Body Conditioning on Mondays, rehearsals Monday-Thursday from 2-6 (which includes rehearsals for our Christmas concert, new musical workshops, or an acting project), Jazz dance on Tuesdays as well as Acting class, Voice class on Thursdays, and Ballet on Friday as well as performance class. Oh, and as of this past Thursday, I teach Hip-Hop (which is called Street Dancing here). This is my life now…and I love it!

Now, I will end this blog here. Again, I apologize for how bland it is, but when I only get about an hour a day to sit in front of a computer, I need to relay all the important bits of info without lush vocabulary and picture-painting. I promise that I will be more detailed in a future blog, but I felt this one was long overdue. I’m off to eat lunch and then rehearse! Thank you for reading (to those of you who got this far)

 

An American Guy in Scotland

On my first Thursday in Glasgow, I found myself sitting in a position that I did particularly care for: alone, in a restaurant (a Pizza Hut, mind you) watching the rain. This is such a typical vision of what a “romantic” American is to look like in Europe, I thought. But as I continued to sit among the stoic, oddly thin people around me, I couldn’t help but feel truly atypical. For one thing, here I am; a Black man from the south, who lived in the northern states for the latter half of my life thus far. And now here I am living across the Atlantic Ocean, in a country where knowledge of American history doesn’t seem to go past 1776. It really is quite fascinating! All the while, as I was sitting waiting for my Mediterranean Pizza, and breaded garlic mushrooms to arrive, I couldn’t help but think of her. Did she miss me? More importantly, did she even realize I was gone?

            You see, Virginia cried when I left. Though she kept her sunny demeanour, tears managed to fall anyway. It was as if she were trying to keep calm under the pressure. And I appreciated it. Philadelphia, however, was a whole different story entirely.

            My relationship with Philadelphia was one of the most tumultuous experiences I had to endure. There were many days where she was just a plain bitch to me. She’d scream sirens in my ear or profess bloody murder on every street corner. Most days I hated to even walk down streets with her because I felt she was just vile and uncouth, and more importantly, disrespectful. She just didn’t give a fuck. I guess that’s why she was such a hood-rat to me. My little Philly had no concept of dreams. It seemed like she, as well as her children, couldn’t see beyond their front stoops and that’s where we clashed. She never desired to challenge herself, but she sought out fights whenever she could find them. To be honest, I knew from the start that Philly and I would be a temporary match.  I got the impression that she did not feel the same way. She thought I would be a part of her forever. I guess this is why she never anticipated my departure.

            The night before I decided to leave Philly behind, I tried to gracefully end our relationship at the restaurant that started it all: Ms. Tootsies. I wanted to tell her goodbye in a nice respectable way (over tilapia, macaroni and cheese, and collard greens). When I got to the restaurant, I was informed that their credit card machine didn’t work. Okay. Plan B.

            I decided to go across the street to Govinda’s, a nice vegan place that Philly introduced to me a while back so that we could get a vegetarian chicken cheese steak and a piece of cheesecake. My credit card would not work at that spot. Alright. Can someone say “sabotage?”

It was then I noticed that Philly was being difficult. She knew what I was trying to do and was intentionally trying to prevent me from going. So I stomped across her mean streets to Five Guys and purchased a burger and a Sprite. If Philly wasn’t going to be elegant about this, neither would I. Needless to say, the next day Philly was all smiles and sunshine (denial at it’s best) and I was trying with all my might not to make my exit more emotional than it had become.

            I got home to Virginia feeling happy, but simultaneously like I’d left something undone. I never got a chance to say my final goodbyes to the city I’d fallen in love with. You see, for me, the crux of love is in the arguing. Philly and I had many arguments, but somewhere deep inside, that’s where my love for her was. I wanted her to be better. I wanted her to dream and to do tremendous things. She didn’t share in my beliefs, and that’s why I, reluctantly, had to move on. Her negativity was becoming a deadly virus and if I would’ve stayed with her, well…we all know what the result would’ve been.

My eventual consensus was that maybe Philadelphia wasn’t supposed to be my girlfriend, but instead my homegirl: someone who, despite everything, pushed me be greater than I was. Maybe, she was just supposed to be my example of what not to be. Whatever she did…I thank her for getting me to this new chapter in my life.

 

            Now, after leaving my city behind and witnessing this new one which is prone to crying at inopportune moments, speaking garbled speech that I can’t understand, and introducing me to foods that would make American’s gasp, I can’t help but think of the girl I left behind. She was the only long-term relationship I’ve ever truly had. And it felt a bit weird sitting at a table alone, eating odd-tasting pizza (it’s not like American pizza) and listening to Usher croon “Burn.” Should I let my wick of love burn out for the place that developed me so much? Or will I soon be the one precipitating my feelings all over foreign streets?

            As I think this, a familiar piano melody trickles into my head from the PA system in the restaurant. It’s John Legend’s “Ordinary People.” I smile to myself because the song is appropriate. But then I wonder why is it that, no matter how ordinary you feel, we can’t seem to embrace the extraordinary elements in our lives? Could it just be that I’m an extraordinary person…who “still doesn’t know which way to go?” And is that a bad thing?

            As I got up to pay my bill, I thought about love briefly (as it is now my least of worries in this new continent). I thought of the loves I’d left behind (including Treasure  and other members of my Live 5) and the idea of it completely. For some reason, I believe my love will be more focused here. It will be my love of Theater that will help me endure. And those other twenty-four faces I met on the first day of class…well…I guess eventually I will develop a love for them as well.

 

            Before I close, I have some unfinished business: “Philadelphia…I loved you when we first laid eyes on one another, but please understand that my life deserved something more, which you could not give to me. If it was meant for us, then the growth we will achieve apart will eventually bring us back together. Until then, goodbye.” Class is now in session.

 

The Grandmama Blues

Wednesday evening, I received a phone call from my mother saying that my grandmother, who has been on dialysis for the past 6 years and who was just diagnosed with bone cancer last week, had been admitted to the hospital and was intensive care on a ventilator machine. Congestive heart failure prevented her doctors from removing the excess fluid that was building up in her lungs. My mind instantly flashed back to around 1996 when my aunt (my grandmother’s sister) had an aneurism and died. She, too, was on a respiratory machine, but because she was completely brain dead, the family decided to pull the plug. I, along with my family members of all ages, watched my aunt breath the last breath she would ever take. It was the first time I saw anyone die.
            Growing up, and having been to many funerals (I sang at many of them), I was used to death. My family was even close friends with the local mortician. Therefore, I knew the circle of life and respected it. Occasionally I’d have the existential thoughts about life after death and how I would die (I wanted to go in my sleep), but the more I aged, the more I wised up to the fact that you cannot prepare for a death. No matter how much time you put into making wills, or saving money for a funeral, you still cannot plan the day that it will happen…and that is probably the idea of which I’m most fearful. This is what I think about with I think of my grandmother.
            Two years ago, when I thought my grandmother was truly gone, I cried for days. I would start my sentences as calm as a sunny day and they’d end in hurricane tears. I couldn’t fathom losing someone so close to me; someone who was a part of me, even. (At my birth, it was my grandmother who first held me because my mother was exhausted and my dad was committing adultery somewhere) My request then was that she at least live until I graduated since I am her first and only grandchild to do so.
            Graduation has come and gone, and she’s still alive, but no longer kicking. Her legs are the size of my arm (which is mighty skinny) and her skin goes in and out of color due to dialysis (which, for those of you who do not know, is like having your blood cleaned and then recycled back into your body). Even her beautiful white teeth have fallen out. At 63 years old this woman who was supposed to age gracefully, no longer looks like herself. If this woman no longer recognizes herself as the woman she once was (and if I’m also having a tough time seeing her as the same grandmamma I grew up with), then why should I continue to look at life through familiar eyes? Everything is so different.
            Times have changed and will continue to do so. But is time moving too fast now? There used to be a time where people could at least take time out to enjoy life before death made a reservation. But now, he’s showing up unannounced at the most inconvenient times. With graduate school in Scotland easing its way around the corner, I can’t help but turn my attention to my grandmother’s health. I don’t want her to pass away at all, but I would hate for her to leave me while I’m in another country. Oh, if only there were a way to straddle the ocean so I could have access to the family that’s begun to fall apart.
            Since my grandmother’s health started deteriorating, the family dynamic has been affected in more ways than one. I hate to say it, but that situation that happened on Soul Food seems to be happening to my family. However, ain’t no Sunday meal gonna help us through our emotional ups and downs. For one, I don’t recall one Sunday where my entire family just sat, ate, and prayed together. It’s just something that didn’t happen in my family. What was consistent, though, was our love and respect for one another. However, as soon as my grandmother started dialysis, it seemed like my cousin, who she helped raise as her own son, began stealing cars and motorcycles and carrying guns. He ended up in jail for three years. My uncle, father to that same troubled cousin, also ended up in jail because his past caught up with him. And though he has since been released, his older brother, my other uncle is now in jail for a similar situation. My mother, strong and steadfast as ever manages to balance, family, finances, and rebuilding a life since the tornadoes devastated our homes. Everyone turns to her now, but the calls I receive from her are dripping with exhaustion.
            Communication still happens in our family, but the youth…well, we’ve just seemed to stop talking to one another. Is it our attempt to not deal with the hardships of life? Or are we brain dead? Have we no opinions about how to keep a family together when such a beautiful centerpieces is about to fall out of sight? It’s funny; I have the right words for a lot of situations: to make someone laugh, to soothe a soul, to inspire, even. But when it comes to the future of my family and how we’re going to handle an inevitable process of life, I have nothing truly substantial to say…except I love you. To those of you who read this, I love you with all of my heart, because you’re here with me. Thank you so much, and thank you for reminding me what love is.

            My grandmother is doing better…but of course, we don’t know for how long. I’ll keep praying, and in the meantime, I hope I find the right words for what’s next in my life.

 

A Crushing Reality

So it happens like this: it’s my final weekend in the city and I’m at either a house party or a very distinguished lounge in Center City and I run into a bunch of my friends from college. We’re all dancing, drinking (responsibly), and basking in our personal style when I decide I need a break from all the flyness. So I go and grab a seat in a remote corner, or balcony, where I can still see all the action. It is when I take my seat that I notice a fellow peer from school eyeing me. We introduce ourselves to one another (because, of course, I only remember faces and not names) and we realize we have a lot in common but have never had classes with one another. Our interactions on campus have been limited to half-smiles and seas of waves over our Temple career. Then comes the one thing I’ve waited so long to hear…but too late: “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been attracted to you for a very long time” or rather it’s “I’ve been kinda feeling you since the first time we met but I ain’t never said nothing.”

It is at this point that I smile through my frustration (because deep inside I’m screaming “WHY DIDN’T YOU DISCLOSE THIS INFORMATION A LONG TIME AGO?”) and say “I’m very flattered, but I’m leaving the country to go to graduate school.” Though I’m silently fuming inside, I’m really touched knowing that someone somewhere found me attractive enough to have some sort of crush on me. To return the compliment, I lie, “If it was meant to be, then I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Then, in that same awkward, yet sweet moment, I am ambushed by a passionate kiss and realize I’m making a huge mistake by leaving Philadelphia and not pursuing this further. So we leave our surroundings, go take a walk on Penn’s Landing and talk about ourselves until the sun rises.

 

Or so goes the fantasy…

 

            Since I’ve graduated from Temple University, I’ve always wondered if some student (somewhere) was enthralled by the idea of me. As superficial and self-absorbed as it sounds, I’m sure that I’m not the only person who has felt this way. Some would agree with me that during peak class hours, you are bound to run into plenty of people who you lust after, or want to genuinely get to know. For me, I take a liking to those people who “prove me wrong.” To prove me wrong means that someone’s actual personality countered my preconceived notion of who they were when we first laid eyes on one another (because honestly, that’s when the real opinions get made). I (unfortunately) develop long term crushes on the ones who achieve the “wrong-proving.” Why? Well…because it means there’s more to someone than meets the eye and it also means that one is willing to try harder to get me to see who they really are.

            This brings me to the topic of crushes. To be honest, it kind of distresses me that having a crush can continue into old age. I would have thought that after high school (or maybe even my freshman year of college) that I would have myself in check so that I can keep my focus. But crushes have to power to make me giggle at a mere glimpse of a shadow. There have been times where I was supposed to go to class, but I knew that “my idea of a perfect person” would be walking past a certain location at 11:00. So I ran the risk of being late just so I could run into someone who caused me to flub up my words when I spoke. Once I realized how ridiculous I’d become (yes, I have flubbed up many-a-speech and made plenty of small talk), I begin asking myself, have we all lost our cool trying to be too cool for a school crush?

            When I think about my perfect fantasy (see above), I think about my best friend, Treasure. Treasure, a lovely young woman who has had her strings of ups and downs in relationship-land, met the most recent love of her life in a similar fashion to the one aforementioned. He expressed his feelings to her as a post-graduate, they got to know each other pre-relationship, and now they are presently exploring what it means to love. I predict that they will last a very long time because I’ve never seen a relationship that functions quite as successfully as theirs (which is probably why I do not really want to be in one).

Treasure has told me so many times not to worry about crushes or anyone else because whoever is meant for me will show up. But I don’t believe in “Poof! Here I am” love. My response to her has been the same: “I know I’m not a bad catch, but for some reason, I know that I’ll never last with someone for a long period of time. I guess some people are just meant to be alone and that’s not a bad thing.” Our conversations about love usually end with her being optimistic and me being…well… me not expecting anything except what’s in front of me: an idea of my perfect crush.

In calling my crush perfect, however, I’m stripping away all existing flaws. For some reason, I overlook the fact that one has bad communication skills, another thinks being a goofball is a turn on, and another had would rather not be bothered with me at all. So when our crushes expose their blemishes, why is it that we, the crushers, feel the need to cover up? Are we embarrassed that we were attracted in the first place? Why are our dreams crushed under the pressure we exert upon our perfect ideals?

“A crush is only exciting for the person who has one,” my friend Matt says. This statement was mind blowing to me. I mean really…is that truly it? The adventure of the chase keeps us so preoccupied that, even if we never achieve our goal, it was fun while it lasted? That is sad…and unfortunately very realistic. Honestly, I have had more fun as a secret stalker (in an innocent crush way), than I have had meeting new people and trying to go through the whole “Let’s exchange numbers”, “Let’s plan where to have a first date,” “Let’s ask 21 Questions”, etc. The thought of building a relationship, to me, is just too much extra weight. A crush is overwhelmingly oppressive enough. To turn it into something else might feel like an anvil of trouble crashing down upon me and I don’t want no trouble!

I’ve figured that when thinking about a possible “we” situation, I’m quite content with the “just me” condition. I can never truly disappoint myself, I know what to expect from myself and I love me better than the next person will. So maybe a crush is better as a fantasy. Yes, the thought of being with someone of your liking can dominate your daytime thoughts but at night, the only weight I need to feel is the fullness of my “single and happy” heart.