There is what we lived and there is what we lived for.
I remember the day I finally felt alive. I was standing in the Women’s Library on the south side of London. I was wearing a blue shirt that said, “Would You Like to Smurf Around.”
The irony is Smurf is what my family calls me. That name always reminds me of my youth.
I had on running shoes, maybe I was prepping for a journey; maybe I was ending one. We walked through the library, I ran my hands across the aged books feeling bumps of different magnitudes along the way.
Then Lizzy gave out the kinds of scream you have when you have an epiphany. We all ran over to see what she had discovered.
In a glass case, that shielded the world from tainting what was my moment, there was a hand written magazine. Every oooed and aaahed. I was too far behind them to see what they were looking at and one second from the moment I’d feel like me.
Looking through the glass I read, I know it is nothing, but it is my nothing. It was hand written on a paper magazine.
It carried the feeling of a personal love not transcribed by some machine, but by my own penmanship that belongs to me and my nothing.
I’m pretty sure my heart stopped. My mind flashed back to papers I’d written in college that came back with failing grades and comments telling me I didn’t know what I was talking about, my writing skills lacked polish and my words meant nothing.
I made a vow to myself to never stifle what I had to say because someone didn’t agree. I left feeling rejuvenated, calm, free…me.
When I ended my summer in London, I went to work at a magazine and lived with my grandmother. When I came in the house my Grandmother came out, “Smurfet is that you?” “No, it’s Shirley,” I responded.
I have yet to write my own magazine, book or have my words heralded as legendary. But that’s what I’m living for.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Always and Forever
When most utter for richer or poorer the hope is that they never have to experience it. Imagine feeling the sting of infidelity, unemployment, autistic children, locked up boys who fell short of expectations and hearing, I want a divorce, there in your white dress.
At the altar you’re flying with the clouds, 10 years into the marriage, the world has crashed down on you. But those words are replayed back to you…for better or for worse.
I have seen true love.
When drug addictions, extreme poverty, homelessness, and 9 kids, my parents lost came along, no one packed their bags, they remembered a vow they never made—to have and to hold forever.
My parents never got married, but they stayed true to each other. Three days old, my father who lived in the neighborhood, looked in her crib and said my mother was the most beautiful baby he’d ever seen and that he’d marry her one day.
My Granddad tried to chase him away and he’s spent the last 36 years they’ve been together still trying. But their love is unbreakable. If you ask my mother to sing you a song, in her strong alto voice, the only song that comes from her heart, she’ll sing, “inseparable…yes baby…that’s what we are.”
When my mother turned 18 my father bought her a red corvette. They had it all. They had 4 houses, all the cars you could imagine and took trips all around the country. Money was not an object. When they battled a drug addiction, the money was gone, but love still persist.
I asked my parents why they never got married and my father said, “Because it would hurt me too much if my wife ever left me.” My mother started laughing like I’d never heard her laugh.
“One time I told your Dad that I was leaving and he looked at me and said, where we going. I knew that day I was stuck with him for life.”
This conversation we had on the porch of an abandoned house they were squatting. They have taught me everything I needed to know about love, life and loyalty. So while my parents did not raise me and have made some decisions that have negatively impacted me I am eternally grateful for the lesson their love taught me.
We ride together, we love together. I'm your's for life.
At the altar you’re flying with the clouds, 10 years into the marriage, the world has crashed down on you. But those words are replayed back to you…for better or for worse.
I have seen true love.
When drug addictions, extreme poverty, homelessness, and 9 kids, my parents lost came along, no one packed their bags, they remembered a vow they never made—to have and to hold forever.
My parents never got married, but they stayed true to each other. Three days old, my father who lived in the neighborhood, looked in her crib and said my mother was the most beautiful baby he’d ever seen and that he’d marry her one day.
My Granddad tried to chase him away and he’s spent the last 36 years they’ve been together still trying. But their love is unbreakable. If you ask my mother to sing you a song, in her strong alto voice, the only song that comes from her heart, she’ll sing, “inseparable…yes baby…that’s what we are.”
When my mother turned 18 my father bought her a red corvette. They had it all. They had 4 houses, all the cars you could imagine and took trips all around the country. Money was not an object. When they battled a drug addiction, the money was gone, but love still persist.
I asked my parents why they never got married and my father said, “Because it would hurt me too much if my wife ever left me.” My mother started laughing like I’d never heard her laugh.
“One time I told your Dad that I was leaving and he looked at me and said, where we going. I knew that day I was stuck with him for life.”
This conversation we had on the porch of an abandoned house they were squatting. They have taught me everything I needed to know about love, life and loyalty. So while my parents did not raise me and have made some decisions that have negatively impacted me I am eternally grateful for the lesson their love taught me.
We ride together, we love together. I'm your's for life.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Bros Before Woes
My brother became a super hero this week.
As he eloquently stated at the end of his message, a little boy made it from Woodrow Wilson and Elmhurst to the pulpit at Triumph Church.
Rewind 15 years and you’ll see that same boy shuffling his feet like James Brown singing “I Have a Testimony.” He did more than sing the solo, he prophesied into his life. Yet to reach puberty, in a high pitch he sang, “I have a testimony, God made me whole…” The choir agreed in harmony.
He preached his first message as an associate minister at a 12,000 member church on its South campus about using what you already have to get where you need to go.
Real super heroes are the ordinary people who grow up in ghettos and soar above expectations. Capes are dingy sheets wrapped around 9-year-old neck that one day could be his rap sheet or his reminder that the things behind you propel you into tomorrow.
Walking down Hubbell from the park we used to race to on the way to school chatting he reminded me that it was his desire to pastor a church one day.
Watching him in the pulpit I say him prepping to one day fly.
I‘ve always believed that when you feed your passion you will never be hungry. He inspired me to go back to the project I started a about a year ago, daily writing, until I write my first book.
I have always competed with my brother, because I’ve always been more athletic, good looking, (He is shaking his head and disagreeing right now), and intelligent.
But today, I am more proud.
As he eloquently stated at the end of his message, a little boy made it from Woodrow Wilson and Elmhurst to the pulpit at Triumph Church.
Rewind 15 years and you’ll see that same boy shuffling his feet like James Brown singing “I Have a Testimony.” He did more than sing the solo, he prophesied into his life. Yet to reach puberty, in a high pitch he sang, “I have a testimony, God made me whole…” The choir agreed in harmony.
He preached his first message as an associate minister at a 12,000 member church on its South campus about using what you already have to get where you need to go.
Real super heroes are the ordinary people who grow up in ghettos and soar above expectations. Capes are dingy sheets wrapped around 9-year-old neck that one day could be his rap sheet or his reminder that the things behind you propel you into tomorrow.
Walking down Hubbell from the park we used to race to on the way to school chatting he reminded me that it was his desire to pastor a church one day.
Watching him in the pulpit I say him prepping to one day fly.
I‘ve always believed that when you feed your passion you will never be hungry. He inspired me to go back to the project I started a about a year ago, daily writing, until I write my first book.
I have always competed with my brother, because I’ve always been more athletic, good looking, (He is shaking his head and disagreeing right now), and intelligent.
But today, I am more proud.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Big Timing
Check me out on BLAC Detroit's website.
http://www.blacdetroit.com/BLAC-Detroit/May-2011/A-Former-Foster-Care-Child-Speaks-Out/
http://www.blacdetroit.com/BLAC-Detroit/May-2011/A-Former-Foster-Care-Child-Speaks-Out/
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Patience
The window was open in the ballroom. Tickling the necks of onlookers, the breeze pushed her hair off her face.
As Prince Charming danced with his suitor, all of a sudden, the room stopped.
Unlocking the phony bond made between stranger’s hands, he let go of his suitor, and approaches his destiny.
“Dance with me,” he whispers in her ear.
They float. Snares and base drums were no match for the intensity their hearts. They dance.
“Kiss me?” he asked, “Midnight,” she replied.
When the song ended, he asked her name, “Cinderella,” she answered in a soft, yet matured, sound. “Cinderella, hunh? Sounds like we belong together.”
She giggled, and they talked for hours. Glancing down at her feet he saw clear slippers. Reminded of a story he heard his whole life, he asked, “Are you really thee Cinderella?”
Hope filled his eyes while he waited for her reply. “I…” she says, “Stop.” he interrupts her. He already knew, he had dreamed about this moment.
Running over to his father he expressed his joy. “Father, I know it is her, please tell me, am I right?”
“Yes.” answers the King, “But you have to make it through the end of the night.”
At the top of the steps entered another. Housing the grace of a horse past its prime, Prince Charming saw something different.
11:55. He wanted to get to know her. They talked.
11:56, 11:57, 11:58, 11:59.
Cinderella sat, looked on, still content. Another called her by her name, “Cinderella, kiss me.”
Midnight.
Hearing the loud interruption. The prince made haste to his feet. Dashing back to the place her left her, frantic, screaming for her. “Cinderella! Cinderella! I came back.”
Shocked, looking on in dismay, with another, Cinderella faded away.
Walking over to his son, the King asked, “How does it feel to know you had Cinderella, but could not wait until the end of the ball?”
As Prince Charming danced with his suitor, all of a sudden, the room stopped.
Unlocking the phony bond made between stranger’s hands, he let go of his suitor, and approaches his destiny.
“Dance with me,” he whispers in her ear.
They float. Snares and base drums were no match for the intensity their hearts. They dance.
“Kiss me?” he asked, “Midnight,” she replied.
When the song ended, he asked her name, “Cinderella,” she answered in a soft, yet matured, sound. “Cinderella, hunh? Sounds like we belong together.”
She giggled, and they talked for hours. Glancing down at her feet he saw clear slippers. Reminded of a story he heard his whole life, he asked, “Are you really thee Cinderella?”
Hope filled his eyes while he waited for her reply. “I…” she says, “Stop.” he interrupts her. He already knew, he had dreamed about this moment.
Running over to his father he expressed his joy. “Father, I know it is her, please tell me, am I right?”
“Yes.” answers the King, “But you have to make it through the end of the night.”
At the top of the steps entered another. Housing the grace of a horse past its prime, Prince Charming saw something different.
11:55. He wanted to get to know her. They talked.
11:56, 11:57, 11:58, 11:59.
Cinderella sat, looked on, still content. Another called her by her name, “Cinderella, kiss me.”
Midnight.
Hearing the loud interruption. The prince made haste to his feet. Dashing back to the place her left her, frantic, screaming for her. “Cinderella! Cinderella! I came back.”
Shocked, looking on in dismay, with another, Cinderella faded away.
Walking over to his son, the King asked, “How does it feel to know you had Cinderella, but could not wait until the end of the ball?”
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