Nothing New

My story I’d like to think is unique and different. Philadelphia born and raised. Thus, an all around city girl. I pamper myself every two weeks with a visit to the nail salon. I love poetry and music, love and life, laughter and absolute quiet. I sleep in total darkness and work endlessly. I’ve had one long-termed relationship in my 23 years. And many heartbreaks. I’m a cry baby. A Pisces at heart. An artist. I love the way words slip and drip and drop from my tongue and lips to settle on your earlobes. But all-in-all, I am a woman who basks in her femininity.

When I say I, I speak and write and live a life that is not just my own. I tell not just a story that only belongs to me. I see people, places, and things, not limited to only my sight, or my own existence, or from my perspective or stance or opinion. Some years ago, my grandmother shared an adage with me, explaining that “There’s nothing new under the sun honey”. These words have stuck and they stick; they live and they breathe; they exist and co-exist in a world, in societies, and in communities, in the bodies and hearts, the spirits and souls of those who believe and understand the simplicity of existence.

So when I speak of me, I too, speak of you – of us. Of women who are taught and reared early, to be a lady at all times: cross your legs, iron your clothes, clean the crust out of your eyes, and brush that scalp of yours. At all times, present an individual who cares about her individual.

But when and how do we learn, and from whom or what teaches us to be women? Beyond morale and responsibility, beyond the idea and practice, when do we learn that now is the time to put the theory of womanhood into practice?

I identify myself as a full fledge woman. I pay my rent, my bills, clean my home, go grocery shopping, cook meals, counsel family and friends if need be. I respect my elders even though I myself am an adult. I put the existence and life of others oftentimes in front of my own so that their existence never wavers. I push forward, even when what use to be continues to beckon me to visit. But this is nothing new and this life I live does not only belong to me. These chores are not just Theresa’s. They belong to Barbara, NaTasha, Tina, Jalissa, Michelle, Erin too. As easy as it is and would be to say my experiences as a woman are mine alone, and vice versa, the fact of the matter is that this is not entirely true. There are emotions and feelings, moments and times, when what we go thru, at some point in our lives, the sentiments that run thru our veins rapidly, the way we respond to what happens in life, are all the same. Ever sat up late, sad for no reason? Or shared an Ah-Ha moment with your best friend? How about those butterflies because he kissed you the right way, at the right time, and made you feel like it were only the two of you in the world? Or that day, your heart broke after you know you fought endlessly for nothing short of survival? This is why these experiences and feelings, our gender and genetic make-up, makes us so distinctively different from our male counterparts.

But womanhood is far more complex than what the outer layers portray. What about the those nights when I shower in lavender, lotion in peony, slip into silk, dim lights, and sit atop of cotton, alone? To think. And ponder. And wonder about life and where I stand in the midst of it all. What about the anticipations that fall short or the unyielding doors that open in succession, unexpectedly? What about those bad days when every emotion takes over my body, floods my face, and pours rapidly through my eyes? What about those days, nights, weekends, weeks, months, and sometimes years, when I’ve exhausted myself? When I need a break, but can’t catch one? Or that day, when I’ve realized I’ve had enough, and now is the time to let go?

This life ladies, (and gentleman), I tell you, is not new. Its occurrences, its tragedies and triumphs, are not new. Someone else and others have done this too. They too have cried alone when a lover walked away or when one just wouldn’t leave so she, so I, so you, could grow and appreciate their and our existence. They too have had to draw strength from their surroundings and from their individual selves, and that of others. They too have spent long days hustling and bustling to make ends meet or to satisfy their own self indulgences. They’ve sacrificed and struggled too. But the responsibility had to be passed on to us. And as overwhelming as this task appears to be, it leaves us standing, still, wherever we may be - whether in our Philadelphia high-rise condominium, New York loft, Miami beach, Baltimore public school, Las Vegas nightclub, to ask the question: “but how do we do what they’ve done and make it still look so easy?”

I don’t know if there’s an answer. There’s surely no guide or handbook or instructions on “How to Make Your Womanhood EASY…in 10 steps!” This, I guess, is a day-to-day thing. A take life by the horns and run with it, type of thing.

So, with no manual or instructions, no one to explain to us thoroughly, how to, what and whom for are we doing this, when and where do we start being women, the end question is why? Why is our womanhood and being women and ladies and mothers and daughters and sisters, friends, confidants, partners, lovers, who are women, so important that it needs to be maintained, successfully, from generation to generation? The easy answer is that the world vehemently, depends on us. For strength and love, compassion and understanding, for our ability to look at both ends of the spectrum – whether one end begins in Russia and the other ends in Hawaii. We are able to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders, along with a baby strapped to our breasts AND carry groceries, quietly. We are the struggle and its behind the scenes producer; no revolution or movement was or could have been done without us somewhere near, whispering softly to our men, baby, you got this!

The torch we now carry will too be past on to our daughters and nieces and granddaughters, and while we won’t have a manual or guide to give them, we at least can show them a life full of feminine and womanly experiences to be proud of. Pass to them habits worth carrying and nurturing for a lifetime. Instill into them the things we wanted the women of our lives to pass on to us.

This life as a woman is fragile. She’s gentle and to many of us, she’s new. And she deserves to be taken care of because while we won’t be here in the physical forever, she will. So when you bathe tonight, appreciate your gender. The next time you look into the mirror, smile at yourself – because being a woman is more than enough to be appreciative for. Don’t be afraid to nurture and love yourself from time to time – or all the time.

So while this life is not new, nor is the idea of womanhood and being a woman, what we make of it and what we do to it is all new and different and exciting and to be enjoyed. Our task is tough and our order is tall, but it’ll be done, because it’s not just me, and it’s not just you. So whether you’re in jeans and flip flops, a business suit and stilettos, a ball gown and glass slippers, or your pajamas, this life, this experience and the experiences that are headed our way, do not belong to only one person.

So, on your mark, get set, go!

The {every-year} Holiday Battle

Holidays with my family are always full of good times and the laughter of children. And of course, good great food. If you ask me, no one's cooking could ever rival my mother's. Which is why I was so excited this past New Year as we ushered in 2010 when I cooked cabbage for the first time and it tasted just like my mother's. Women, I believe, spend our lives trying to perfect our cooking to taste just like Mom's. My next task: the baked mac and cheese (my brother and I return home everytime she cooks it.)

But off of the topic of food.

As joyous and exciting as the holidays are, they're also secretly saddening. It's during these times we look back and reflect on the lives that we wish were present physically, and not just spiritually, or in memory. It's during this time of the year, that I get particularly sad about my grandfather, my Bay-Bay, no longer being with me. I can't speak his name, or think back to then, or what could have been for now, without becoming flustered and teary-eyed, voice crackling, and tears eventually falling. There's never been a man I've adored or loved as much as him. No man's memory has ever bought tears to my eyes but his so easily. His smile and laughter, his denim blue hat and staple white button up shirt, tucked into the waist of his pants and it sat snug over his protruding belly - are missed more than I could possibly express in words or in actions.

I was 9 when he passed. He died of a massive heart attack, and from what I'd been told, on the steps of a friend. He was and has always been my favorite man. And it's because of this, my mother, step-father, and the rest of the family, had chosen as a collective, not to tell me about his passing until after the service. Until after the logistics had been taken care of. I've always felt some type of way about that collective decision, because I'd never been given the chance, the opportunity to say good-bye. Granted I've said and say it in my dreams, whisper it to the skies above when I think about him, and when the tears fall so easily down my cheeks - it's just not the same.

It's due to his death that writing became my safe haven; the safest place on earth. But it's also due to his death in particular that holidays just aren't the same. Nor are birthdays. Or graduations. Or life-altering moments like the birth of my now 2-year-old sister or when my Grandma had to have brain surgery, my elementary or high school graduations, acceptance into college, or when I moved into my own place. Granted, he's everpresent because that's just how Bay-Bay is, it's never been the same.

As a child, I recall sitting on his back while we watched Star Trek or V (he loved Sci-fi flicks, and I've never been able to watch them since) while I dolled his hair up with barrettes and ballies. We'd take random trips to the ice cream parlor on Ridge Avenue. He'd let me help him clean out his white van with the burgandy interior. Or, he'd just sit, with me on his lap. It's because of him I fell in love with Red Lobster's cheddar bay biscuits and with Red Lobster in general. He was my Bay-Bay, and I was his Nurl-Nurl (and forever will be).

Courtesy of he and my Grandmother, I was spoiled, rotten, and there wasn't much of anything to do about it. The first grand, the first girl, I was lavished with gifts and candy, movies and late nights watching sci-fi flics with my favorite, main man. My squeaky cackle and his rolling, bellowing laughter always filled up whatever room we were in. My mother always says to me "Just imagine how much more spoiled you'd be if he were here". Unfortunately, just like we don't know how many licks it takes to get to the center of tootsie pop, the world may never know the full extent of my spoiled rotteness. From birth, when doctors deemed my life to be over before it had even began, this man, held and nurtured me from birth, daily. There was never a day that his love was not shown.

I was a little girl being shown what love was all about. What it felt and sound like. Was being taught as a child that when love is gone, however it departs, there's no replacing the void left behind.

It's been 14 years.
And holidays, life has never been the same.
That void, that hole in my heart has never scabbed over to heal.

As children, we're taught "I Love You" as a part of speech. But we don't understand the action, the feat, what it looks and feels like until later in life. And if we're lucky enough, someone pivotal enough, important enough, loving enough, like my Bay-Bay teaches it to us in simplistic ways that are easily digested for us as children. And as we age, it becomes clearer to us just what they were teaching us. And that's what hurts the most: we've known love since before our birth, but somewhere between that first breath and adulthood, we lose or have lost the language of love.

Lucky me, I had a man who as big, black, and chunky as he was, taught me just what love was and what love is so that as an adult, I could understand it, I could digest it just as easily as I had when he let me style his coily, soft black hair or say his nickname for me: Nurl Nurl. That, is love.

Lucky me, from birth to age 9, and even now at 23, that man to whom I hold so dearly and so tightly to my heart and my memories, loved and loves me the way love is supposed to be done.

So while you stuff your face this holiday season with turkey, stuffing, and baked mac and cheese, sweet potatoe pie, cheesecake, and egg nog, realize, that this is all about love and nothing else. While death is promised, life isn't guaranteed, LOVE, sits cradled somewhere between the two - and it's up to us, to recognize it, and be willing to share it with another.