We Talked on Friday

This is not the blog I was supposed to write. My original plan was to write a two-for-one on fathers in honor of Father’s Day. But life changed the trajectory of my plans.

I sit here as the rain beats against the window pane in perfect sync with the pain piercing my heart. 

We talked on Friday; he sounded fine.

It was like any other weekend. I had a laundry list of things to do —retirement party, day out with my girls, writing class, dance class, selling books and as life would have it—unexpected things happened, too. One of my former students passed away, so I went to the wake on Friday after leaving the retirement party. On the way home, I called my friend Charleston but couldn’t reach him.

Regardless of what my mind says, my body says rest on Friday. I can rip and run the rest of the week, but by body demands I rest on Friday. I was obeying my body when the phone rang. It was Charleston calling me back. We met when I was 15, and it seemed like we had known each other forever. There was always a Commodores easy-like-Sunday morning-ness between us.

We had not spoken in years, but had recently reconnected a few months ago and fell into the groove that had always been us. He thought I was out and about because when we talk, a lot of times I’m in my car. He laughed when I told him I was at home. He was always teasing that he needed some of my energy.

We talked for a long time about everything and nothing. We laughed and reminisced. No matter how much time had passed, we always managed to pick up right where we left off. That’s a rarity to be treasured. We leave people behind, and they us in our evolution. 

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

His parting words as our conversation ended were, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Saturday came and went. We didn’t speak, but that was not unusual. We didn’t talk or text every day. Sunday I was trying to get ready for the book selling event. It crossed my mind to send Charleston a “Happy Father’s Day” text as a joke. Like me, he didn’t have any children. I got busy and as easily as it crossed my mind, it slipped my mind. I thought about him a couple of times throughout the day, I’d sometimes think back on something we said, so that wasn’t unusual either. I was trying to sell books, so I stayed focused on the task at hand. I knew it would be late when I left, and he was an early riser so I figured we’d talk or text on Monday like we had been doing. 

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

I had loaned my sister my car. She picked me up and drove home. I unlocked my phone and had a notification that my Charleston had been tagged in a photo. I clicked on it. It was a photo of him and a message stating that he had died earlier. I shook my head in disbelief. I told my sister my friend died and we had just recently spoken. I said it, but I didn’t believe it. He wasn’t on Facebook that much but I went to his page anyway--my heart thumping. More R.I.P., R.I.H. messages.

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

I know that tomorrow is not promised to us, but the truth of this is sometimes cruel. My emotions are all over the place and instead of fighting with them; I’m forcing myself to sit with them. I sit with my anger: I want to know why him? Why now? I sit with my guilt: Why didn’t I text when I thought about him? Would it have made a difference? Did I miss something in the times we spoke? I sit with my sadness: The broken promise that he’ll never call me tomorrow. And through my tears I sit with my happiness: we shared a life time of memories, and we reconnected even for a short while. I can cherish that.

We talked Friday; he sounded fine. He died of a heart attack on Sunday. I write this on Monday as I grapple with the grief of losing a dear friend. 

Charleston Lee. Gone, but never forgotten.

A Teacher’s Worst Nightmare

It’s been a long and challenging week. I have not been able to erase the memory of a former student from my mind. I keep seeing his round brooding face as he sat in my class. And now he’s dead. He was one of three young men found shot to death in a car. One of the other young men is also a former student. Though I did not teach him, I did have both of his younger brothers. My former student also has a younger brother who is a student in our school now.

My student’s death is troubling because he predicted it. Like too many young Black males he thought death at an early age was inevitable. So, he didn’t think about his future; He didn’t plan for one. When he was in 7^th grade, I asked the students to write an essay where they saw themselves in 10 years. 

“You’ll be in your early 20s. Will you still be in school? Will you have a job? Will you be married? What will you be doing?” I like to ask students to begin thinking about their future. And I tell them it’s ok if they aren’t sure or don’t know. I also explain that as time goes on they may change their minds.

My student raised his hand. I acknowledged him.

“I don’t want to do this assignment,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“No disrespect, but I don’t think I’ll live that long.” There was no bitterness or anger in his voice. It was just matter of fact.

His words stilled me. I didn’t push him to complete the assignment. Instead I talked to him about why he didn’t think he’d live that long. I learned that tragedy had been visited upon his family. He had an older brother to die tragically and another in jail for murder. These two brothers would show up in his writing, and I encouraged him to write about it. To get it out. He seemed open to the idea, but he never wrote in any depth. 

At the time, I was teaching writing twice a week to students in grades 5^th through 8^th.  I had multiple classes at each grade level totaling nine classes. So, I had close to 300 hundred students.  Though we talked a few times, the student and I did not form a close bond. As is typical of teenagers, we actually locked horns on occasion, but nothing major. Adolescents challenging adults is par for the course.

He graduated and went on to the neighborhood high school, and I would see him standing around with a group of guys from time to time. I’d blow and they’d wave and I kept going. Unlike other students who graduated, he never came back to visit. 

This week, I was looking for a letter of recommendation for a student that I had written when I ran across an essay my deceased student had written in 8^th grade. I was trying to get students to enter a contest in which they wrote about barriers they faced in their lives. I opened up his essay and read it. It was about missing his brothers and not being able to trust anyone. I had made comments on it for his revision, but he never did the second draft nor did we talk about it. It was spring and the only thing on the minds of the 8^th graders was graduation.

What I wrestle with his how do you give hope to the hopeless? I wonder did I do enough? What else could I have done when this type of thinking is so common among young Black men? If they don’t think they’re going to die, then they think they’ll end up in jail. So they live a life of urgency—of right now.

There are people whose lives are tragically cut short taking their dreams with them. But what do you say to a person who doesn’t dream? I don’t know. I have experienced the death of a student, and it never gets easier. Looking down into a casket of a young person gone before they’ve lived is one of a teacher’s worst nightmares.

He predicted he wouldn’t see his 20s.  And now he’s dead at 18.  He thought Death would come knocking? Was it a premonition or a self-full-filling prophecy? Did he ignore the knocking or throw the door open in defiance? Questions that have no answers. Questions that no longer matter for him.  Until we find some answers, others will follow.

My student did not find peace in life; I can only pray that he finds peace on the other side.

Maya & Oprah, Carmen & Me

I was on my way to work listening to the Tom Joyner Morning Show when I heard them announce that Maya Angelou had passed away. When I got to work I immediately logged onto my computer to confirm that one of our icons had indeed fallen.

 

Though I knew that she was 86 and had truly lived an exceptional life, it just didn’t feel like she should be gone. I found myself in a place that I thought I had left—a surreal existence of trying to deal with something that I didn’t want to be real. I looked up at my bulletin board in the hall entitled Phenomenal Woman and I was reminded of the work my students had done creating poems on great women in history, and the fact that we’d used Dr. Angelou’s poem to kick off our lesson.

Born in to poverty and segregation, Maya Angelou born Marguerite Johnson, epitomized the American dream. She faced many struggles in her life, but she never let anything stop her. She was the true definition of a Renaissance Woman. She acted. She directed. She sang. She danced. And she wrote. Not only was she an artist, she was also an activist. Maya Angelou was an African-American woman in a country that did not treat those who of her race or gender well. And even though she spoke out against injustices, she was not bitter. She looked for the lesson in every experience.

Maya Angelou was many things to many people, and as I read the various reflections on the life she led, the words of Oprah Winfrey resonated with me the most. Not only did her words eloquently capture the essence of their relationship, it flooded me with memories of my friend who recently passed away. Like Maya, Carmen faced many struggles that she didn’t let stop her. When life handed her lemons, she didn’t complain. She made lemonade. Ten years my senior, our friendship spanned more than two decades.  Just like Maya was to Oprah, Carmen “was there for me always guiding me through some of the most important years of my life.” 

Carmen was not a celebrity in the sense of the word as we know it, but she was well known in the circles that she traveled in and she affected everyone around her. Oprah said what stood out to her the most was not what Maya Angelou had done or written or spoken, but how she lived her life. How she lived her life. Those words jumped out at me because like Maya Angelou, Carmen lived life on her own terms. She never compromised who she was, and she was one of the most selfless people I’d ever met. It was one of many things that I admired about her.

I never had the opportunity to meet Maya Angelou in person, but I read her work; I watched her in interviews and I learned from her as she was an exceptional teacher. Carmen and I were colleagues, friends, and confidantes to each other. I learned from her as well even when I was a reluctant student. She died in March and I miss her every day. She may not have had the far reaching influence of a Maya Angelou, but she touched a lot of lives. Today the world is a darker place because their lights no longer shine. Like Maya is to Oprah, Carmen will always be to me—“the rainbow in my clouds.”

The Lost Earring

               I love earrings. I wear my hair cropped close so the right earrings accentuate my face. I take my time buying earrings that are right for me, and with anything else, of course I end up liking some better than others. They grow on me because they end up being a good fit for my style.  I had a pair that I was especially fond of for no other reason than seem to add something a little extra.  They were silver and shaped like daisies. They became my go-to earrings; I wore them frequently.

               One day, I came home from being out and about and discovered that the earring had slipped from my ear; I had lost it. I had been a few places so there was no way to retrace my steps and find my earring. I'd lost earrings before--many times. No big deal, or so I though. But this one bothered me.  I hadn’t worked out that day so there was no reason for me to take them out, and I know I put them both in before I left that morning. Did I forget to secure it with an earring back? Why was I lamenting the loss of this one earring? I was puzzled until I dug deeper into my subconscious.

               The more I thought about the earring, the more it reminded me of lost relationships.  I thought about the people I continue to reach out to, but my texts and phone calls go unreturned.
  As unsettling as it is, I know I need to let go of what’s already gone.  I’ve spent too much time trying to figure out when the other one fell out. Did it slip away when I wasn't looking? Had the back fallen off long time ago and I just wasn't paying attention?  At this point, does it even matter?

             I am one of those people who hold onto things long after their expiration date. And while I logically know that everything changes, I'm not always willing to embrace change until I'm ready. But change happens with our without permission. When I took inventory, I realized that I have a few earrings in my jewerly box without a partner. I’m still holding onto them thinking that one day the mate will reappear. It’s kind of silly to have these random earrings unless I’m going to start a trend of wearing mismatched earrings. But I know that’s not my sense of style. For me, earrings work best in a pair;  I need two to make it work.  While I have come to the realization that there are some relationships in my life that are not working because half of the pair is missing, I’ve also checked to see if I am half of the missing pair in other relationships. Is someone looking for me, and I’ve slipped away? Do I need to check myself and find my way back?

             I have a compartment full of single earrings that I don’t know what to do with, so this weekend I'm lovingly tossing out the mis-matched earrings.  No more taking up precious space in the compartment of my life when they no longer have a purpose. Recognizing that they aren’t useful to me now, doesn’t de-value the role they played when they were part of a perfect pair. They added value at that time. And for that I am forever thankful. They're gone, but not forgotten. It’s time to move on.   There are new earrings to buy and new memories to create. The time in my life for something new, is past due.