When a Friend Dies

A stranger stabs you in the front; a friend stabs you in the back; a boyfriend stabs you in the heart, but best friends only poke each other with straws.

- Unknown

In July of last year, my friend Carmen and I were scheduled to take a trip to Canada. It was a literary retreat where we would have an opportunity to meet other nerdy women who loved to read, meet the authors and do some sight-seeing. Carmen was always on the move. So, when she told me two days before that she was going to cancel, I knew that something was wrong. She had been sick on and off and had been to the Emergency Room a few times, but the doctors told her she had fibroids and needed to see a physician about surgery.

So, I went to Canada alone. But I was worried. Carmen had an exceptionally high tolerance for pain so the fact that she was complaining made me think something serious was going on. I kept calling her from Canada and she told me to stop calling her. I told her she couldn’t tell me what to do. She told me she was having surgery on Monday. I was due back on Monday. She was in the hospital and my sister had taken my mother to the ER twice in the few days that I was gone. I felt helpless, but there was nothing I could do.

When I got home Monday, I received a text from Carmen’s sister. Carmen had an advanced stage cancer even though she had, had a biopsy in late May or early June and tested negative. How could this happen? The next day I went to the hospital, and I was there when the ventilator was removed, but I was gone by the time the doctors gave her, diagnosis. She teased me that she was surprised that I had held it in because I was such a girl—her time for anyone that cried.

I was scared for my friend, but I thought if there is anyone that can bounce back from this it was Carmen. In the 20 plus years we had been friends I’d watch her bounce back from two hip replacements and then start competing in short distance triathlons. She had to have the same knee replaced twice!-and she completed a 5K. When the first knee replacement went bad, she was upset. She got the news the same day I sliced my hand open on the first day of a new job trying to open some mustard. When I sent her picture of my hand with stitches in it, she said that made her day. That’s the way we were with each other—always laughing and joking, but always, always in each others corner.

When she was going through chemo she said she didn’t want to talk to people when she was feeling bad, and so I respected that and checked in with her sister and stepdaughters. When she was up for it, we would laugh and tease each other like always. Money exchanged hands a lot between us and we never knew who owed who. When she was sick, she told me she owed me money, but because she was sick, she didn’t have to pay me back. 

Our lives were indelibly intertwined. We were colleagues, triathlon training buddies, traveling companions and confidantes to each other.  In the middle of March, I found out that the chemo wasn’t working and the hospice team was going to be called in. I remember getting my faced made up for the belly dance show and talking to her sister about a farewell party.  It was Saturday, and I had just seen her the day before in the hospital. When I walked in the room, she looked up and said, “Hey Ninja Turtle Head,” a nickname that she gave me because she said I have a small head. We talked before she drifted off to sleep. She was discharged on Saturday and dead on Tuesday. When I got the call, I didn’t know what to do. I thought it was some cruel joke. She had been through so much, and I just knew she’d make it through, but she didn’t. 

I am still trying to process her death. I know that the ache of her absence will lessen over time, but for now there is huge void in my life. What sustains me is the legacy she left behind. In her short time on this earth, I can honestly say that Carmen was a humanitarian in the truest sense of the word. She was compassionate, caring and selfless person. She was the epitome of unconditional love. In my reflections and remembering, here are some lessons I gleaned from her life. Remembering the person that she was and following in her footsteps allows her spirit to live on. This is what learned:

1. Give back--find something that you believe in and donate your time money or both. Find someone in need and off him or her helping hand.
2. Be adventurous--do what you've never done; do something you've always wanted to do but have been afraid. Now's the time.
3. Be silly-- laugh at yourself. Laugh at life. Have fun!
4. Stand on what you believe in and don't compromise the morals and values that guide you.
5. And when life hands you lemons, make lemonade!
I greatly miss my friend, but I have a friendship of 20 plus years to sustain me. And those memories-- there are many-- will get me through the bad days.

Who Are You Calling A Female? By Stephanie J. Gates

I was sitting at the table watching the manicurist meticulously paint my nails, when he said something about “females.” I sucked in my breath as the words from his tongue screeched against the chalkboard of my mind.  By the time, he uttered it the third time, my ears were on fire so I said, “I don’t like being called a female.” He looked at me, paused hunched up his shoulders and resumed polishing my nails. It was quiet for a few minutes as he continued to work, and then he asked, “What’s wrong with female?”

So, I threw a question right back at him. I said, “If I am simply a female, then what separates me from a dog, a cat or cow?” He admitted that he had never really thought about it that way. And I’m sure he didn’t because it’s so common now. I hear a lot of young people referring to females as females, but I don’t here guys being called males. Where I’m from—depending on what hood I’m in at the time—guys are well, guys, dudes, bros and niggas. Never males. They are the male gender of people. So, how did we get to become females?

How did we get stripped of our humanity? According to mariamwebster.com, female means a (1):  of, relating to, or being the sex that bears young or produces eggs (2) A female is a thing; it’s an object. I don’t want to be objectified by the v-shaped space below my navel. I don’t want to be reduced to my genitals. I am more than the body parts that distinguish me from a boy or man.

The term dehumanizes girls and women. It treats as objects or toys to be played with, and we know what happens when something new becomes old. It’s discarded. Words are things. Words have power. And if we allow ourselves to be simply female, we lessen ourselves in the eyes of those who label us as such. So, while some may think it’s silly of me not to think of girls and women as females, when technically we are, I know we are females, but we are so much more than the abstract idea of simply being opposite a male or the other gender. Girls and women have feelings. We have goals. We have ambition. Our lives have purpose. Calling us female negates that.

Female is what I check on forms to distinguish me from a male. So I’m female for statistical and identification purposes only! When I was born, the doctor said, “It’s a girl!  Time and experience groomed me into a young woman, and the tutelage of magnificent mentors helped me blossom me into a lady. So, why would I settle for the façade of half-dressed femininity when I can wear the full worldliness of a woman and/or the loveliness of a lady so much better?

Happy History Months!

As we bid farewell to Black History Month, and say hello to Women's History Month, what better way to recognize the contributions of Black People and Black Women more specifically than with some poetry that captures the beauty of Black People. So, sit back as Poet Jennifer Brown Banks waxes poetically about our rich heritage. Enjoy!

TRIBUTE!

By: Jennifer Brown Banks

It’s no coincidence

That they acknowledge my people

In the month of February-

The month of love.

We are passionate people,

Bearers of beauty,

Strong and vibrant

Nurturers,

Soulfully

Serenading Life!

LIKE WINE, WE RARE

(For soul sisters)

By: Jennifer Brown Banks

Defiant hair,

Undeniable flair,

“Attitude”

To spare,

Like wine

We rare

Full hips

Mo-than-our-share lips,

Skin that’s been

Sun kissed,

Like wine

We rare

Sassy, beautiful

And bold

Breaking the mold,

Our greatness untold,

Like wine

We rare

Alice IN WONDERLAND

(For author Alice Walker)

By: Jennifer Brown Banks

Like

Alice in Wonderland

You make magic

Come to life!

Weave words

Into a journey

Of faraway places

Mystical makings

(and you make us proud)

Mirroring the beauty

Of what it is

To be a woman,

A woman of color,

A poet,

A messenger,

Awesome and aware,

Me,

Reflecting myself

Through that vibrant image,

Kindred spirits

With

Nikki,

Maya,

Gwen,

Phyllis,

Rita,

Sonya

And those whose words were silenced

Until you spoke,

Taking a stand,

Taking a chance,

Asking the world to take notice

As only poets do

Valentine’s Day and the Full Moon

Even though folks try to make us believe that Valentine’s Day is a day of three Musketeer type of love for one and all for love day, it’s really not. Yes, those that are single do girlfriend night, or spend that time with their kids, but it is hands-down still a Romantic Love Holiday. Since I’m not all booed up, it was going to be a regular Friday for me. I had a full weekend schedule of work, belly dancing, and my nephew’s party so I didn’t have any lag time. I had to get things done in a timely manner to stay on schedule. 

I had noticed the fullness of the moon the night before. And I've always believe that there is a connection between weirdness and a full moon. So, that should have prepared me for the unexpected. But I forget and attempt to proceed in life like a "normal" person, but something always reminds me that life--especially mine--is full of unexpected twists and turns. And mine, for what ever reason always have some comical angle.  

On Friday, I tried to make a mad dash to the nail shop to get a mani/pedi for my performance on Saturday. Some belly dancers perform in shoes, but most dance barefoot, so I had to make sure that my feet were presentable since they were going to be on public display.

 Let me preface this by saying I don't like the neighborhood nail shops because I like the pampering experience as opposed to the cattle call, but I had to work on Saturday before heading out so I had to get in where I fit in. I found a nail shop close by the job; it was empty. So, I thought I could get in and out and get home in time to allow my sister to go out while I stayed with our mother. Easy-peasy. But I should have known better because things are rarely easy with me.

 While I was getting my pedicure, it seemed like a bus load of people starting coming in. The manicurist finished my pedicure, and started on my nails. In typical Stephanie fashion, I messed up the polish on two of my nails when I bumped the fan trying to dry the first coat.  My manicurist seemed new, and didn’t know how to fix it without starting over. She took the polish off, and freshly painted the two nails and instructed me to let them dry, and that she’d be back.

She started on this elderly woman's pedicure.  I knew the manicurist I said in my mind, I know she is not going to do this woman’s entire pedicure while I’m waiting for a second coat and top coat on two nails? I had already paid and tipped!

was trying to multitask because the shop was getting crowded, and the elderly woman had been waiting. So, I was cool until I was still sitting there 10 minutes later.

I walked over to the manicurist and asked her about my nails, and I happened to glance at the woman's feet and was horrified! She had long, snarly, twisted nails that look like something out of a horror movie. I reminded the manicurist that she still had to finish two nails. She asked me if I could come back. I told her, no. My schedule already felt like too small body shaper and I was in there on borrowed time, so when was I supposed to come back?

 As she sat down to polish the two nails, I looked and noticed that she still had on the gloves she had been using for the pedicure. When I brought it to her attention, she immediately snatched the gloves off. I asked for something to wash my hands. She sprayed them down with alcohol. I didn't even bother to wait for the nails to dry, I left.

When I got to my sister's house, she had decided against going out. She decided to go and get some Mexican food. I fell asleep on the couch waiting for her to get back. It was past 8:00 p.m., so, my mother was already in the bed for the night even though she decided that she wanted a taco.

By the time my sister returned, and we had eaten, it was after 10:00 pm. I had to work Saturday, so I decided to go home. We live within one block of each other, so all I had to do was get in my car and drive down the street. 

I knew that I was going to be moving non-stop on Saturday, so I needed some sleep. I went to bed and drifted off to sleep. It doesn’t take long. Between fatigue from work and the crazy weather, the Sandman in my dreams had all of my attention until I was awakened by noises around 1:00 am. My niece does hair in the basement, and sometimes they just sit around and talk. So, I thought it was her. Since I had to get up in the morning, I needed them to turn the noise down. She was at home.

The house next door to me is empty, but teenagers had found a way to get in at some point, so I thought maybe some kids are in the house next door. I was too tired to call the police, I just prayed for sleep and my prayers were answered—temporarily.  As soon as I got into a good sleep, the voices came back and they were accompanied by footsteps. I listened to make sure that what I was hearing was real, and that I wasn’t dreaming. The footsteps were clearly from above my head.

I was supposed to be home alone, so who was in the building with me? My mother was at my sister’s. My nephew was at my sister’s. My niece was in her own apartment across the street. I wasn’t dreaming. The sounds coming out of the apartment were real! My heart started pounding in my chest. I crept out of the bed to get my phone, and to make sure that the alarm was on. I thought about pressing the panic button on my alarm. I decided to call the police instead.

I dialed 911 and explained to them that I lived in a two-flat, and that the upstairs apartment was currently vacant, but that I could hear noises and footsteps. 9-1-1 operator asked me if the police could get in the outside door, I told her no, that I would have to open it. She asked if I wanted her to call me when the police arrived. I said. Yes. I sat in the bed clutching to phone, heart beating fast, and imagination running wild. I called my niece back and whispered in the phone, “Somebody’s upstairs. I called the police. I need you to call them back because they haven’t come yet.”

“Maybe, it’s your nephew,” She said. 

“No, I left him at his Granma’s house.”

I hang up and try calling him anyway. No answer. 

Then I get a text alert. I’m sorry if I scared you t.t. It’s me. I’m upstairs.

I called him and let him have it! Yes, I understood that he was sorry, but it was a situation that could have gone all wrong : He was a 17 year-old walking the street at night; I was going to send the police into the apartment not knowing that he was there.

Just as I hung up from him, the 9-1-1 operator was letting me know that the police were at the door. They had exited their vehicle and were searching the perimeter of my house. As the police officer emerged from the back of my house to talk to me, I noticed that it was an extended family member. My sister and her friend were married to brothers, and here was the son of one of the brothers all grown up and following in his father’s footsteps doing police work. Our families had been friends forever! I remember when his mother was pregnant with him, and now he was serving and protecting. He gave me a big hug and told me that he had to make sure that his people were ok. I went back to bed, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. The adrenalin was pumping through my body, so I had to wait for it to calm down knowing that I still head a full day in front of me.

As it turns out, there was somebody in the apartment. But it wasn’t a burglar; it was my night owl nephew. I shake off what could have been, and I’m glad that my story has a happy ending. Since childhood, I have always believed that strange things happen during a full moon. And, I am convinced that they do! So, that was my Valentine’s Day Full Moon Tale.

12 Years a Slave and its Legacy for African-American Women

“Slavery is in the marrow of this country.” Dr. Cindy A. Crusto 12 Years a Slave is a movie that is racking up accolades, and I’m glad. I have seen it three times, and I thought it was such an important film that I took more than 120 students on a field trip.

It is a film that continued to marinate in my mind long after the last credits rolled. And though I have heard a number of people grumbling about another movie about slavery, I don’t see it that way. This powerful, must-see-movie was one filled with lessons for me. And I am not alone. When I read the article Watching “12 Years a Slave” Could Save Your Life by Dr. Cindy A. Crusto recently on the Root’s website, I better understood the movie’s lingering affect on me.

While I was definitely drawn into Solomon’s journey from freedom to bondage and freedom again, it is the women’s stories that resonate with me. I draw strength from these women as I see reflections of past converged into present in their characterizations. “Yes, the movie has messages about what happened in the past, but it also has important lessons for what slavery has passed down and for what it says about today,” Crusto says. There was Eliza who entered into a relationship with her master and even bore him a child naively believing that because he treated her “well” within the confines of her enslavement, that she would fare better after his death. But Eliza was sold into slavery and eventually separated from those she loved the most—her children.

How many of us are naïve to what’s going on around us, and are drinking the Kool-Aid—whatever the flavor of the day is? How many of us think that “we’ve made it” beyond the circumstances of our origins because we think our accoutrements define our success? How many of us have been rudely awakened to reality? Then there was the shrewd Mistress Shaw, a slave turned mistress who became head of the household. Unlike Eliza, Mistress Shaw did not believe that her chosen status put her on par with Whites. She accepted her role for what it was worth—a chance to get out of the field and have others wait on her. Master Shaw’s infidelities were par for the course. Mistress Shaw seemed to understand that all good things would come to an end, but she was going to ride it to the finish line.
How many of us know that there’s something better, but we go along to get along? We live by the old adage, “If we can’t beat them, we might as well join them?” And who can forget Patsey? She picked more cotton than any man, and her master proudly boasted about her skills. Being the object of

Master Epps’ obsessive affection, she brought the wrath of Mistress Epps raging jealously. Patsey’s life was so horrific that she tried to bribe Solomon into ending the life that she was too afraid to do herself. Patsey tried to forge a life on the plantation without giving into the master or his wife, and was severely punished for her actions. Patsey’s life was a living hell, and the torch of slavery burned in her soul until there was nothing left but the ashes of her former self. How many of us try to live life on our own terms, but are constantly being beat down? How many of us continue to fight against a system until it kills us or worse—we become the walking dead because our circumstances suck holes in our souls? Which, if any of these women would I have been?

The debt I owe to my ancestors cannot be repaid. I am because they were reminding me of the words of the matriarch Nana Penzant in Daughters of the Dust, “We are the descendants of those who chose to survive.” We came across the Atlantic in the bowels of the slave ship. We were bound and beaten and we survived that, but not without consequence. If I go along to get along like Eliza and Mistress Shaw, there's a consequence as a well as a steep price for resistance as in the case of Patsey. While I know that my history did not begin in slavery, slavery is an integral part of the African-American experience, so I embrace films like of 12 Years a Slave as learning tools. Crusto believes, “We should reflect on slavery to understand the psychological wounds we inherited and how we will break free of them, and what strengths we can build upon that resulted from that experience.” 12 Years a Slave is a vital piece on the history and the legacy of African-American womanhood.

12 Years a Slave is a Must-See

“For the dead and the living, we must bear witness.” Elie Wiesel I said I wasn’t going to do it, but I lied. I tried to bite my tongue and swallow the words making their way from my brain to my lips, but I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in another debate about the film 12 Years a Slave. Surprised and dismayed by the reaction, I find myself defending the film to African Americans of don’t want to see another movie about slavery. I have never heard Jewish people utter such foolishness about movies about the Holocaust.

The fact that my people don’t understand why 12 Years a Slave is a must-see film makes me sad. It’s not as if movies about slavery are rolled out on a regular basis—two within the same year in very different genres does not measure up to, too many in my book. In America, we shy away from stories about the slave trade—an integral part of American history, but often flock to see films about the Holocaust. I often wonder if we embrace the tragedy of the Holocaust, but not the Transatlantic Slave Trade because we take comfort in knowing that the atrocities of Holocaust did not happen on American soil.

As Americans we like to hold ourselves superior to the Germans, but I don’t know how when America also promoted racial superiority. Just as the Holocaust is Germany’s shame, America must accept slavery as this country’s shame. The same thought process set that allowed Hitler’s reign of terror over Jewish and other “undesirable” people in Europe was also a mindset in America. We too, had a strong eugenics movement and believed in racial superiority that was born out of the very institution that we want to people to forget and get over because it happened hundreds of years ago.

We cannot ignore the impact of slavery as its effect is still being felt today. There is a scene in the film where Solomon is lynched, and as he stands on tip toe with his life in peril, the slaves on the plantation go on about their day—timidly looking on, but saying nothing. One woman gives Solomon a drink of water before going on. I sat in horror as I digested the mindset of those who acted, but did nothing. And yet, I see this in my life all the time. The police stop young men of color and search them all the time, and the rest of us watch and say nothing. I watched 12 years a slave to learn. I watched to pay homage to my ancestors. I watched to draw strength, to draw courage, to have faith. I am because of who they were.

There is no shame in me for being a descendant of slaves. I am a product of those who survived such horrific circumstances, and I’m thankful to those like Steve McQueen who tell the stories that need to be told.