Beyond a day

The older and wiser I become, the less I worry about. There was a time in my life when I grew incredibly anxious over December 25. In elementary school I got real worked up about the gifts my parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles had gotten for me. In middle school my concern shifted to the gifts that I would buy for my friends, trying my hardest to calculate a gift just nice enough to look good, but that did not cost a great deal more than what they were spending on me. In high school I worried about what I would wear to the big family dinner; I had an innate desire to impress all of my cousins who lived a couple of hours, but what seemed like a whole world, away from me in Saginaw. I had to be sure that my attire matched the lifestyles of the rich and famous persona they viewed my family and I as for a number of reasons. DRAMA! A comedian I saw perform, once joked that a drunken man must have come up with Christmas and the rest of us were idiots for following suit. Really, what kind of sense does it make to take a tree that naturally grows in nature, cut it down, put lights on it, and put it inside your house and then put big socks (stockings) on your fireplace? Not to mention that it is ludicrous to feel that on Christ’s birthday, all of us should get gifts. I don’t know about you, but that just would not fly at my birthday party.

Around age 17, my parents began to realize the fixation we held on the world’s idea of how we should spend this precious day in the life of every Christian. This year I am proud to say that my entire family was freed from the commercial traditions surrounding Christmas. We recognize the significance of this event in our lives, the day our Savior was born. But we are more focused on the advent, the second coming of Christ our Lord, and how we live our lives in preparation of this, than we are on a single day in time.

During this time of year we have great temptation to get caught up in tradition and singular events. While skimming the various statuses of my facebook friends, I came across many proclaiming resolutions for the New Year. A few even talked about relationships they were leaving in 2007 because they were not worth bringing into the New Year. But who says we have to wait until a big silver ball drops in Times Square to change our lives? Now is the time to live your best life, to be the best you.

What would happen if we looked past the traditionalism and trivialness of events and lived our lives in this and every season based on true principles? What would happen if we forgot about the tree and gifts and spent our time worshipping God and learning to be more Christ-like at Christmas? What would happen if we stopped waiting on the world to tell us that it was okay to make a change, and realized that each new breath we take is a new beginning and a chance to do better? Certainly we would not see the world that we see today. A world where the Christmas and New Years season brings on more divorces, suicides, and bankruptcies, than any other time of the year.

I encourage you to join me in living beyond the day. I will still attend a New Year’s celebration at my church next Monday and I enjoyed every morsel of ham on the 25th, but I realize that real celebrations must first take place in my heart and mind. The party and fixings are simply outward expressions of what I already feel and know to be true inside. I am living out the true meaning of this season, every day of my life.

In the Pain

Integrity is what you do when no one else is looking. My father preached a whole sermon on that sentence once, and it stuck with me forever. Like so many others I had become a master of “saving face” by the age of six. I first learned to put on a front for the mother board at my church, later it was for my parents, or teachers, or even friends. It’s not that I lived two different lives; I just had certain behaviors that I reserved for certain settings. How disintegrable of me. It’s easy to be good in public, but when you’re behind closed doors, it’s a bit more of a test. The truth is you don’t know what you have until it is put to the test.

I have always been a purse girl. The vanity in me admires the fact that Kimmora Lee Simmons has a whole closet in her house, just for handbags. But that’s another blog for another time. When I received my first Christian Dior purse for my 16th birthday, it was a total surprise. I felt like the queen of the world the first time I carried it to school. I knew it was real, but the girls at school didn’t. And they certainly were not going to take my word for it. So, with my consent, my purse went through the fake test. After careful inspection it was the general consensus that my purse was indeed straight off the shelf of some high priced boutique that makes money off insecure/unhappy people trying to buy their way to a fulfilling life. The fact that my purse passed the test, made its genuineness even more exhilarating. Again, my obvious materialism here is another issue, for another blog.

The last time I wrote I was preparing to embark on a search for unspeakable joy. Per advice from a good friend, for seven days I started and ended my day by writing down ten things for which I am thankful. The lists were not hard at all. They spanned the gamut of tangible things like shelter and a good pair of Uggs (a critical necessity in Upstate New York), to things that can’t be touched or felt, like an open mind and talent. So I was smiling for pretty much the entire week. But it’s easy to smile when dwelling on the awesome things that God has done for you.

When I knew that my search for unspeakable joy was over, I was in the middle of a hot mess. Professors gone nuts, peers acting incompetent, folks getting on my last nerve, friends not understanding, even my body was disagreeing with me. Normally I make it through these times with chocolate, some crying, and a mindset that this too shall pass. But if I had captured this joy that I longed for so deeply, I would be able to get through this rough patch differently. I saw God in these times. I saw Him shaping me and molding me in these new trials for which I had no control over. I thanked Him. I thanked Him for the incompetence and insanity and chaos. I thanked Him because I realized that this was apart of my test. He was only giving me what I had asked for. I was not going to find it basking in everything that was going right. If I had it, it would show up when I was engulfed in all the wrong. When I had no joy to pull from, except that deep down inside. That unspeakable joy.

It seems weird, but, in the pain, that’s where I found my unspeakable joy.

A search for unspeakable joy

Paradise

    is in your mind.

 

As I sat across from the nine year old girl, dress stained from being worn too many times and washed too few, stomach growling, her arms buckled under the weight of her youngest brother. It seemed every time she got accustomed to the load of one, her mother would have another baby. One thing stood out amidst this tattered beauty, her smile. Her smile was aesthetically pleasing but it was something beyond the seemingly effortless curl of her lips that made it beautiful. This girl, whose name I cannot remember, was the oldest child in a family of nine that my church had recently adopted. The parents were recovering drug addicts, neither of them spoke English, they had no formal education and they felt no shame in burdening their oldest child with responsibilities I could not imagine grappling with even as 19-yr. old self-proclaimed "adult".

 

So the fact that she could smile, so genuine, so sweet, was a miracle to me. She possessed unspeakable joy. The kind of joy they talk about in church hymns "the world didn't give it, and the world can't take it away". She was thankful for life, even though it was one of poverty. She was thankful for the love she received from caring for her younger siblings, even though it meant she could not live a life typical of an elementary school girl. She was thankful for an education, even though it was a far cry from what she should have received. She was thankful for good food, even if there was not enough to curb her hunger.

 

My church lost contact with the family after the parents stopped attending church and relapsed. Somehow I do not fear for this girl, because she possesses a trait that some of the wealthiest, most "stable" people in the world will never master. She possesses a spiritual capability that will supersede the trials of her hard knock life.

 

In trying to grasp my own unspeakable joy I am beginning an experiment of sorts this week. Starting tomorrow, I will begin and end my day, by writing down ten things I am thankful for. At the end of this week, I will evaluate my data and draw some sort of conclusion for my next blog. I expect to find that my days will pass much easier because this behavioral change will undoubtedly shift my mindset. After all, as India tells us, it doesn't cost a thing to smile, you don't have to pay to laugh, and you gotta thank God for that.

PUSH

Have you ever been uncomfortable? I mean really uncomfortable, like when you're in the car in rush hour traffic and you feel like your bladder should have burst ten minutes ago. Or when the indigestion from the third helping you had kicks in before the pepto bismal you downed. Pregnant women go through these and more symptoms, but they couldn't be happier. I'm sure they would rather go without the constipation, vomiting, swollen extremities, leg cramps, backaches, and insomnia, but it's the delivery day that keeps them from losing it on those sleepless nights. They know that their pain is preparation for the new life that they'll soon bring into the world. But what if the baby never came?

Over the past couple of weeks I've observed that most people in the world are like expecting mothers who never deliver. We each have a special vision inside of us that we were born with, our purpose and passion. We go through trials and tribulations, like the pregnant woman's discomforts, because we too have something inside of us that is not meant to be there permanently, something that is meant to come into the world.

So what happens when we ignore the baby (our vision, passion and purpose)? We decide that it is too big for us to birth alone, or not big enough, so we don't allow it entry into the world.

What happens when we lose the courage to deliver the baby because we are afraid or too lazy to raise it once we actually birth it into the world?

What happens when we don't take the time to notice that we have a baby of our own and we spend our whole lives nursing and growing a vision that was meant for someone else?

Well, you get the world that we live in now. Full of lack and poverty, more problems than solutions, and a whole lot of visions that are way past due.

What makes your baby leap? Find out what it is that you're passionate about, what it is that you'd do if you never got paid and never got credit. If you have discovered your purpose in life, stay strong, and have the courage to endure the pregnancy pains until it is time for your vision to be released. If you're one of those people who is way past due, find the courage to deliver that vision. You owe it to your Creator, to yourself, and to the world around you. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and PUSH!

Megan

Every part of me wants to try to go to sleep right now. But if I did, I'd be having nightmares. I'll be 19 at the end of this month, finally catching up to most of my friends. We're all just around the same age as Megan Williams. I don't know if Megan Williams likes to watch "The Hills" like me and my friends. I don't know if she shops at Forever 21, or if she's as afraid of bugs as we are. I don't even know if she worships the same God. What I do know for sure, is that she never imagined being shot at the way she was and that she could not have deserved it. No, Megan was not physically shot at with a gun (that we know of), but the warped souls that attacked her took their best shot at ruining her. Their intentions superseded the inhumanity of physical death. They wanted to decompose Megan's truest existence her spirit, and her soul.

My soul ails tonight because I am so painfully aware of the logistics of a situation like this. Soon, this case will no longer receive even the minuscule headline coverage it currently has. The mass media will continue to report the story below its worthiness. People will soon forget. The courts will be kind. Outrageous and irrelevant ideas that Megan was asking for her torture or in some way shares responsibility with her predators will come up again and again. The fact that the reaction would be absolutely different if Megan was a White woman assaulted by Blacks, or even a White woman assaulted by other Whites, will not bother most people. And people will not pause to think that Megan is only one case in so many like hers that have already been dismissed from our social phyche. In effect, the system will do the job it does so well. Because, in this reality, Megan, like me or one of my friends or classmates, is just another Black girl.

I will not allow this woman to be forgotten. I will remember her everyday because she is permanently etched into my heart. She could have been me.

I am confident that Megan is more than a conqueror and it is only a matter of time before the God in her will rise up in triumph over this audacious attempt. Her insuperable essence can already be seen rising in her decision to go public with her story and even be showed on camera. I salute her. I honor her. I pay tribute to her. Because in my reality, she is worth it, even if she's just another Black girl like me.

The "Other Woman"

We’ve all resented her at some point. For Jackie O, it was Marilyn Monroe. Faith Evans had Lil’ Kim. And for the women on Maury and Jerry Springer it always seems to be a cousin or not so distant relative. Regardless, the “other woman” tends to trigger the same responses in every woman she affects, the release of a surging can of whoop ass, and/or, crying, a whole lot of crying.

What of this “other woman”? This woman could be your hair stylist, a fellow church member, your favorite shopping partner, but you find out she’s banging your man and all of a sudden she sprouts red horns. Is she more than just the chick we love to hate and the heifer we blame for our failed relationships? Let’s examine it.

There are two kinds of mistresses, the ones who know their status and the ones who are fooled into believing they are his one and only. There are women like home girl from Diary of a Mad Black Woman who are way out of order. Then there are ladies who are not aware that they are the “other women” at all, like one of my personal favorites, Meredith Grey (Grey’s Anatomy). For all they knew, they were in perfectly monogamous relationships. In that case, who’s to say who actually has dibs on the dog? Is it the girl who’s been being played longer? Is it the woman he spends more money on, or, the one he spends more time with?

I am not making excuses for anyone. Cheating is never okay. I am saying that the “other woman”, is, well…a woman. She’s one of God’s children. She’s equally as human as you are. She needs love just like you do. Maybe in a moment of weakness she let the man sweet talk her into doing something she knew was wrong, and that moment, turned into an affair. Maybe she’s just trying to support her purse addiction and figures, what his girl doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Maybe she’s hated you since the third grade and just can’t stand the thought of you being happy. Maybe she’s at such a low point that she believes she is not worthy of a man of her own. In any case, she is still a woman.

The fact of the matter is, cheating is irrational. It makes no sense. So I am done trying to rationalize it. With my last boyfriend, when I was far too young to know any better, I did not know if I was the home wrecker, or, if it was his baby mama. What I know for sure, is that there will always be men who cheat. So the “other woman” will always exist. In the mean time I’ll try to live up to my Christian goal and love all of God’s children unconditionally. I don’t need anymore reasons to hate my sister.

The Best Thing

The best thing since sliced bread. Like any other American, I’ve heard that phrase my entire life, but never took the time to think about what it really means, until recently. What could possibly be so good about sliced bread, that the very concept of it claims its own national idiom? Would it kill us to actually have to use that marvelous tool, called a knife, and cut our bread into slices ourselves. I know that recently we have crossed over into an all new level of laziness in this country, to the point where we even want our cars to drive themselves. But even the self-parking Lexus has its clear advantages. For one thing, most people, me included, can barely parallel park. But anyone can slice bread. So where’s the advantage there?

The fact is, the hoopla isn’t about the bread; it’s about everything else. We like the fact that someone has taken the time to do something so menial for us. It makes us feel important, special. Not to mention, it makes life easier. Could you imagine how much longer it would take for us to get out the door in the morning if we had to slice our bread, toast it, and butter it? A quick P&J sandwich would no longer be quick. Of course we’re fully capable of slicing our bread but isn’t it great that we don’t have to risk cutting ourselves or making an imperfect slice because it’s already done for us?

It’s no wonder they say good men are the best thing since sliced bread. They bring something to the table that cannot be replaced. It’s not so much what they do, as it is the fact that they do it, and do it cheerfully. When my dad pays my tuition and my car note, when my little brother pumps my gas, when my date opens the door for me and carries my shopping bags and picks up the tab at the end of the day, that’s the best. It makes me feel treasured, protected; and it makes life so much easier.

Don’t think for a minute that I’m undermining the power of a sister. Sure we can pay our own bills, kill the spiders under our beds, feed our own purse and shoe addictions, change our own flat tires, sport our own bling, pump our own gas, open up our own doors, even satisfy our own healthy sensual appetites (as quiet as it’s kept). But it’s just so much better when God sends us someone who wants to do all of those things for us, and enjoys every minute of it. It’s the greatest. It’s…the best thing since sliced bread.

Here’s to all the men taking care of home. Any man who knows how to treat the women in his life like queens, is definitely a king. You are loved and greatly appreciated.

Needy

Opposites attract. Yin needs yang. Even when it comes to sex, it’s all about the birds and the bees. Everything that we learn about relationships, the joining of two beings under some common clause, revolves around the central concept of one being complementing another. Momma n’em may not have explained it in the best way, but they knew what they were talking about. In all of my genuine love journeys with God’s children I’ve found that I am drawn to something in the other soul that I lack in my own.

Of course there’s my most recent “love” interest (now history) who has such a no non-sense attitude about life that he handles everything like Lebron James shoots three pointers. It’s done with such finesse, such precision, such soul; you can’t help but be turned on and awe-inspired all at the same time. This man doesn’t live life, he executes it. So far from my more emotional approach to things. Even my mother, who’s intellect is so brilliant that she can analyze a complex situation in a matter of minutes, has a mind that operates almost exactly contradictory to my own. My Aunt Rosalind who I know is my very own God sent angel, has such a compassionate spirit that she loves with more than her heart. She loves with her mind and with her work and even her hair. Her beautiful braids, the results of an 18-hour production process, are her choice, not because she wants to be included in some trend, but because she wants to express her love and dedication to the people she represents. Yes, hers are truly locks of love. Such compassion, ebbed into the very essence, is something I know I don’t have, for sure.

When I went to college the script was flipped. In one of my most important relationships, I found myself the leading lady. My friend was the one inspired, motivated, awe-struck. I have so much that she seems to lack. Soon this dear friendship grew into something that began to change me. My friend was panting for love, acceptance, validation…all the things important in life. In her desperation she made decisions that required me to love and give in a way that I was not used to. There were days when I gave all of my positive energy to her, and she left her negative energy in its place. I was exhausted. I couldn’t understand why someone so precious would make such destructive decisions over and over again. And by the end of my first year of college, I’d had enough.

Recently this friendship took a very interesting turn and I gave up on it. It was this rough time that caused me to re-examine the situation. Was this relationship as one-sided as I thought? Perhaps there was apart of me that needed to be needed, just as much as my friend needed someone to depend on. If this is the case, she was my savior, just as much as I was her’s. Regardless of the specifics, there was give and take. And so I know that even though this hasn't been an easy friendship, it is not one-sided.

Is there someone in your life that you can’t figure out why God placed there? Maybe you have a relative who depends on you for everything. Remember that every relationship, every person, has its purpose. Be encouraged in your well doing. Stand by your friend, your relative, your spouse. And love them through whatever it is that’s hindering them. Even God created man, so that He could be in relationship with him. God does most of the work. He created us in His image, and if that weren’t enough, He wakes us up every morning and shows us new mercies. But the beauty of the relationship is when we, His children, as lacking as we are, worship Him in spirit and truth.

At this point I’m not sure whether or not this story has a happy ending. I haven’t patched things up with my friend, but I have begun to deal with my anger towards her. I cannot curse that which God has ordained. I know my friend has great potential and I hope that one day she realizes how priceless she is and never forgets it. Until then, I can’t give up. After all, God hasn’t given up on me.

Le Debut

The only thing worse than me waiting forever to start this blog is the fact that, well, I started it, but I didn't actually start it. I got caught up in this sticky web of procrastination that got bigger and bigger the more I fed into it. First I didn't start because I couldn't think of a name that I liked. Then I held off a little longer because I didn't feel that I had anything to say. That's a load of crap. So then it morphed into, oh, I've got something to say, but I don't know quite how to say it. Then I thought, why am I stressing, who's going to actually read this thing anyway? Well, my procrastination is finally over. Audience or no audience...I'm talking.


I suppose the best way to start anything is to let people get a feel of where I'm coming from. I could say that I'm a black girl born outside of Atlanta and raised in Detroit. Match that with my name, Timeka, and you've got the seed of a fully blossoming ivy with leaves and leaves of assumptions whose venom has the power to taint everything I write from now on. Or I could say that I'm a Christian. I don't have a denomination. I pride myself on having a personal relationship with God and not a monotonous religion that I practice on Sundays to make me feel better about the crap I pull Monday through Saturday. If you think you've summed me up already, I'm afraid there's more. I graduated from an all girls catholic high school. And when my friends were partying well into the morning after senior prom I had to be sure to get home in time to catch the bus at 5am the next morning to the National Catholic Forensics Tournament. My dad has been a pastor for the past 15 years. I'm the middle child; the only girl. And there have been points in my life when I've actually wanted to be: one of the Olsen Twins, Ginger Spice, and Cher Horowitz (the main character of hit film and television series "Clueless"). Now you can peg me. Not that easy it. I'm pretty sure that even if you did come up with a clever box to put me in...you'd soon realize that somehow, I just didn't fit. I know it's confusing. Hell, I confuse myself sometimes.

Some of the boxes I've been pushed into were comfortable for me. I felt like I fit. So I stayed. There was that pre-teen snob who tells herself and everyone else that she's better than them, but secretly compares herself to Cosmo Girl characters. Then there was that box for girls too "blessed" for their own good. I played the role for my parents, but when it came to the boys, I let my double d's do the talking and collected numbers just for the hell of it. Okay, I may be being a little harsh on myself there. Then there was that box that I practically jumped into head first and tucked myself in nice and neat. The "woe is me" depression box. That was a good place to hide.

So I'm sure I've gone on for far too long and I guess I should reach an actual point. I'll post something new at least once a week and I'll make every post as real, relational, and rousing as I can. The title La Voix Femme (literally meaning, the woman's voice) comes from a similar title of a speech written by a phenomenal woman who was an abolitionist, suffragist, and awesome motivation to anyone who takes the time to study her. Aint I A Woman is a speech Sister Sojourner Truth delivered at a women's rights convention in Akron, Ohio in 1851. She told of the contrasts between herself and that which men (white men that is) consider to be a woman. There are many contrasts, she explained, but she is still a woman.

Throughout the journey that I take in this blog, I promise there will be contrasts. There will be things that just don't add up. There will be unexpected twists and turns and predictable pathways. In any case, I'm still a woman. I'm still a child of God. I'm still a sista. And yes, I still listen to my Spice Girls album occassionally. Ain't mine a voice worth hearing?