Beyond the average

Are you an 80 or a 20? You know, Mr. Perry’s concept of the neat boxes that every person with a romantic companion fits into. Either you’re the conniving heifer who spends all the money, doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, but whose utter irresistibility renders her the mistress-turned-main chick – that makes you a 20. Or you’re the bend over backwards for my man, brings home the bacon and fries it up in a pan without trampling too hard on his innate need to feel important and needed, with some unforgiveable flaw, in Jill’s case about 100 extra pounds (Why Did I Get Married?)– congratulations, you’re an 80. Which means you’re 80% good enough for your man, 8 times out of 10 he’ll actually be active in the relationship and will only sleep around with every 2 out of 10 twenty percenters that come along.
Right?
Ummm…no.
I enjoy six figures just as much as the next hopeful college student, but enough is enough with the numbers. They are not the end all. They provide us with a way of thinking about things, like if the discount on the BCBG booties at the Nordstrom’s Anniversary sale is a higher percentage than the reduction on the MAXX New York clutch. At the end of the day, you make the choice.
Numbers shouldn’t depress us or give us the final forecast for our futures. The CNN Black in America Report brings to light the potentially fatal obsession Americans have with numbers--stats. I recognize CNN for its attempt to show the world what it’s like to walk in the shoes of over 40 million people in what will end up being less than 8 hours of film (I mean really, it just isn’t possible). But, the damage that these numbers can do is incredible. If I am a young, successful, black female college student, what am I supposed to think about my prospects on getting married in this lifetime? If I buy into the numbers, I either have to throw out my Modern Bride magazines, or, start figuring out how I’ll explain to my kids that mommy’s black, but daddy’s white because all the black men were in prison, or dead, or just dead broke. What if I was planning on moving to D.C.? Do I scrap my dream and move to Atlanta because CNN’s stats say the odds of me finding a HIV-negative mate are slim to none?
When we are constantly confronted with a bleak picture, we tend to accept it as reality. But numbers do a poor job of capturing the reality behind them – the lives, the people, the souls. They didn’t wake up one day and become statistics, decisions were made. No matter how bleak or bright the picture the numbers paint, we ultimately choose. Even in times when personal situations reflect someone else’s decision made without our consultation, we choose how we respond. We choose before they have a chance to put us into someone’s reported percentages. God just doesn’t leave us hanging like that.
I’m 100% black. 100% woman. 100% God’s child. But, in essence, 100% Timeka. And I’ll be damned if my man calls me an 80. Regardless of whether they appear on a bank statement, in a CNN report, or on the (ever-changing) scale, numbers do little to sum me up.
How about you?

Traveling Light

I didn’t remember putting it there in the first place, but last week I looked for it anyway. I looked hard. I looked long. I got frustrated and confused when I peered deeper into the mirror but still couldn’t see it. That mark, that sign, that unmistakable neon marquee etched somewhere between my brows and hairline that told boys, “choose me, lie to me, let me be the one you disrespect.”

Despite some not-so-happily ending experiences with guys and relationships that suggest otherwise, there is no neon sign on my forehead. Neither are there signs on some of my closest female friends who have recently experienced similar woes. We are all beautiful (which requires an appeal that radiates from the inside out), successful, grounded, fun, intelligent, ambitious, driven, loving women with our own unique personalities. We attract men just fine, the problem lies in the fact that the ones we actually find worthy and compatible enough to devote time too, are ridiculously inconsistent, inconsiderate, fickle, selfish and sometimes dishonest.
I should warn you now that this blog may seem a bit angrier than others. But rest assured that I am not bitter, just disappointed.

I’m disappointed in the fact that some men can claim to be one thing, and act like another. I’m disappointed in their blatant refusal to devote to one woman joyously and whole-heartedly. I'm disappointed in their dishonesty in sharing their intentions.

This weekend a good male friend of mine, David, reminded me that there are good men out there. That has never been something I’ve been confused about. My father is a good man. My favorite uncle is a good man. My closest male friends are good men. And I know there’s one out there pegged just for me. I’ll marry a good man. But that gives me little consolation right now; while I’m barely 19 and way too involved in finishing the semester with my head on straight while making dean’s list and juggling my internship and three student orgs to think about a good man 10 years from now. I, like my friends, want comfort now.

Then David said something that I think about all the time. He said, all guys were good guys at some point, until something happened. Someone hurt them, someone said something, did something, didn’t do something, something happened that made them shift. What he was talking about was the motive and reasoning behind the action. Now I’m in no rush to justify mistreatment, disrespect is disrespect. But the optimist in me believes that behind every selfish deed is something deeper. Hurting people hurt people.

When we carry baggage from past hurts every future relationship is affected. I don’t know when my guy will come, or what he’ll look like, but I do know that I want him to see me for me. And I want to see him for him. So in the name of karma and Godly principle I’m traveling lighter. I’m dropping all of my baggage. All the extra stuff that I’ve carried along the way and never needed. All the regrets and disappointments and worries, I’m losing that dead weight and keeping myself open to hope and love. I don’t have to tell you that it’s easier said than done, but I’ve started. And so far, I’m thinking this light, airy look is definitely my style. Could you stand to drop a few pounds?

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.