Let me repeat that with more clarity: Don't buy the latest gym shoes with Dwayne Wade's, Derrick Rose's, Michael Jordan's, or anybody else's name on them. Rather, buy the damn stock of the company that's making the gym shoes for you kid(s). How about that?!!
I got rocket-pissed again when I saw the headline on the front page of the (October 15th, 2012) Chicago Sun-Times newspaper that reads: Mass Appeal. Dwayne Wade is attempting to help Chinese firm Li-Ning join Nike, Reebok and Adidas as global athletic shoe titans." The operative words here are: "Dwayne Wade is attempting to help Chinese..."
On Page 3, Dwayne Wade is standing next to a little China man (in Beijing, China?) announcing his partnership with Li-Ning--who is a "three-time Olympic Gold Medalist gymnast for China." Mr. Li-Ning is 49 years old and is the owner of the company (that will make/brand the Dwayne Wade gym shoes) that earns $1 billion in revenues annually.
Question:
Is Mr. Li-Ning, whose company is based in China where Dwayne Wades' brand gym shoes will be manufactured, is banking on black people, especially black mothers to be a multi-million/multi-billion dollar source of [annual] USA revenues for the Dwayne Wade brand gym shoes?
Answer:
HELL YEAH! Why do you think Dwayne Wade is standing there in the picture with Mr. Li-Ning?!! Mr. Li-Ning knows we love "our baby boy" Dwayne; and he is banking our continued economic stupidity, as well as on us still being asleep economically. Why wouldn't he? We--us, black people, and black women--keep turning everybody except ourselves into multi-millionaires/billionaires.
2nd Question:
Why isn't Dwayne Wade the owner/manufacturer of his own brand name gym shoes, in America--right here in Chicago?
2nd Answer:
Untrained! Too stupid?! Whatever the [real] answer is, it will never satisfy the mind of logical thinking, economically astute people because he has the money to do it. Go figure!
Third Question:
Will Dwayne Wade have distributorship rights here in the United States when Mr. Li-Ning decides to intro Dwayne's brand of gym shoes in the U.S. market?
Third Answer:
HELL NO! I'll bet my ranch and yours that the China man did not and will not give Dwayne--or anybody black and male like him--distributorship rights. We should be totally pissed-off about this!
So check this out: Blacks get no jobs because the shoes will be made in China. Dwayne or any other black businessperson in the U.S. will not have distributorship rights. But, yet, Mr. Li-Ning believes that Dwayne Wade's name tagged to the brand will influence us to buy the gym shoes. His assumption is based on our pattern of being stupid-ass consumers--FOR REAL!
Fourth Question:
Are we--us, black women--going to continue to be "damned idiots" and make this China man rich? Are we?!!
The Answer Should Be:
HELL NALL! Not one black female, harboring a vagina, [some] kids, and some money, better not buy one pair of those gym shoes--UNLESS OF COURSE--we--us, black women--get first crack at being distributors of Dwayne Wade's brand gym shoes; and we're going to let Dwayne Wade know that. OUR BABIES NEED JOBS! And it is our [collective] job to make sure we create jobs and they (our babies) get jobs. Now, how about that?!!!
Let me say something here: We are done being buffoons (people "who behave in a stupid and annoying way") when it comes to how, where, and with whom we spend our combined multi-billions of consumer dollars--WE'RE DONE WITH THAT! We must negotiate economic deals with everybody on the planet. They'll have to cut us in, or we will have to cut them out (of our purses).
MEMO FROM CHICAGO [IL, USA] TO MR. LI-NING IN BEIJING, CHINA:
Your brand initiatives director, Mr. Brian Cupps (a white boy from America who doesn’t employ black people either) stated: He "think it's very important [that Chicago will be a target market because]. Dwayne has established himself in Miami, but Chicago is his roots. That's where he's from...so we won't forget that."
What Dwayne nor Mr. Cupps couldn't have possibly told you is that we're (the people with the money in the black community--black women) are gearing up not to buy your new partnership brand with Dwayne Wade unless you negotiate distributorships with black businesswomen/businessmen in the U.S.--and not Jessie L. Jackson and his crowd of carpet-begging, do nothing for the black community cohorts. Be ready to send your representative to negotiate with our representative, and we'll let you know or show you whether or not your new brand with Dwayne Wade "can buck the trend" [of others having failed].
Sincerely, Saishe Brokesom (USA)
P.S. Mr. Li-Ning will get the memo because someone in China is viewing my blog.
Holla!
Monday, October 15, 2012
Your Son Sells Drugs. You Benefit. It's Alright With You!
What do you all think about [the]mothers who know their children are selling drugs? Have you ever thought about why they go along with it? (Note: I'm not ignoring fathers. But this fight is between me and my "sisters" who are laying back, living large from the money they receive from their kid selling drugs.)
The answer is a "no-brainer:" Mothers benefit from their sons [and daughters]selling drugs. That's right! They receive cash money. Regular big money! They're "alright" with it, which means they're alright with the daily shootings and murders of innocent people, mostly our children throughout their (our)communities,totalling 20, 30, 40, 50, and 60+ people every week.--all year, every year, for years. These statistics are shocking, horrifying, and mind and heart-numbing.
What will it take for these mothers to arrive at a point of not being "alright" with this?
When are we as communities going to come together as mothers to put a plan of action into play to give our sons [and daughters] economic alternatives to selling drugs, gang-banging,dying in the streets, and killing [other]human-beings?
What is it going to take for us to arrive at the point of wanting to help our own children?
We (us, our people, our communities) have exceeded critical-mass and are currently in a state of clear and ever present danger; and we must began the process to save this present up-and-coming generation of children, and generations to come.
I don't have all of the answers, but if you haven't read the articles I have written in this blog pryor to this one, you should. Why? Because I've covered what we must do as a people. I'll be writing more about what we must do as women to steer our people into change-for-the-better. We just simply have to get [it] started.
The Fate of Drug-Dealers and Gang-Bangers in My Family: In our family, we turn[ed]family gang members and drug-dealers in to the authorities--and their mamas' to if they were in our way. These were hard choices, but necessary to save the "whole," i.e., the lives of us as well as those in and around [their/our] communities. We had already lost one really brilliant 3-year old girl (in our family)to murder on a street corner in 1992. After that, there were no "sacred cows" in our family. Those who engaged in vice, we turned them, their drugs, and their guns in to law enforcement--as a measure to save them from themselves and save us from them.
We advocate and offer family-member young people support for educational pursuits, and hire them to do odd jobs for us until they find gainful employment. If they don't go along with the family plan and they get in trouble, we engage "tough-love" by not making one effort to get them out of trouble. We allow them suffer the consequences of their actions by experiencing what it's like not to have taken our advise to follow the positive path we tried to lead them to and steer them on; as well as what it's like to "be out there" in trouble with no one to turn to, especially among their so-called, no-good, gang-banging, drug-dealing, murdering friends. In every instance, when we engaged this strategy, we had no more problems with the gang-banging, drug dealers in our family. They got on the "straight."
Example of How Effective The "Family Plan" Worked: One of my nephews while going to school is Mississippi went to jail for selling drugs at the age of 17 (in Mississippi--of all places. Imagine that!). My sister, living here in Chicago flew straight into panic mode. She called me first--the family "purse"--and I flew straight into her butt telling her "you must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to help you get your son out of jail after I promised him that I've never spend a dime for a lawyer or to get him or any of them out of jail--even my own." (Tough-love in play.)
Then she had another one of our sisters call me, and I not only flew into her face, I flew all-the-way-up-her-butt because she was a drug addict--didn't qualify to talk to me. She never called me back to discuss the subject after that.
Next, a Mississippi-located relative called in a conference call with my mother and my sister (whose son was in jail). I singled my mother out first saying to her: "Mama! You know where I'm headed with this, right?"
Mama responded: "I tried to tell them before they called you."
"Okay," I said to her. "Hang-up now, because I'm going to have to be nasty because no-in-the-nice isn't working right through here." My mother, having an excellent sense of when to hold them and "when to fold them," hung-up.
I went on to remind my sister and my nephew's paternal grandmother that since he was a little boy (9/10 years old), I told him many times that if he or any of our kids decide to sell drugs and go to jail, I, nor my mother would be there to help him/them. Now that he had made good on what he was not suppose to do, I'm making good on what I promised him I would not do. After that, I ran my long-distance phone bill up to an unimaginable proportion by calling all the monied-up people in the family demanding that they let him stay in jail (this was his first offense).
My sister was devastated. She was "my girl." This is the sister that taught me how to fight--how to physically accomplish knocking people out. We were real close. We hung-out together more than with anybody else in the family. But then, she was madder [at me] than an untamed rabid dog. She didn't speak to me for months because I told her "the purse" is closed and my bank is on "lockdown."
When my nephew called me from jail, and asked me: "Auntie: How can you tell people not to help me.?"
My reply was: "With my mouth fueled by determination. And, how could you have the nerve to sell drugs to an undercover police officer--in Mississippi--, get caught, go to jail, then expect me to help you? I'm person who promised you I'd never help you get out of jail for anything illegal you've done. And when you get out, don't call me until you graduate from high-school, then college. My best advice is for you to call your friends. Better yet: Call your supplier. He's pursed-up. Ask him to post your bail and get you a lawyer. Call me back and let know what he says."
He stated: "What friends? They're not going to help me."
My response: "Now that you know it, I hope you benefit from knowing it. Good-bye."
He spent 120 days in jail; released on 1 year probation; and has since never gotten into any more trouble with the law.
Just suppose my family lacked the resolve to allow him to stay in jail, without a lawyer, during his "first" offense. He would have gotten out of jail and continued selling drugs. But because we did have the necessary mental fortitude and courage to let him suffer the consequences of his actions without our assistance, he abandoned his drug-dealing life-style (and his enabling paternal grandmother was broke--once again.)
End of story.
Saishe Brokesom on the real! Holla-back!
The answer is a "no-brainer:" Mothers benefit from their sons [and daughters]selling drugs. That's right! They receive cash money. Regular big money! They're "alright" with it, which means they're alright with the daily shootings and murders of innocent people, mostly our children throughout their (our)communities,totalling 20, 30, 40, 50, and 60+ people every week.--all year, every year, for years. These statistics are shocking, horrifying, and mind and heart-numbing.
What will it take for these mothers to arrive at a point of not being "alright" with this?
When are we as communities going to come together as mothers to put a plan of action into play to give our sons [and daughters] economic alternatives to selling drugs, gang-banging,dying in the streets, and killing [other]human-beings?
What is it going to take for us to arrive at the point of wanting to help our own children?
We (us, our people, our communities) have exceeded critical-mass and are currently in a state of clear and ever present danger; and we must began the process to save this present up-and-coming generation of children, and generations to come.
I don't have all of the answers, but if you haven't read the articles I have written in this blog pryor to this one, you should. Why? Because I've covered what we must do as a people. I'll be writing more about what we must do as women to steer our people into change-for-the-better. We just simply have to get [it] started.
The Fate of Drug-Dealers and Gang-Bangers in My Family: In our family, we turn[ed]family gang members and drug-dealers in to the authorities--and their mamas' to if they were in our way. These were hard choices, but necessary to save the "whole," i.e., the lives of us as well as those in and around [their/our] communities. We had already lost one really brilliant 3-year old girl (in our family)to murder on a street corner in 1992. After that, there were no "sacred cows" in our family. Those who engaged in vice, we turned them, their drugs, and their guns in to law enforcement--as a measure to save them from themselves and save us from them.
We advocate and offer family-member young people support for educational pursuits, and hire them to do odd jobs for us until they find gainful employment. If they don't go along with the family plan and they get in trouble, we engage "tough-love" by not making one effort to get them out of trouble. We allow them suffer the consequences of their actions by experiencing what it's like not to have taken our advise to follow the positive path we tried to lead them to and steer them on; as well as what it's like to "be out there" in trouble with no one to turn to, especially among their so-called, no-good, gang-banging, drug-dealing, murdering friends. In every instance, when we engaged this strategy, we had no more problems with the gang-banging, drug dealers in our family. They got on the "straight."
Example of How Effective The "Family Plan" Worked: One of my nephews while going to school is Mississippi went to jail for selling drugs at the age of 17 (in Mississippi--of all places. Imagine that!). My sister, living here in Chicago flew straight into panic mode. She called me first--the family "purse"--and I flew straight into her butt telling her "you must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to help you get your son out of jail after I promised him that I've never spend a dime for a lawyer or to get him or any of them out of jail--even my own." (Tough-love in play.)
Then she had another one of our sisters call me, and I not only flew into her face, I flew all-the-way-up-her-butt because she was a drug addict--didn't qualify to talk to me. She never called me back to discuss the subject after that.
Next, a Mississippi-located relative called in a conference call with my mother and my sister (whose son was in jail). I singled my mother out first saying to her: "Mama! You know where I'm headed with this, right?"
Mama responded: "I tried to tell them before they called you."
"Okay," I said to her. "Hang-up now, because I'm going to have to be nasty because no-in-the-nice isn't working right through here." My mother, having an excellent sense of when to hold them and "when to fold them," hung-up.
I went on to remind my sister and my nephew's paternal grandmother that since he was a little boy (9/10 years old), I told him many times that if he or any of our kids decide to sell drugs and go to jail, I, nor my mother would be there to help him/them. Now that he had made good on what he was not suppose to do, I'm making good on what I promised him I would not do. After that, I ran my long-distance phone bill up to an unimaginable proportion by calling all the monied-up people in the family demanding that they let him stay in jail (this was his first offense).
My sister was devastated. She was "my girl." This is the sister that taught me how to fight--how to physically accomplish knocking people out. We were real close. We hung-out together more than with anybody else in the family. But then, she was madder [at me] than an untamed rabid dog. She didn't speak to me for months because I told her "the purse" is closed and my bank is on "lockdown."
When my nephew called me from jail, and asked me: "Auntie: How can you tell people not to help me.?"
My reply was: "With my mouth fueled by determination. And, how could you have the nerve to sell drugs to an undercover police officer--in Mississippi--, get caught, go to jail, then expect me to help you? I'm person who promised you I'd never help you get out of jail for anything illegal you've done. And when you get out, don't call me until you graduate from high-school, then college. My best advice is for you to call your friends. Better yet: Call your supplier. He's pursed-up. Ask him to post your bail and get you a lawyer. Call me back and let know what he says."
He stated: "What friends? They're not going to help me."
My response: "Now that you know it, I hope you benefit from knowing it. Good-bye."
He spent 120 days in jail; released on 1 year probation; and has since never gotten into any more trouble with the law.
Just suppose my family lacked the resolve to allow him to stay in jail, without a lawyer, during his "first" offense. He would have gotten out of jail and continued selling drugs. But because we did have the necessary mental fortitude and courage to let him suffer the consequences of his actions without our assistance, he abandoned his drug-dealing life-style (and his enabling paternal grandmother was broke--once again.)
End of story.
Saishe Brokesom on the real! Holla-back!
Thursday, October 11, 2012
From A Dog, I Learned Discipline, Humility & Renewed Love
That's right! I learned discipline and humility from a dog--a black labrador retriever.
During a time in my life, when I was questioning my faith and whether or not being a kind, loving, and generous person was the right way to be with people (because I was constantly being hurt by peoples' disregard for genuine caring and assistance), God sent a beautiful homeless 14-month old black Labrador Retriever to my front yard.
He came into my life immediately after I recognized that I had become resentful, mean-spirited, totally out-of-character, and loving the effectiveness of people backing-up off of me with their ungrateful, evil, and high-altitude attitudes. I started falling backwards into an abyss of sharp-tongued annihilation, even feeling hatred for certain people, places, and things. I began waiting on moments to swash-buckle my boss who was an arrogant demon--and I enjoyed every second of doing verbal battle with him. I would go as far as to invite him to terminate me. I sought-out the worst-of-the-worst to give them a taste of their own medicine--and it wasn't nice. Certain situations got so intense that I even called the police on myself. I had reached a point in my life of believing that everything about mankind and family was not good because no matter how kind and patient I was, I was constantly kicked in the heart and head, and otherwise mentally and emotionally beat-down. I gave up and started fighting back.
At the time the black labrador retriever came into my life, I had a 6-week old German Shepherd puppy, and early (6:00 a.m.) one morning, I was out in front of my house training him. He was a smart little puppy, but extremely independent. He constantly pranced, high-stepping and kicking like a show horse--he was definitely an alpha male puppy. I had my back to the street and my puppy was facing me. Suddenly he became distracted. Then I felt something bump me--ever so lightly--dead center of my butt. I slightly glanced over my left shoulder; saw something big and shiny black; and me and my puppy took off running. I ran for one solid block, never looking back, praying that whatever that was wasn't chasing us. Finally, I looked back and nothing was there.
I walked to a park near home, where we stayed for about an hour. When I returned home and as we approached, I saw a big black dog laying on my lawn near the front steps. My heart raced when he stood-up. I stopped. He paused just looking at me, swishing his tail from side-to-side; then it started moving in a circular motion. His ears went forward and he cocked his head to the left as if he was wondering why I was scared. I had just moved into my home and did not know any of my neighbors. I panicked not knowing what to do. After about a 30 to 40-minute stand-off, I got the nerve to knock on a neighbors door who called my husband for me and asked him to open the back door so I could get in the house out of range of the dog.
My husband opened the back gate, and as I (and my neighbor, Mr. Mayes) moved towards the gate, the black lab moved with us. Then he looked up and saw my husband and his tail went berserkly in 360-rotation--his whole back-end was wagging. We could tell he was happy, but my husband ran and slammed the gate closed. With my puppy tucked in my bra, me and Mr. Mayes climbed a van parked across the alley from my back gate. We were out-of-control laughing because the black lab was standing at the gate working his head inquisitively while whipping his tail waiting for my husband to open the gate.
My husband went to the front yard and called the dog--who dashed to the front yard--and I leaped from the van and ran into the back yard.
This dog stayed in front of my house all day. He would get up to chase people. My husband would go out front and call him back to get him to stop chasing people--walking, on bikes, or getting in and out of their cars. I called animal control all day. It was a hot August day and we knew the dog needed help, but he was so big and tall, we were afraid of him, especially after he started chasing people. Each time he chased somebody, he always returned to my front lawn and laid down--this went on all day. At one point, when my husband had to leave home, he waited until the dog chased somebody then he ran to his car.
By 5:00 p.m., I called the police because my husband had left home, and I didn't know what this dog would do. He had been lounging on the lawn and chasing people all day.
The police arrived and tried to lure him into a squad car. The dog started running back and forth from the police. He came back to my front yard every time. Then a policeman asked me to give him some water and food. I filled a quart-pot with water and gave the policeman a Subway turkey sandwich. The dog drank two quarts pot of water then gobbled down the sandwich. By now, about 5 squad cars had arrived and blocked off the streets in all directions because they thought he'd really start running after he got food and water. (Neighbors were everywhere.)
A few minutes later, my husband drove up. The dog ran straight-away to my husband; sat at attention at his feet for about 5 seconds; jumped him licking him to the ground. It was a Kodak moment.
A policewoman asked my husband to cokes him into getting into the squad car. My husband slid into the car and called to the dog. The dog cocked his head to the left, swirled around, and ran straight to me, and I ran straight into the arms of the closest policeman. The dog skidded to a halt. He was a thinking dog; very strategic.
A policeman stated to my husband: He's made his decision. You got yourself dog. Let's put in your yard. As soon as the policeman said that, the dog sat down close to me and the policeman who I was hiding behind, allowing the other officer to grab him by the flea collar he was wearing and lead him to my back yard.
Right away, I noticed that the dog was gorgeous. His coat was jet-black, swirled close-cropped hair. He was shiny--simply elegant. Very well-behaved; a very loving dog; and he was very patient and loving with my puppy--who was trying to bite his throat out as soon as he moved into the yard.
My yard was full of police and neighbors, and everybody wanted him. I informed everyone I would try to locate the owner. Everyone left.
Then, about 30 minutes later, policemen in all types of vehicles--marked/unmarked cars, uniform and plain clothes; paramedics in ambulances, and even a couple fire trucks showed up at the front-door and back yard. When we got outside, a female paramedic by the name of Collette was parked next to my six-foot fence standing atop her ambulance talking to the dog--and he was standing there listening to her. The policemen, paramedics, and firemen that were at the front door ran to the back yard--all of them shouting they wanted the dog if we didn't. It was a circus. There were so many law enforcement and first-responders at my house, Leroy Martin, Chicago's Superintendent of Police [at the time] who lived around the corner from me, showed up to see what was going on.
As I opened the back gate for everybody--approximtely 25-30 people, Collette jumped from atop the ambulance over the fence into the yard announcing she was in vetenarian school, asking if she could examine him.
The dog greeted her and every single person in the yard very lovingly. The dog was especially friendly with all the males--responding to any command given him by anybody. The dog was well-trained to voice and hand signals.
Collette commanded him to lay and roll-over onto his side. The dog complied. She gloved-up and began examining him: Mouth, teeth, paws, belly, skin, rectum, penis, ears, eyes, etc.--and the dog allowed all of it. After the 20-minute exam, Collette announced the dog was in excellent health, as well as sporting a pedicure. She cried while begging us for him. Several policemen offered to pay us to mate him with other pure labs. Others offered as much as $1,500.00 for the dog. We were overwhelmed with request.
Over the following 3 weeks, contacted a vetenarian clinics, and all reported after several days that all their owners of black labs had not lost their dog. And every day for 3 weeks, Collette visited the dog. She really wanted him. But also over that 3-week period, the dog grew on me. He was so well-behaved and had the patience of a saint with my puppy who was trying to kill him.
My new black lab walked around almost every minute of the day with a puppy hanging from his throat--twisting and turning until he got tired and dropped to the floor or ground. My puppy would bite him. Kick his food and water over. Attack! Attack! Attack! But my new dog never laid a tooth or paw on him. Rather, he would lick my puppy to calm him down or lick him until he fell asleep.
By the second week of having him, I recognized my new dog was an extremely humble and tolerant a dog. His loving ways constantly reduced me to tears. Then one night, I was looking at him and he was looking at me. I said to him: "You're my new baby. God sent you to me, didn't he?" He rose up onto my lap and placed him huge head on my chest, and started making a throaty sound as though he was answering me in the affirmative. I said to him: "Now I know why you wouldn't go with the police." Then he licked me like crazy.
By week-three, Collette asked again to take possession of him. But by now, my husband made it clear he was keeping the dog.
Over the next several weeks, I noticed the dog remained consistently loving and tolerant of my puppy. He was very disciplined, well-trained to a science--he understood everything. He even created his own job: Sniffing every inch of my car whenever I returned home. When he was done, he wanted to be paid with a treat. He waited for our elderly neighbor to arrive home from work around 11:00 p.m. (She worked at Walgreens.) He would announce her arrival and demanded that we let him out so that he could escort her to her door--every night! So that he could see her in her yard without obstruction, he tore-out the top half of a plank of wood dead-center of the fence so that he could see her and she could touch him--and nobody was permitted to be in her yard or touch her garbage can except her. He would snap on us if we entered her yard or touched her garbage can.
In fact, the dog tore out planks of wood from the fence in every direction so that he could see outside the yard. When my husband repaired the fence in each direction, the dog removed the new planks and put them on the patio. He acted more like a person than a dog.
I, without a doubt, knew God sent him to me to restore my faith, and to teach me discipline and humility. He renewed/restored my natural ability to love. He taught me many things over the course of 14.5 years he was with me. He lived far beyond the life-span of a Labrador Retriever, and he remained true to his nature: The epitome of love, discipline, humility, tolerance, and a fierce protector.
In previous postings, I've already shared how I used "love" to help change my mother's abusive ways; and how I used "love" to reach and teach troubled kids in my life. Now I going to share with you how I used "love" to capture the trust and eventual "love" of my current German Shepherd that I adopted from the Anti-Cruelty Society ("ACS").
In December, 2010 I was cruising the ACS website, shopping for a puppy as I was ready for another dog after my labrador and sheperd two died in 2007 and 2008, respectively. They were both 14.5 years old when they died.
While cruising looking at many different dogs, I came across a picture/profile of a 6-month old German Shepherd named "Camila." She was plastered in a corner of her kennel with an expression on her face that shouted: "Oh no! Please don't hurt me. I'm so scared." And the caption under her picture read: "This is Camila. She recently came to us as an abused animal. While she is sweet, she is shy and does not trust anyone. But we believe an ideal loving home would be great for her." Her eyes beckoned me.
It was a cold and snowy Friday evening, but that didn't stop me from going to get her.
When I arrived, she was still available. She was terrified of me; thin as a pencil; and her coat was dull and drier than a power house.
We started the paperwork immediately. When the associate asked me what her new name would be, we both said at the same time "Rendy"--that was amazing to us. She actually read my mind. We laughed and agreed on the name. But, I couldn't take her home until the following Monday because she had to be spaded.
I picked her up that following Monday. When I got her home. She instantly could smell the scent of my previous dogs, and her terror intensified. She was afraid of everything, including sounds.
My family looked at one another, then at me, but they didn't say anything to me about her. But I knew what they were thinking: "Why in the hell would you go get a dog like this?" We all laugh about it now, and they all confirmed that that is exactly what they were thinking when I brought her home, but did not want to hurt my feelings.
For months that followed, I constantly talked to her. I showered her with lots of love, rubbed and hugged her endlessly each time learned a new command. Finally, she began to trust us, especially me. Now, she's still a little skittish, but trusting. She's a great watchdog, and most importantly, she is a prissy, loving diva who demonstrates "love." She even offers to share a treats with anyone. She's another example of "Love can fix it."
If you ever wonder[ed] why your parent(s), your spouse, or a friend never tell you or show you that they love you, perhaps it is due to the fact that they never experienced/received love and affection themselves. A person cannot give that which they have not received.
If you are familiar with "love," share it. All of us need it.
Stay strong! Love long!
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
During a time in my life, when I was questioning my faith and whether or not being a kind, loving, and generous person was the right way to be with people (because I was constantly being hurt by peoples' disregard for genuine caring and assistance), God sent a beautiful homeless 14-month old black Labrador Retriever to my front yard.
He came into my life immediately after I recognized that I had become resentful, mean-spirited, totally out-of-character, and loving the effectiveness of people backing-up off of me with their ungrateful, evil, and high-altitude attitudes. I started falling backwards into an abyss of sharp-tongued annihilation, even feeling hatred for certain people, places, and things. I began waiting on moments to swash-buckle my boss who was an arrogant demon--and I enjoyed every second of doing verbal battle with him. I would go as far as to invite him to terminate me. I sought-out the worst-of-the-worst to give them a taste of their own medicine--and it wasn't nice. Certain situations got so intense that I even called the police on myself. I had reached a point in my life of believing that everything about mankind and family was not good because no matter how kind and patient I was, I was constantly kicked in the heart and head, and otherwise mentally and emotionally beat-down. I gave up and started fighting back.
At the time the black labrador retriever came into my life, I had a 6-week old German Shepherd puppy, and early (6:00 a.m.) one morning, I was out in front of my house training him. He was a smart little puppy, but extremely independent. He constantly pranced, high-stepping and kicking like a show horse--he was definitely an alpha male puppy. I had my back to the street and my puppy was facing me. Suddenly he became distracted. Then I felt something bump me--ever so lightly--dead center of my butt. I slightly glanced over my left shoulder; saw something big and shiny black; and me and my puppy took off running. I ran for one solid block, never looking back, praying that whatever that was wasn't chasing us. Finally, I looked back and nothing was there.
I walked to a park near home, where we stayed for about an hour. When I returned home and as we approached, I saw a big black dog laying on my lawn near the front steps. My heart raced when he stood-up. I stopped. He paused just looking at me, swishing his tail from side-to-side; then it started moving in a circular motion. His ears went forward and he cocked his head to the left as if he was wondering why I was scared. I had just moved into my home and did not know any of my neighbors. I panicked not knowing what to do. After about a 30 to 40-minute stand-off, I got the nerve to knock on a neighbors door who called my husband for me and asked him to open the back door so I could get in the house out of range of the dog.
My husband opened the back gate, and as I (and my neighbor, Mr. Mayes) moved towards the gate, the black lab moved with us. Then he looked up and saw my husband and his tail went berserkly in 360-rotation--his whole back-end was wagging. We could tell he was happy, but my husband ran and slammed the gate closed. With my puppy tucked in my bra, me and Mr. Mayes climbed a van parked across the alley from my back gate. We were out-of-control laughing because the black lab was standing at the gate working his head inquisitively while whipping his tail waiting for my husband to open the gate.
My husband went to the front yard and called the dog--who dashed to the front yard--and I leaped from the van and ran into the back yard.
This dog stayed in front of my house all day. He would get up to chase people. My husband would go out front and call him back to get him to stop chasing people--walking, on bikes, or getting in and out of their cars. I called animal control all day. It was a hot August day and we knew the dog needed help, but he was so big and tall, we were afraid of him, especially after he started chasing people. Each time he chased somebody, he always returned to my front lawn and laid down--this went on all day. At one point, when my husband had to leave home, he waited until the dog chased somebody then he ran to his car.
By 5:00 p.m., I called the police because my husband had left home, and I didn't know what this dog would do. He had been lounging on the lawn and chasing people all day.
The police arrived and tried to lure him into a squad car. The dog started running back and forth from the police. He came back to my front yard every time. Then a policeman asked me to give him some water and food. I filled a quart-pot with water and gave the policeman a Subway turkey sandwich. The dog drank two quarts pot of water then gobbled down the sandwich. By now, about 5 squad cars had arrived and blocked off the streets in all directions because they thought he'd really start running after he got food and water. (Neighbors were everywhere.)
A few minutes later, my husband drove up. The dog ran straight-away to my husband; sat at attention at his feet for about 5 seconds; jumped him licking him to the ground. It was a Kodak moment.
A policewoman asked my husband to cokes him into getting into the squad car. My husband slid into the car and called to the dog. The dog cocked his head to the left, swirled around, and ran straight to me, and I ran straight into the arms of the closest policeman. The dog skidded to a halt. He was a thinking dog; very strategic.
A policeman stated to my husband: He's made his decision. You got yourself dog. Let's put in your yard. As soon as the policeman said that, the dog sat down close to me and the policeman who I was hiding behind, allowing the other officer to grab him by the flea collar he was wearing and lead him to my back yard.
Right away, I noticed that the dog was gorgeous. His coat was jet-black, swirled close-cropped hair. He was shiny--simply elegant. Very well-behaved; a very loving dog; and he was very patient and loving with my puppy--who was trying to bite his throat out as soon as he moved into the yard.
My yard was full of police and neighbors, and everybody wanted him. I informed everyone I would try to locate the owner. Everyone left.
Then, about 30 minutes later, policemen in all types of vehicles--marked/unmarked cars, uniform and plain clothes; paramedics in ambulances, and even a couple fire trucks showed up at the front-door and back yard. When we got outside, a female paramedic by the name of Collette was parked next to my six-foot fence standing atop her ambulance talking to the dog--and he was standing there listening to her. The policemen, paramedics, and firemen that were at the front door ran to the back yard--all of them shouting they wanted the dog if we didn't. It was a circus. There were so many law enforcement and first-responders at my house, Leroy Martin, Chicago's Superintendent of Police [at the time] who lived around the corner from me, showed up to see what was going on.
As I opened the back gate for everybody--approximtely 25-30 people, Collette jumped from atop the ambulance over the fence into the yard announcing she was in vetenarian school, asking if she could examine him.
The dog greeted her and every single person in the yard very lovingly. The dog was especially friendly with all the males--responding to any command given him by anybody. The dog was well-trained to voice and hand signals.
Collette commanded him to lay and roll-over onto his side. The dog complied. She gloved-up and began examining him: Mouth, teeth, paws, belly, skin, rectum, penis, ears, eyes, etc.--and the dog allowed all of it. After the 20-minute exam, Collette announced the dog was in excellent health, as well as sporting a pedicure. She cried while begging us for him. Several policemen offered to pay us to mate him with other pure labs. Others offered as much as $1,500.00 for the dog. We were overwhelmed with request.
Over the following 3 weeks, contacted a vetenarian clinics, and all reported after several days that all their owners of black labs had not lost their dog. And every day for 3 weeks, Collette visited the dog. She really wanted him. But also over that 3-week period, the dog grew on me. He was so well-behaved and had the patience of a saint with my puppy who was trying to kill him.
My new black lab walked around almost every minute of the day with a puppy hanging from his throat--twisting and turning until he got tired and dropped to the floor or ground. My puppy would bite him. Kick his food and water over. Attack! Attack! Attack! But my new dog never laid a tooth or paw on him. Rather, he would lick my puppy to calm him down or lick him until he fell asleep.
By the second week of having him, I recognized my new dog was an extremely humble and tolerant a dog. His loving ways constantly reduced me to tears. Then one night, I was looking at him and he was looking at me. I said to him: "You're my new baby. God sent you to me, didn't he?" He rose up onto my lap and placed him huge head on my chest, and started making a throaty sound as though he was answering me in the affirmative. I said to him: "Now I know why you wouldn't go with the police." Then he licked me like crazy.
By week-three, Collette asked again to take possession of him. But by now, my husband made it clear he was keeping the dog.
Over the next several weeks, I noticed the dog remained consistently loving and tolerant of my puppy. He was very disciplined, well-trained to a science--he understood everything. He even created his own job: Sniffing every inch of my car whenever I returned home. When he was done, he wanted to be paid with a treat. He waited for our elderly neighbor to arrive home from work around 11:00 p.m. (She worked at Walgreens.) He would announce her arrival and demanded that we let him out so that he could escort her to her door--every night! So that he could see her in her yard without obstruction, he tore-out the top half of a plank of wood dead-center of the fence so that he could see her and she could touch him--and nobody was permitted to be in her yard or touch her garbage can except her. He would snap on us if we entered her yard or touched her garbage can.
In fact, the dog tore out planks of wood from the fence in every direction so that he could see outside the yard. When my husband repaired the fence in each direction, the dog removed the new planks and put them on the patio. He acted more like a person than a dog.
I, without a doubt, knew God sent him to me to restore my faith, and to teach me discipline and humility. He renewed/restored my natural ability to love. He taught me many things over the course of 14.5 years he was with me. He lived far beyond the life-span of a Labrador Retriever, and he remained true to his nature: The epitome of love, discipline, humility, tolerance, and a fierce protector.
In previous postings, I've already shared how I used "love" to help change my mother's abusive ways; and how I used "love" to reach and teach troubled kids in my life. Now I going to share with you how I used "love" to capture the trust and eventual "love" of my current German Shepherd that I adopted from the Anti-Cruelty Society ("ACS").
In December, 2010 I was cruising the ACS website, shopping for a puppy as I was ready for another dog after my labrador and sheperd two died in 2007 and 2008, respectively. They were both 14.5 years old when they died.
While cruising looking at many different dogs, I came across a picture/profile of a 6-month old German Shepherd named "Camila." She was plastered in a corner of her kennel with an expression on her face that shouted: "Oh no! Please don't hurt me. I'm so scared." And the caption under her picture read: "This is Camila. She recently came to us as an abused animal. While she is sweet, she is shy and does not trust anyone. But we believe an ideal loving home would be great for her." Her eyes beckoned me.
It was a cold and snowy Friday evening, but that didn't stop me from going to get her.
When I arrived, she was still available. She was terrified of me; thin as a pencil; and her coat was dull and drier than a power house.
We started the paperwork immediately. When the associate asked me what her new name would be, we both said at the same time "Rendy"--that was amazing to us. She actually read my mind. We laughed and agreed on the name. But, I couldn't take her home until the following Monday because she had to be spaded.
I picked her up that following Monday. When I got her home. She instantly could smell the scent of my previous dogs, and her terror intensified. She was afraid of everything, including sounds.
My family looked at one another, then at me, but they didn't say anything to me about her. But I knew what they were thinking: "Why in the hell would you go get a dog like this?" We all laugh about it now, and they all confirmed that that is exactly what they were thinking when I brought her home, but did not want to hurt my feelings.
For months that followed, I constantly talked to her. I showered her with lots of love, rubbed and hugged her endlessly each time learned a new command. Finally, she began to trust us, especially me. Now, she's still a little skittish, but trusting. She's a great watchdog, and most importantly, she is a prissy, loving diva who demonstrates "love." She even offers to share a treats with anyone. She's another example of "Love can fix it."
If you ever wonder[ed] why your parent(s), your spouse, or a friend never tell you or show you that they love you, perhaps it is due to the fact that they never experienced/received love and affection themselves. A person cannot give that which they have not received.
If you are familiar with "love," share it. All of us need it.
Stay strong! Love long!
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
My Sisters' Keeper: Planting The Seeds
I am compelled to talk about being my sisters' keeper, i.e., having their backs; helping them carry a load; speaking on their behalf when they are unable or powerless to do so; or simply just being there because in numbers there's power, etc., etc., etc. I'm talking about women of color, black women, African women, African-American women, African and mixed-blood women--all my sisters.
I was raised to and I live my life in the service of others; and at times, it can be a lonely, time-consuming, extraordinarily brutal and painful existence. But nevertheless, I continue to do so. I exit [some] battles scarred and raggedy, but grinning--if you can imagine--because I won and survived, and got a rush from it, really! Steady and ready for the next round or an entirely new battle. If this is what I have to do to make or keep situations/circumstances smooth and accessible for my sisters, then I accept the challenge. (I've known this about myself since I was a little girl. For the meek I use to fight bullies in the "Deep South" if I couldn't reason with them. Game over! I have a profound intolerance for injustices of any kind--it's in my DNA.)
Why do I feel this way?
Because always there exist a need. Let me repeat that several different ways : There is always someone, somewhere who needs assistance, somehow for whatever reason. Women need support: Be it emotional, financial, or simply encouragement or validation--we got to have it.
There are those of us who draw strength and courage from adversity, and I'm one of those women. I fear nothing except my OB/GYN (for whom I have to open my legs); my dentist (for whom I have to open my mouth); and the IRS (for whom I have to open my whole financial history)--and I HAVE TO TRUST that they know what they are doing to the most vulnerable aspects of my being. Beyond that, bring it!
There are those of us with access to resources (human and otherwise) to remove obstacles from the paths to economic or social upward mobility, and I am one of those women. I utilize every resource I have access to to assist anyone I encounter or who is referred to me with a need (problem/issue)--even when I don't have the time, I find it. I owe this to my people.
I know God prepared me for service to mankind because it started early on. He put me in path of some of nation's greatest planners, bankers and financial experts, economists, lawyers, politicians, judges, people in law enforcement, business owners, ministers, and neighborhood mothers--the most important of them all. I sucked the life-knowledge out of every last one of them. If/when any of them shunned me, I'd show-up again anyway, call everyday, even approach their friends, family, and colleagues in my efforts to get them to help me help somebody else. Some of my greatest friendships that exist today started-out this way. One judge (federal court Judge Blanche Manning) stated to me one day: "I let you in my life because I knew you were not going away." I was quite amused.
I've seem every kind of problem a person can face--from the alley to the White House, literally; and I've used every resources I have--from the alley to the White House--to help resolve those problems/issues.
Unfortunately, women like me (who are willing to go beyond the extra mile or fight to get it right) are few and far between. But those of us who possess the know-how, resources, and the courage to trail-blaze, must not let-up--not for a minute. We cannot afford to get tired. (I'm not going to say "discouraged" because I don't know what that is.) We have to connect our networks, select the best-qualified leaders, and keep it moving.
On a lighter note: People ask me all the time: "How did you get so smart? How did you learn so much? What makes you tick?
My response was/is always the same: "From getting my butt kicked!" I learned a little something from every shellacking (i.e., "easy or decisive defeat") I'd ever been on the receiving end of. Then I set-out to seek inclusion into those individuals' circles. I told all of my defeaters that I was impressed by the manner in which they defeated me, and would very much appreciate being mentored by them so that I could learn how not to make the same mistake(s) in other areas of my life. I recognized all of them as vital human resources that one day will be needed to help me help others.
Nothing Ventured. Nothing Gained
A lady I met at my hairdressers' salon--with whom I became friends with--contacted me one day in blubbering tears about having been turned down for the home equity loan at Bank One--where I had referred her. She also informed me that the loan officer located at a Wisconsin Bank One location was not only insensitive and rude to her, his vitriol at his colleague (the branch manager at the Bank One Chicago-based branch) and my friend /human resource was glaring. (My friend needed the loan because her daughter was graduating from grad school, and her [paid-in-full] home was in disrepair.)
We were baffled by this because through one of my human resources, her credit report(s) were completely sanitized, clearing the way for her to purchase a new car without a co-signer.
The Wisconsin-based Bank One loan officer said to her: "You have a lien on your home, and it will take to at least 120 days to get that cleared up. So for now, your loan is denied. Call me in 120 days." Then he slammed the phone down."
Well that rang my bell.
I got on the phone to the Recorder of Deeds office and asked one of my [human resources] what we needed to do to get a resolved lien removed from her property. Within 5 minutes, the lien was removed. We called both the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager and the Wisconsin-based Bank One officer to advise that the lien was just removed. But the loan officer scoffed: "Bullshit! Then hung-up the phone. He could not believe we got a lien removed within 20 minutes of his last call with my friend and his colleague.
By now, I'm in my "Let me slap this white boy out of my way" mode.
I composed and faxed a 3-page, well-articulated letter to Bank One Chairman Jamie Dimond. First I established that I am a tenured Bank One customer--all the way back to First National Bank of Chicago and now Bank One. A customer with an impeccable track record regarding [paid-off] loans, banking, etc., who had never so much as bounced a check, or made a teller-assisted withdrawal. In chronological order, I explained what happened with my friend's loan and how she was treated., as well as the Bank One branch manager.
The following day, I received a call from an Executive Vice President working directly under Mr. Dimond advising me that Mr. Dimond was in receipt of my letter, and was "on top of the matter."
Later that day, I received a call from the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager [my friend/human resource] telling me that Jamie Dimond showed up at the Jeffery Manor branch and told everyone they "were not going home until they pull every loan application at that branch. Then he called loan officer Mr. Scott Peterson at the Wisconsin branch, cussed him out and fired him over the phone. Then he personally instructed my friend, branch manager Diane Thompson to approve my friend's loan at a 4.00% APR, as well as authorize a credit card with a $35K line of credit." Diane indicated that Mr. Dimond was enraged that a customer would be treated that way. She even told me that the black man [I had sent to her] who owned a McDonald's "also received the $250,000 loan he was seeking."
The point is this: Never, ever allow an obstacle stand in your way when you trying to climb the mountain. And if you need to call your friends to help you, call them! Become or return to being your sisters' keeper. We are in crisis mode--around the world--and our sisters need us.
I was raised to and I live my life in the service of others; and at times, it can be a lonely, time-consuming, extraordinarily brutal and painful existence. But nevertheless, I continue to do so. I exit [some] battles scarred and raggedy, but grinning--if you can imagine--because I won and survived, and got a rush from it, really! Steady and ready for the next round or an entirely new battle. If this is what I have to do to make or keep situations/circumstances smooth and accessible for my sisters, then I accept the challenge. (I've known this about myself since I was a little girl. For the meek I use to fight bullies in the "Deep South" if I couldn't reason with them. Game over! I have a profound intolerance for injustices of any kind--it's in my DNA.)
Why do I feel this way?
Because always there exist a need. Let me repeat that several different ways : There is always someone, somewhere who needs assistance, somehow for whatever reason. Women need support: Be it emotional, financial, or simply encouragement or validation--we got to have it.
There are those of us who draw strength and courage from adversity, and I'm one of those women. I fear nothing except my OB/GYN (for whom I have to open my legs); my dentist (for whom I have to open my mouth); and the IRS (for whom I have to open my whole financial history)--and I HAVE TO TRUST that they know what they are doing to the most vulnerable aspects of my being. Beyond that, bring it!
There are those of us with access to resources (human and otherwise) to remove obstacles from the paths to economic or social upward mobility, and I am one of those women. I utilize every resource I have access to to assist anyone I encounter or who is referred to me with a need (problem/issue)--even when I don't have the time, I find it. I owe this to my people.
I know God prepared me for service to mankind because it started early on. He put me in path of some of nation's greatest planners, bankers and financial experts, economists, lawyers, politicians, judges, people in law enforcement, business owners, ministers, and neighborhood mothers--the most important of them all. I sucked the life-knowledge out of every last one of them. If/when any of them shunned me, I'd show-up again anyway, call everyday, even approach their friends, family, and colleagues in my efforts to get them to help me help somebody else. Some of my greatest friendships that exist today started-out this way. One judge (federal court Judge Blanche Manning) stated to me one day: "I let you in my life because I knew you were not going away." I was quite amused.
I've seem every kind of problem a person can face--from the alley to the White House, literally; and I've used every resources I have--from the alley to the White House--to help resolve those problems/issues.
Unfortunately, women like me (who are willing to go beyond the extra mile or fight to get it right) are few and far between. But those of us who possess the know-how, resources, and the courage to trail-blaze, must not let-up--not for a minute. We cannot afford to get tired. (I'm not going to say "discouraged" because I don't know what that is.) We have to connect our networks, select the best-qualified leaders, and keep it moving.
On a lighter note: People ask me all the time: "How did you get so smart? How did you learn so much? What makes you tick?
My response was/is always the same: "From getting my butt kicked!" I learned a little something from every shellacking (i.e., "easy or decisive defeat") I'd ever been on the receiving end of. Then I set-out to seek inclusion into those individuals' circles. I told all of my defeaters that I was impressed by the manner in which they defeated me, and would very much appreciate being mentored by them so that I could learn how not to make the same mistake(s) in other areas of my life. I recognized all of them as vital human resources that one day will be needed to help me help others.
Nothing Ventured. Nothing Gained
A lady I met at my hairdressers' salon--with whom I became friends with--contacted me one day in blubbering tears about having been turned down for the home equity loan at Bank One--where I had referred her. She also informed me that the loan officer located at a Wisconsin Bank One location was not only insensitive and rude to her, his vitriol at his colleague (the branch manager at the Bank One Chicago-based branch) and my friend /human resource was glaring. (My friend needed the loan because her daughter was graduating from grad school, and her [paid-in-full] home was in disrepair.)
We were baffled by this because through one of my human resources, her credit report(s) were completely sanitized, clearing the way for her to purchase a new car without a co-signer.
The Wisconsin-based Bank One loan officer said to her: "You have a lien on your home, and it will take to at least 120 days to get that cleared up. So for now, your loan is denied. Call me in 120 days." Then he slammed the phone down."
Well that rang my bell.
I got on the phone to the Recorder of Deeds office and asked one of my [human resources] what we needed to do to get a resolved lien removed from her property. Within 5 minutes, the lien was removed. We called both the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager and the Wisconsin-based Bank One officer to advise that the lien was just removed. But the loan officer scoffed: "Bullshit! Then hung-up the phone. He could not believe we got a lien removed within 20 minutes of his last call with my friend and his colleague.
By now, I'm in my "Let me slap this white boy out of my way" mode.
I composed and faxed a 3-page, well-articulated letter to Bank One Chairman Jamie Dimond. First I established that I am a tenured Bank One customer--all the way back to First National Bank of Chicago and now Bank One. A customer with an impeccable track record regarding [paid-off] loans, banking, etc., who had never so much as bounced a check, or made a teller-assisted withdrawal. In chronological order, I explained what happened with my friend's loan and how she was treated., as well as the Bank One branch manager.
The following day, I received a call from an Executive Vice President working directly under Mr. Dimond advising me that Mr. Dimond was in receipt of my letter, and was "on top of the matter."
Later that day, I received a call from the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager [my friend/human resource] telling me that Jamie Dimond showed up at the Jeffery Manor branch and told everyone they "were not going home until they pull every loan application at that branch. Then he called loan officer Mr. Scott Peterson at the Wisconsin branch, cussed him out and fired him over the phone. Then he personally instructed my friend, branch manager Diane Thompson to approve my friend's loan at a 4.00% APR, as well as authorize a credit card with a $35K line of credit." Diane indicated that Mr. Dimond was enraged that a customer would be treated that way. She even told me that the black man [I had sent to her] who owned a McDonald's "also received the $250,000 loan he was seeking."
The point is this: Never, ever allow an obstacle stand in your way when you trying to climb the mountain. And if you need to call your friends to help you, call them! Become or return to being your sisters' keeper. We are in crisis mode--around the world--and our sisters need us.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Mothers: The Cycle of Abuse Can Be Broken
Initially, I'm going to share some history that created the fabric of physical, emotional, and verbal abuse in my own family, dating back to the early 1800's in order to set the scene by which one might be able recognize why and/or what happened to them; or [to finally] understand why people are sometimes pre-destined to become abusers.
My great grandparents on both sides of the family were born into slavery in the "Deep South," and my grandparents therefore were greatly subjected to that way of life as well.
As a result of slavery, my grandfather's family morphed into hard-core, mean-spirited haters of mankind, and my grandfather (my mother's father) was true to his indoctrination--cruel to the 10th power!
My grandmother's people (my mother's mother), however, were well-mannered humble people who used the hardships of slavery as fuel to make life better for them and their descendants. They went along to get along and therefore faired better than most people around them. But they never missed an opportunity to help as many people as they could without having to be asked.
My grandparents eventually inherited a large farm in Alabama that my great grandmother had previously inherited from the man who had enslaved her family--for which she was very grateful (working like a man along side her family). They worked and managed the more than 600-acre farm very successfully--having to fight and make concession to survive every step of the way.
By the time all of my grandparents' children were born, their farm was fully operational, and all of their kids were driven to work hard--some of the older children were not permitted to go to school.
My grandfather by now had become a hard-working obsessed farmer and "master abuser." On a daily basis, he would fuss, cuss, and beat my grandmother and their children sometimes from sun-up til sun-down.
My grandmother was a petite, extremely pretty, soft-spoken, hard-working, quiet, and humble woman. She was often described as "being like an angel;" and she was terrified of my grandfather. Whenever she tried to intervene when he was berating or beating their kids, he would beat her to a pulp and forbid her from showing them any level of love and affection. If he caught her being loving with her own children, she was beaten for that--which caused her to become extremely traumatized, withdrawn, and completely silent. (Even as a child, I would speak-up for her--fight, cuss, and seriously tried to hurt anybody who disrespected her. Special Note: For the last three years of my grandmother's life, I was the only person in the world she would talk to. I was honored. She was 96.5 years of age when she died.)
My mother and her siblings were victims of my grandfather's rage, just as he was a victim of his father's and the plantation owners' where he was born and raised.
Two-thirds of my grandparents' children grew into being "master abusers" by the time they reached adulthood. The other third had inherited my grandmother's "gentle gene" and grew up to be the opposite of their abusive siblings--my mother was not one of them.
My mother was next to the last child born and had siblings that were 25 to 30 years older than her. So, not only was she emotionally, physically, and verbally abused by her father, her older siblings abused her as well.
My Mother Became An Abuser By Default
I must start out by first telling you that my mother was a good provider. She was a hard-working, strong woman--and very, very pretty--just like her mother. I use to think she had special powers because she always seem to somehow know when things and people were not right. She was very intelligent--having won an academic/athletic scholarship to attend a major university in Alabama in the 1950's--that her father did not allow her to utililze/attend. She was very resourceful; very clean (a real germaphobic), a great cook, and at times, a joy to be around.
Because abuse was the norm to my mother, she married an abuser--my father.. And boy, oh boy! My father really abused her--emotionally, physically, and verbally--and I use to cuss him out until I was exhausted; or I'd take sissors and destroy some of his clothes, wet his cigarettes, and pour his whiskey out in front of his face. My mother stayed with him until one of her older sisters arrived at our home one day, beat the hell out of my father, packed us up, and moved us away into her home. (I was so proud of what my aunt did, she became my life-long hero.)
After we eventually settled in our own home again, my mother's abusive ways surfaced and manifested. I couldn't believe it. She began doing to us what my father (and her father) had done to her. Even though, at [my] very young age, I knew she was hurt, scared, lonely, and above all, struggling; she could not control herself. This was the very first time she had been absolutely on her own--with kids. Also, having been exposed to my grandfather, I learned first-hand how he was--and I positively hated him--so I knew he had an affect on her demeanor.
Upon noticing my mother was abusive, I started assessing my aunts and uncles, and was able to quickly identify and differentiate the kind non-abuser from the harsh abusers among them.
If my mother couldn't find her hair rollers, she'd beat us. If we talked too loud, she'd cuss us out and/or beat us. She would bark demands at us saying some of the most hurtful things to us, and call us the nastiest of names (yet she was always baffled as why I wasn't afraid to cuss in her or anybody else's presence when I was a little girl). If someone told her we misbehaved, she'd try to kill us. I was horrified and did not take too well to beatings, emotional and verbal abuse. So I decided I could love her out of that sort of behavior.
By the age of seven, to try and keep her from fussing, I started having dinner ready when she'd get home from work. I'd pamper her by scratching her scalp and rolling her hair every night. I'd massage her legs after dinner and wash her stockings [every night] before going to bed. I'd hustle to earn money to help her out financially by cleaning house for my aunts and other women in my life; cooking, washing, often going to the store; hustling pop and juice bottles. I had a paper route. I worked in a restaurant serving hamburgers during lunch hour when I was in grammar school. I did everything I knew how to make money to ease her struggle. Nothing worked--at first--but I never stopped believing I could [help] change her learned behavior.
My mother was especially abusive to my sister who looked just like our father. She was so abusive to her that at times when she would tie my sister to a radiator and beat her, I would jump on my mother's back, covering her eyes with my little hands in an attempt to make her stop beating my sister and turn on me--I did this often, and often did I get the hell beat out of me; but she would have to work hard to beat me because I would run out the door through the street(s). She thought I was nuts--as did my sisters.
Eventually, she stopped roping my sister to the radiator to beat her because she got tired of chasing me for miles. Every time she caught me (the athetic part of her scholarship was becasue she was a tri-athlete--a Flo-Jo" of her time), she'd snatch me around and beat me in the streets all the way back home; and I'd be telling her every step of the way how wrong she was.--I was never afraid to do so. Some times, I use to question my own sanity for blurting out what I thought was right against her. But I was bold like my great grandmother and a few of my aunts. Wrong was wrong, and whenever I encountered it, I was on it--adults, dogs, policemen, whomever, whatever, or wherever. I am hard-wired to on-the-spot challenge "wrong."
I stayed focused on loving my mother into abandoning her abusive ways. And one day, when I was 9 years old, I asked her if I could talk to her. She agreed. I asked her to tell me why she was so mean to us? I told her that I love her and I wanted to know what could I do to make her life better and feel loved? I told her that I was not like her and grandfather--I was like grandmother--and I could not understand why she treat us so badly.
She kept her back to me as she made coffee. Then she poured a cup for both of us--I was surprised--and sat down at the kitchen table with me. First she just starred at me, and I sat there patiently waiting for her to stop starring at me because I felt her staring meant something. Then she smiled. and I smiled back at her. Then she cried for what seemed like an eternity, but it was actually 5 minutes or so before she was able to speak.
"You know," she started speaking in a slow and methodical manner, allowing her fat, wide tears free-flow down her face, into her mouth, and under her chin.. "No one has ever asked me how I felt, or what I wanted, or even tell that they love me. No one."
I shouted: "Nobody! Really, Mama? Not even grandmother?"
She looked me square in the eyes and whispered: "Not one soul. You are the first person--my baby--to tell me I am loved. You are the first person to ask me what I want and what can be done for me to make me feel loved..." She crumbled face first onto the table top. She mumbled through her sobs: "My daddy didn't allow my Mama to show us or tell us she loved us." We could see it in her eyes, but she wasn't allowed to speak it so she didn't. And my brothers were so rotten to the core, they told daddy on a couple occasions that they heard Mama talking baby-talk to some of us." (Well, this was the affirmation of my hatred for her brothers.)
I jumped up, ran around the table and embraced her as hard as I could and vowed that I'd always love her and take care of her.
After I left home, I continued to financially support her. I gave her everything she needed and desired. I showered her with gifts, dinner and lunch dates. I exposed her to cultural events. I talked to her every day and visited her no less than 3 to 4 times a week. In the winter, I'd get-up extra early to take her to work, and when the temperature was sub-zero, I leave work early to pick her up from work. I'd take her grocery shopping every two weeks without fail--and buy her groceries. I bought her any furnishing and appliances she dreamed of having. I paid her rent often and her weekly transportation cost so that she could start and have a savings account--which I added to bi-monthly. I tried to give her self-esteem and make her dreams come true. She was my "road-dog," i.e., I took her everywhere I went when I wasn't working--she'd just ask me what to wear and she'd be ready when I got there.
Throughout the course of all of my efforts, I began to witness a person transformed. My mother became very extroverted, very calm and loving. She became trusting and began making friends, and going places. She was no longer an angry person, and even though she was previously like that, I never heard her a say a bad thing about anyone--not ever. She had just been abusive to us--her children. I came to realize she had become the person she truly was--true to her real nature, and I was over-joyed and proud of her.
In 1985, while out scouting about shopping, my mother grabbed me by the hand and said to me: "I really, really love you; and I appreciate and thank you for teaching me how to love, and for showing me what it feels like to be loved, respected, and forgiven."
In 1996, immediately after one of my sister's passed away, I forced her to have knee surgery--for which she took a 4-month medical leave-of-absence. One week before she was due to return to work, without her knowledge, I authored her retirement letter, forged her signature, and Fed-Ex'ed it to her job. Gracefully and intellectually, I slapped the s--- out of her supervisor and adversaries in her retirement letter and proudly announced her retirement. I had been wanting to quit her job for decades.
The Sunday night before her Monday morning return to work, shaking like a wind-whipped leaf, I showed her her retirement letter. She read it then looked up at me in disbelief. Then she went and got her glasses and read it again. When she raised her head again to look at me, she had tears in her eyes, and I knew I was in for it... She had not cussed in years--not one utterance of profanity. She asked: "You quit my m-----f----- job? I can't believe you quit my f...... job! You quit my f..... job?!
I nodded in the affirmative--I was scared to death.
She repeated: "Saishe, you quit my job? What am I going to do? I cannot afford to quit my job! Jesus! What have you done?
With God-speed I started laying out her financial future. I informed her that while she was recuperating, I applied for and had obtained her the "Widow's" Pension" for her through the Social Security Administration because she wasn't old enough for straight Social Security benefits, and she would be getting $1,191.00 monthly. My sister Lyn had left her a decent sum of money in an account with her [my mother's name] on it. And I had been investing money for her retirnement for more than 20 years. On top of that, she'd be getting a pension from her job, in addition to her Profit Sharing money--that she will rollover to a safe investment plan.
After hearing about her financial health, she starting smiling, and stated: "I'm retired! Good God! I don't have to go back to that place...!
By now, I had recovered from my out-break of raw fear and nervous twitching. I replied: "I've been wanting to quit your job for decades, and it was a pleasure to do.
My mother enjoyed her retirement fully from July, 1996 up until she fell ill in March, 2005. She went everywhere she wanted to go with her friends; bought anything she wanted when she wanted it; and played the lottery or the slot machines with wild abandon. She was so lucky at winning, she had a big, fat "gambling account" that she drew from to indulge in her favorite pass-times.
And one night as I laid in bed with her as she was dying from bone cancer, she turned her face close to mine and said: "Before I die, I want you to know something else."
I asked: "What's that?"
"You make life so much fun. We have laughed the past 30 to 40 years away. And I want you to know that with you, I know we've shared the greatest love affair of all. I just want you to know that. And if everybody else whose lives you've touched was honest, they'd tell you the same thing..."
At that moment, she confirmed that I had achieved my goal, and I relished that accomplishment, i.e., using love as a weapon against her abusive ways.
So, the moral of the story is this: I broke the cycle of abuse as I have never abused anyone in my entire life--including my children (the one I birthed from my wound and the ones that were born one from heart). I am a real example that it can be done--it's hard and very painful, but it can be done.
In addition, if you were abused or is an abuser, take time to try and understand what causes people to be abusers, and then forgive the abuser(s) and/or yourself for being an abuser--which is necessary to [finally] break the cycle of abuse. If not, the cycle of abuse will continue, as will the pain and suffering that results from it.
Stay strong.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
My great grandparents on both sides of the family were born into slavery in the "Deep South," and my grandparents therefore were greatly subjected to that way of life as well.
As a result of slavery, my grandfather's family morphed into hard-core, mean-spirited haters of mankind, and my grandfather (my mother's father) was true to his indoctrination--cruel to the 10th power!
My grandmother's people (my mother's mother), however, were well-mannered humble people who used the hardships of slavery as fuel to make life better for them and their descendants. They went along to get along and therefore faired better than most people around them. But they never missed an opportunity to help as many people as they could without having to be asked.
My grandparents eventually inherited a large farm in Alabama that my great grandmother had previously inherited from the man who had enslaved her family--for which she was very grateful (working like a man along side her family). They worked and managed the more than 600-acre farm very successfully--having to fight and make concession to survive every step of the way.
By the time all of my grandparents' children were born, their farm was fully operational, and all of their kids were driven to work hard--some of the older children were not permitted to go to school.
My grandfather by now had become a hard-working obsessed farmer and "master abuser." On a daily basis, he would fuss, cuss, and beat my grandmother and their children sometimes from sun-up til sun-down.
My grandmother was a petite, extremely pretty, soft-spoken, hard-working, quiet, and humble woman. She was often described as "being like an angel;" and she was terrified of my grandfather. Whenever she tried to intervene when he was berating or beating their kids, he would beat her to a pulp and forbid her from showing them any level of love and affection. If he caught her being loving with her own children, she was beaten for that--which caused her to become extremely traumatized, withdrawn, and completely silent. (Even as a child, I would speak-up for her--fight, cuss, and seriously tried to hurt anybody who disrespected her. Special Note: For the last three years of my grandmother's life, I was the only person in the world she would talk to. I was honored. She was 96.5 years of age when she died.)
My mother and her siblings were victims of my grandfather's rage, just as he was a victim of his father's and the plantation owners' where he was born and raised.
Two-thirds of my grandparents' children grew into being "master abusers" by the time they reached adulthood. The other third had inherited my grandmother's "gentle gene" and grew up to be the opposite of their abusive siblings--my mother was not one of them.
My mother was next to the last child born and had siblings that were 25 to 30 years older than her. So, not only was she emotionally, physically, and verbally abused by her father, her older siblings abused her as well.
My Mother Became An Abuser By Default
I must start out by first telling you that my mother was a good provider. She was a hard-working, strong woman--and very, very pretty--just like her mother. I use to think she had special powers because she always seem to somehow know when things and people were not right. She was very intelligent--having won an academic/athletic scholarship to attend a major university in Alabama in the 1950's--that her father did not allow her to utililze/attend. She was very resourceful; very clean (a real germaphobic), a great cook, and at times, a joy to be around.
Because abuse was the norm to my mother, she married an abuser--my father.. And boy, oh boy! My father really abused her--emotionally, physically, and verbally--and I use to cuss him out until I was exhausted; or I'd take sissors and destroy some of his clothes, wet his cigarettes, and pour his whiskey out in front of his face. My mother stayed with him until one of her older sisters arrived at our home one day, beat the hell out of my father, packed us up, and moved us away into her home. (I was so proud of what my aunt did, she became my life-long hero.)
After we eventually settled in our own home again, my mother's abusive ways surfaced and manifested. I couldn't believe it. She began doing to us what my father (and her father) had done to her. Even though, at [my] very young age, I knew she was hurt, scared, lonely, and above all, struggling; she could not control herself. This was the very first time she had been absolutely on her own--with kids. Also, having been exposed to my grandfather, I learned first-hand how he was--and I positively hated him--so I knew he had an affect on her demeanor.
Upon noticing my mother was abusive, I started assessing my aunts and uncles, and was able to quickly identify and differentiate the kind non-abuser from the harsh abusers among them.
If my mother couldn't find her hair rollers, she'd beat us. If we talked too loud, she'd cuss us out and/or beat us. She would bark demands at us saying some of the most hurtful things to us, and call us the nastiest of names (yet she was always baffled as why I wasn't afraid to cuss in her or anybody else's presence when I was a little girl). If someone told her we misbehaved, she'd try to kill us. I was horrified and did not take too well to beatings, emotional and verbal abuse. So I decided I could love her out of that sort of behavior.
By the age of seven, to try and keep her from fussing, I started having dinner ready when she'd get home from work. I'd pamper her by scratching her scalp and rolling her hair every night. I'd massage her legs after dinner and wash her stockings [every night] before going to bed. I'd hustle to earn money to help her out financially by cleaning house for my aunts and other women in my life; cooking, washing, often going to the store; hustling pop and juice bottles. I had a paper route. I worked in a restaurant serving hamburgers during lunch hour when I was in grammar school. I did everything I knew how to make money to ease her struggle. Nothing worked--at first--but I never stopped believing I could [help] change her learned behavior.
My mother was especially abusive to my sister who looked just like our father. She was so abusive to her that at times when she would tie my sister to a radiator and beat her, I would jump on my mother's back, covering her eyes with my little hands in an attempt to make her stop beating my sister and turn on me--I did this often, and often did I get the hell beat out of me; but she would have to work hard to beat me because I would run out the door through the street(s). She thought I was nuts--as did my sisters.
Eventually, she stopped roping my sister to the radiator to beat her because she got tired of chasing me for miles. Every time she caught me (the athetic part of her scholarship was becasue she was a tri-athlete--a Flo-Jo" of her time), she'd snatch me around and beat me in the streets all the way back home; and I'd be telling her every step of the way how wrong she was.--I was never afraid to do so. Some times, I use to question my own sanity for blurting out what I thought was right against her. But I was bold like my great grandmother and a few of my aunts. Wrong was wrong, and whenever I encountered it, I was on it--adults, dogs, policemen, whomever, whatever, or wherever. I am hard-wired to on-the-spot challenge "wrong."
I stayed focused on loving my mother into abandoning her abusive ways. And one day, when I was 9 years old, I asked her if I could talk to her. She agreed. I asked her to tell me why she was so mean to us? I told her that I love her and I wanted to know what could I do to make her life better and feel loved? I told her that I was not like her and grandfather--I was like grandmother--and I could not understand why she treat us so badly.
She kept her back to me as she made coffee. Then she poured a cup for both of us--I was surprised--and sat down at the kitchen table with me. First she just starred at me, and I sat there patiently waiting for her to stop starring at me because I felt her staring meant something. Then she smiled. and I smiled back at her. Then she cried for what seemed like an eternity, but it was actually 5 minutes or so before she was able to speak.
"You know," she started speaking in a slow and methodical manner, allowing her fat, wide tears free-flow down her face, into her mouth, and under her chin.. "No one has ever asked me how I felt, or what I wanted, or even tell that they love me. No one."
I shouted: "Nobody! Really, Mama? Not even grandmother?"
She looked me square in the eyes and whispered: "Not one soul. You are the first person--my baby--to tell me I am loved. You are the first person to ask me what I want and what can be done for me to make me feel loved..." She crumbled face first onto the table top. She mumbled through her sobs: "My daddy didn't allow my Mama to show us or tell us she loved us." We could see it in her eyes, but she wasn't allowed to speak it so she didn't. And my brothers were so rotten to the core, they told daddy on a couple occasions that they heard Mama talking baby-talk to some of us." (Well, this was the affirmation of my hatred for her brothers.)
I jumped up, ran around the table and embraced her as hard as I could and vowed that I'd always love her and take care of her.
After I left home, I continued to financially support her. I gave her everything she needed and desired. I showered her with gifts, dinner and lunch dates. I exposed her to cultural events. I talked to her every day and visited her no less than 3 to 4 times a week. In the winter, I'd get-up extra early to take her to work, and when the temperature was sub-zero, I leave work early to pick her up from work. I'd take her grocery shopping every two weeks without fail--and buy her groceries. I bought her any furnishing and appliances she dreamed of having. I paid her rent often and her weekly transportation cost so that she could start and have a savings account--which I added to bi-monthly. I tried to give her self-esteem and make her dreams come true. She was my "road-dog," i.e., I took her everywhere I went when I wasn't working--she'd just ask me what to wear and she'd be ready when I got there.
Throughout the course of all of my efforts, I began to witness a person transformed. My mother became very extroverted, very calm and loving. She became trusting and began making friends, and going places. She was no longer an angry person, and even though she was previously like that, I never heard her a say a bad thing about anyone--not ever. She had just been abusive to us--her children. I came to realize she had become the person she truly was--true to her real nature, and I was over-joyed and proud of her.
In 1985, while out scouting about shopping, my mother grabbed me by the hand and said to me: "I really, really love you; and I appreciate and thank you for teaching me how to love, and for showing me what it feels like to be loved, respected, and forgiven."
In 1996, immediately after one of my sister's passed away, I forced her to have knee surgery--for which she took a 4-month medical leave-of-absence. One week before she was due to return to work, without her knowledge, I authored her retirement letter, forged her signature, and Fed-Ex'ed it to her job. Gracefully and intellectually, I slapped the s--- out of her supervisor and adversaries in her retirement letter and proudly announced her retirement. I had been wanting to quit her job for decades.
The Sunday night before her Monday morning return to work, shaking like a wind-whipped leaf, I showed her her retirement letter. She read it then looked up at me in disbelief. Then she went and got her glasses and read it again. When she raised her head again to look at me, she had tears in her eyes, and I knew I was in for it... She had not cussed in years--not one utterance of profanity. She asked: "You quit my m-----f----- job? I can't believe you quit my f...... job! You quit my f..... job?!
I nodded in the affirmative--I was scared to death.
She repeated: "Saishe, you quit my job? What am I going to do? I cannot afford to quit my job! Jesus! What have you done?
With God-speed I started laying out her financial future. I informed her that while she was recuperating, I applied for and had obtained her the "Widow's" Pension" for her through the Social Security Administration because she wasn't old enough for straight Social Security benefits, and she would be getting $1,191.00 monthly. My sister Lyn had left her a decent sum of money in an account with her [my mother's name] on it. And I had been investing money for her retirnement for more than 20 years. On top of that, she'd be getting a pension from her job, in addition to her Profit Sharing money--that she will rollover to a safe investment plan.
After hearing about her financial health, she starting smiling, and stated: "I'm retired! Good God! I don't have to go back to that place...!
By now, I had recovered from my out-break of raw fear and nervous twitching. I replied: "I've been wanting to quit your job for decades, and it was a pleasure to do.
My mother enjoyed her retirement fully from July, 1996 up until she fell ill in March, 2005. She went everywhere she wanted to go with her friends; bought anything she wanted when she wanted it; and played the lottery or the slot machines with wild abandon. She was so lucky at winning, she had a big, fat "gambling account" that she drew from to indulge in her favorite pass-times.
And one night as I laid in bed with her as she was dying from bone cancer, she turned her face close to mine and said: "Before I die, I want you to know something else."
I asked: "What's that?"
"You make life so much fun. We have laughed the past 30 to 40 years away. And I want you to know that with you, I know we've shared the greatest love affair of all. I just want you to know that. And if everybody else whose lives you've touched was honest, they'd tell you the same thing..."
At that moment, she confirmed that I had achieved my goal, and I relished that accomplishment, i.e., using love as a weapon against her abusive ways.
So, the moral of the story is this: I broke the cycle of abuse as I have never abused anyone in my entire life--including my children (the one I birthed from my wound and the ones that were born one from heart). I am a real example that it can be done--it's hard and very painful, but it can be done.
In addition, if you were abused or is an abuser, take time to try and understand what causes people to be abusers, and then forgive the abuser(s) and/or yourself for being an abuser--which is necessary to [finally] break the cycle of abuse. If not, the cycle of abuse will continue, as will the pain and suffering that results from it.
Stay strong.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Mama's Always Cussing Me Out--For No Reason
This issue is a very sensitive matter with me. I. HAVE. ALWAYS. HAD. PROBLEMS. WITH. MOTHERS (PEOPLE). WHO. DO. THIS!
I'm going to hit home, and I know what I'm about to tell you about my daughter will ring true for many mothers (and fathers/guardians/adults) who are as guilty of this to some degree or another.
I have a grandson who recently left for college.
Prior to him leaving, we had dinner at his favorite restaurant. But on the way to the restaurant, via my peripheral vision, I noticed him staring at me. Knowing of his most recent incident of having been horrifically verbally and physically abused by his mother (my daughter), I glanced over at him asking, reaching for his hand: "What's the matter? Are you okay?"
He smiled and said quietly : "I'm good. I just love you so much."
His proclamation touched my core. I quickly retorted: "Not more than I love you."
He replied beaming: "You can't measure my love for you, grandmother"
I replied: "Ah! But I have been loving you longer." Then I asked again: "What's wrong? I know you. Something is bothering you."
At that instant, he burst into tears, at which point I pulled over, urging him to tell me what was going on.
He looked me square in the eyes and asked me: "How come my mother does not love me like you and grandmother (who is really his [last living] great grandmother--he calls all of us "grandmother) do? She's not like you. What is wrong with her?"
As chunky tears welled in my eyes, holding his hand as I drove, I started again toward our destination, stating: "She loves you. She just has issues. She was never treated the way she treats you. She was never abused verbally, emotionally, physically or otherwise by anyone when she was growing up. If anything, she's spoiled and selfish. I have to admit she is the nastiest of the nastiest people I know. And I'm ashamed of her. I'm sad that all the talking I've done to her has not yielded a resolution to this situation. We've solved many-a-problems, but not this one, and I don't know why. I'm praying she'll change. She's been asking me for years if I think you're beginning to hate her. So, she knows what she's doing is wrong. She knows how much she is hurting you--and me, and everybody else she disrespects."
"But grandmother, she's been treating me like this all of my life--since I was in preschool, and I'm about the leave for college and it's still happening--and it has gotten worse.
"What kind of mother stabs their child--not once, but twice? What kind of mother calls her child all kinds of bitches and motherfuckers, and tell him he ain't shit--he's just like his daddy? What kind of mother does that? I'm 18 years old, and she's still beating on me, cussing me out. Man! I keep telling you, grandmother, she never wanted me. She never wanted me because my dad didn't want her. The things she says to me, grandmother..." His voice trailed off.
By now we had arrived at the restaurant, where we sat in the parking lot talking through his emotional pain (like we have done many, many times in the past). By the time we concluded our heart-to-heart talk, he had recaptured the many words of wisdom I have imparted to him during the many crisis we faced over the years involving my daughter. (Mind you: She is not on drugs--that I know of; she works a good job; has never struggled financially because of my tenured/constant, and very generous financial help since my grandson has been in the world. She also has an extended family/financial support base--a support base that the average mother would give a right arm to have. In fact, she is a proficient swindler, and has therefore never been short on cash.)
For dinner, we ordered several entrees. Our table looked like a buffet. During the course of dinner, we talked about many times we were together shopping or at lunch or dinner, times when we encountered funny, weird, and sad situations--reliving each instance we recalled. He ate himself silly. We laughed a lot and had a really good time.
Near the end of dinner, he asked me: "Grandmother, are you proud of me for turning out to be good and focused, and not allowing all the bad things my mother has said and done to me affect me negatively?
I asked for both his hands, enveloping them in mine as best I could (because his hands are huge), and I said to him firmly: "I'm not only proud of you, I am extremely grateful that you've turned out to be an extraordinarily smart, good, and loving young man. I love you. And, I'm going to tell you this: Now that you are 18 years old, I can officially beat-the-brakes off your mama if she ever hurt you again."
He launched into loud, unrestrained laughter and we left heading home.
There are millions of children who endure abuse like my grandson, and millions endure far worse than he ever experienced.
I'm not excusing fathers, but children are more likely to spend all or most of their childhood years under the guardianship of their mothers, and are more likely to be verbally, emotionally, and physically abused by their mothers.
I am not talking about jumping in their butts about things they are not doing correctly or are told to do. I'm talking about unprovoked verbal, emotional, and physical abuse--the caliber of abuse that last and affects a child throughout his or her life, affecting how they deal with others, and eventually their own children.
When a child is abused, they are likely to grow up and become abusers, i.e., children mimic what they hear, see, and experience; and the cycle repeats itself until an abused child commits not to become an abuser--like I did. (I was an abused child, which I will talk about in another posting, and I will share how I broke the cycle by making a commitment not to copy my mother's abusive ways. I had too much innate love in me. I knew I was different--so different, I knew I had to teach my mother how not to be an abuser, as well as how to love.)
Stay strong.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
I'm going to hit home, and I know what I'm about to tell you about my daughter will ring true for many mothers (and fathers/guardians/adults) who are as guilty of this to some degree or another.
I have a grandson who recently left for college.
Prior to him leaving, we had dinner at his favorite restaurant. But on the way to the restaurant, via my peripheral vision, I noticed him staring at me. Knowing of his most recent incident of having been horrifically verbally and physically abused by his mother (my daughter), I glanced over at him asking, reaching for his hand: "What's the matter? Are you okay?"
He smiled and said quietly : "I'm good. I just love you so much."
His proclamation touched my core. I quickly retorted: "Not more than I love you."
He replied beaming: "You can't measure my love for you, grandmother"
I replied: "Ah! But I have been loving you longer." Then I asked again: "What's wrong? I know you. Something is bothering you."
At that instant, he burst into tears, at which point I pulled over, urging him to tell me what was going on.
He looked me square in the eyes and asked me: "How come my mother does not love me like you and grandmother (who is really his [last living] great grandmother--he calls all of us "grandmother) do? She's not like you. What is wrong with her?"
As chunky tears welled in my eyes, holding his hand as I drove, I started again toward our destination, stating: "She loves you. She just has issues. She was never treated the way she treats you. She was never abused verbally, emotionally, physically or otherwise by anyone when she was growing up. If anything, she's spoiled and selfish. I have to admit she is the nastiest of the nastiest people I know. And I'm ashamed of her. I'm sad that all the talking I've done to her has not yielded a resolution to this situation. We've solved many-a-problems, but not this one, and I don't know why. I'm praying she'll change. She's been asking me for years if I think you're beginning to hate her. So, she knows what she's doing is wrong. She knows how much she is hurting you--and me, and everybody else she disrespects."
"But grandmother, she's been treating me like this all of my life--since I was in preschool, and I'm about the leave for college and it's still happening--and it has gotten worse.
"What kind of mother stabs their child--not once, but twice? What kind of mother calls her child all kinds of bitches and motherfuckers, and tell him he ain't shit--he's just like his daddy? What kind of mother does that? I'm 18 years old, and she's still beating on me, cussing me out. Man! I keep telling you, grandmother, she never wanted me. She never wanted me because my dad didn't want her. The things she says to me, grandmother..." His voice trailed off.
By now we had arrived at the restaurant, where we sat in the parking lot talking through his emotional pain (like we have done many, many times in the past). By the time we concluded our heart-to-heart talk, he had recaptured the many words of wisdom I have imparted to him during the many crisis we faced over the years involving my daughter. (Mind you: She is not on drugs--that I know of; she works a good job; has never struggled financially because of my tenured/constant, and very generous financial help since my grandson has been in the world. She also has an extended family/financial support base--a support base that the average mother would give a right arm to have. In fact, she is a proficient swindler, and has therefore never been short on cash.)
For dinner, we ordered several entrees. Our table looked like a buffet. During the course of dinner, we talked about many times we were together shopping or at lunch or dinner, times when we encountered funny, weird, and sad situations--reliving each instance we recalled. He ate himself silly. We laughed a lot and had a really good time.
Near the end of dinner, he asked me: "Grandmother, are you proud of me for turning out to be good and focused, and not allowing all the bad things my mother has said and done to me affect me negatively?
I asked for both his hands, enveloping them in mine as best I could (because his hands are huge), and I said to him firmly: "I'm not only proud of you, I am extremely grateful that you've turned out to be an extraordinarily smart, good, and loving young man. I love you. And, I'm going to tell you this: Now that you are 18 years old, I can officially beat-the-brakes off your mama if she ever hurt you again."
He launched into loud, unrestrained laughter and we left heading home.
There are millions of children who endure abuse like my grandson, and millions endure far worse than he ever experienced.
I'm not excusing fathers, but children are more likely to spend all or most of their childhood years under the guardianship of their mothers, and are more likely to be verbally, emotionally, and physically abused by their mothers.
I am not talking about jumping in their butts about things they are not doing correctly or are told to do. I'm talking about unprovoked verbal, emotional, and physical abuse--the caliber of abuse that last and affects a child throughout his or her life, affecting how they deal with others, and eventually their own children.
When a child is abused, they are likely to grow up and become abusers, i.e., children mimic what they hear, see, and experience; and the cycle repeats itself until an abused child commits not to become an abuser--like I did. (I was an abused child, which I will talk about in another posting, and I will share how I broke the cycle by making a commitment not to copy my mother's abusive ways. I had too much innate love in me. I knew I was different--so different, I knew I had to teach my mother how not to be an abuser, as well as how to love.)
Stay strong.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Anatomy of Gang Bangers: Can't Read. Can't Reason
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Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Black Women Help Employ Other Races of Children--Not Their Own
That's right!
When we spend our money with other races of people (such as Caucasians, Hispanics, Arabs, Koreans, Indians, Egyptians, etc.) we willingly give them the money they need to live comfortable, over the top life-styles. The billions of dollars we spend with them allow them to:
Have you ever noticed that Whites, Hispanics, Arabs, Koreans, Indians, Egyptians do not use black professionals for any of their services; they do not spend their money with black people under any circumstances--not one penny, ever! I get very angry every time I think about these facts.
Why do I focus on black women--and not men--for not doing what we need to do to cure our social and economic ills?
I focus on black women because our children grow-up and do what they watched us do when they were growing up. Most--not all black women--failed to train our children to support one another. Our children were not taught the importance of supporting black businesses, using black salespeople when buying big-ticket items like homes, cars, furniture, and services from black doctors, accountants, insurance agents, lawyers, etc. Rather, our children heard many of us criticizing black men, black business owners, black professionals--the only black person that got a pass in the black community was the "pastor." SAD! But, nevertheless, we're going to fix it. Right?
Based on the economic strength of black people and the billions of dollars we spend, there should not be one black child lacking in the basics such as like food, safe housing, and clothes; unemployed black men should be at a minimum; black children and young adults should be able to get jobs (summer and otherwise); black women and their families should be able to live better than we are, and where we want to. But we're not, because despite the billions of dollars we contribute to the fine living of other races of people, they do not extend the same monetary considerations to black people.
We must leverage (influence/control) our economic strength to benefit our own families by being mindful of where, with, and through whom we spend our money. For example, when you are shopping do what every other race does: Go to the member of your race--the black salesperson--whenever, wherever, and for whatever you're shopping for. Buy or switch your home/car insurance agent to a black agent/broker--simply locate one and let them know you want to shift your current policy/account to them from [the non-black agent/broker], and you don't have to change insurance companies to do it--I did it, with ease. When you go buy a car, use the black salesperson--seek them out; don't see one? Leave. Make the sacrifice by seeking out opportunities to contribute to the economic existence/upward mobility of black people, especially our men. If a Chevrolet dealer is the only dealership with black salespeople/men on staff, then we should be buying Chevrolet-brands through those black salespeople/men--even if we have to sit and wait for him/her to finish with the new car buyer ahead of us. We have to start making sacrifices in every facet of our lives in order to improve the economic conditions of our people.
Caucasians are more inclined to hire black women and a few of men and young people. But, by-in-large, we are the largest unemployed race of people on the continents of North America, Africa, and Europe, and that shouldn't be. We've got to do it for ourselves without much delay.
If we change our behavior, we will be able to change the behavior of our children.
Again, I pray. I retreat to stay to fight another day.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back! Comments, please.
When we spend our money with other races of people (such as Caucasians, Hispanics, Arabs, Koreans, Indians, Egyptians, etc.) we willingly give them the money they need to live comfortable, over the top life-styles. The billions of dollars we spend with them allow them to:
- Purchase luxury homes, cars, boats, planes;
- Buy their kids everything they need and whatever they want, when they want it;
- Provide/buy the basics for their kids/families required to live, e.g., food, safe housing, clothes--all with great ease;
- Pay for theirs' and their kids' education;
- Make whatever type of purchases they desire--and cost is never an issue;
- Take vacations whenever and wherever they desire;
- Save millions/billions of dollars that they receive from black women, men and children;
- Invest millions/billions of dollars--none of which is invested to benefit black people who spend money with them--for centuries;
- Disregard the need for jobs and other economic opportunities for African-American men, women and children. Stop! Just think about this for a moment.
Have you ever noticed that Whites, Hispanics, Arabs, Koreans, Indians, Egyptians do not use black professionals for any of their services; they do not spend their money with black people under any circumstances--not one penny, ever! I get very angry every time I think about these facts.
Why do I focus on black women--and not men--for not doing what we need to do to cure our social and economic ills?
I focus on black women because our children grow-up and do what they watched us do when they were growing up. Most--not all black women--failed to train our children to support one another. Our children were not taught the importance of supporting black businesses, using black salespeople when buying big-ticket items like homes, cars, furniture, and services from black doctors, accountants, insurance agents, lawyers, etc. Rather, our children heard many of us criticizing black men, black business owners, black professionals--the only black person that got a pass in the black community was the "pastor." SAD! But, nevertheless, we're going to fix it. Right?
Based on the economic strength of black people and the billions of dollars we spend, there should not be one black child lacking in the basics such as like food, safe housing, and clothes; unemployed black men should be at a minimum; black children and young adults should be able to get jobs (summer and otherwise); black women and their families should be able to live better than we are, and where we want to. But we're not, because despite the billions of dollars we contribute to the fine living of other races of people, they do not extend the same monetary considerations to black people.
We must leverage (influence/control) our economic strength to benefit our own families by being mindful of where, with, and through whom we spend our money. For example, when you are shopping do what every other race does: Go to the member of your race--the black salesperson--whenever, wherever, and for whatever you're shopping for. Buy or switch your home/car insurance agent to a black agent/broker--simply locate one and let them know you want to shift your current policy/account to them from [the non-black agent/broker], and you don't have to change insurance companies to do it--I did it, with ease. When you go buy a car, use the black salesperson--seek them out; don't see one? Leave. Make the sacrifice by seeking out opportunities to contribute to the economic existence/upward mobility of black people, especially our men. If a Chevrolet dealer is the only dealership with black salespeople/men on staff, then we should be buying Chevrolet-brands through those black salespeople/men--even if we have to sit and wait for him/her to finish with the new car buyer ahead of us. We have to start making sacrifices in every facet of our lives in order to improve the economic conditions of our people.
Caucasians are more inclined to hire black women and a few of men and young people. But, by-in-large, we are the largest unemployed race of people on the continents of North America, Africa, and Europe, and that shouldn't be. We've got to do it for ourselves without much delay.
If we change our behavior, we will be able to change the behavior of our children.
Again, I pray. I retreat to stay to fight another day.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back! Comments, please.
Monday, October 1, 2012
No Excuses: Black Women Must Support Black Economic Unity To Cure Our Social Ills
Okay! Here we go! The fight is about to break-out.
I begin by making one thing clear regarding the above title: As black women, we have an obligation to step-up and/or initiate the process of financially supporting black-owned businesses, salespeople in other peoples' businesses, professionals, movie-makers, etc. whenever we need or want to spend our money in the "marketplace." We can no longer afford not to. Are you clear on that?
Frequently, black women tell me: "It's hard doing business with black people...Black [business] people are not reliable...They don't do good work...I can't find blacks to do the work...They don't show up...Blacks charge too much money...blah, blah, blah! Like I said: We are our own worst enemy. I am beyond ashamed of [the] blacks that believe and practice such self-oppressive rhetoric. We are in social and economic crisis mode due to this type of thinking and practices, i.e., we make it possible for everyone else to create jobs/wealth for their families by patronizing their businesses, while flat-out refusing to shop with and through blacks.
I am sick of black women [and men] advocating such [a] blanket indictment against black businesses, professionals, etc. I am sick with it! There is no excuse in the world as to why you/we should not [be] support[ing] black businesses, professionals, and blacks working in establishments owned by non-blacks.
Has it ever occurred to you that black people are [still] largely in an unfavorable economic position--globally--because of the negative attitudes we harbor against our own people? Has it ever occurred to you that other races of people prosper because they [financially] support each other (they are trained culturally to do so)? Has it ever occurred to you that other races of people embrace their moral obligation--with pride--to successfully build economic foundations from which to thrive for their people? Has it occurred to you, yet, that it is this backwards way of thinking and doing that is keeping us from achieving prosperity in masses? "White" people aren't holding us back. We are!
Black people are a very capable people. We're just not collectively utilizing our resources to benefit our people.
Pay close attention here: Collectively, we are a sleeping economic giant. A white man's greatest fear is for a black man to ascertain and sustain economic parity or superiority, and a black [wo-]man's greatest fear is actually doing it. Crazy, ain't it?!
Why?
Because our economic salvation would be their economic sacrifice--somebody has to be on the bottom. I'm simply suggesting that we engage a real-time economic strategy to take [a] top tier.
Racism is not grounded in the color of one's skin. Racism is anchored by economics--BELIEVE THAT!
Let me bring something to your attention: I once served as a Membership Chairman for the Boy Scouts of America, a top Chicago Police Commander was my co-chair, and an ex-mayor of Chicago [Eugene Sawyer] was our District Chief.
One night, we were in a planning meeting for our district's boy scouts units--blacks, whites, Hispanics, men, women--from every profession you can name was in attendance. Intelligent people, right? Right! Then the question came up about where to hold our regular meetings. White guy says: "I don't think we should have our meetings [over here anymore] in black community because people will be too afraid to come over here." (Mind you: we were meeting in an upper-middle class, well-maintained black community in a church.)
The lady who, at that time, recruited [ex-mayor] Eugene Sawyer to become the District Chief spoke up and stated: "Too afraid? I can't believe you said that! You all come to the black community to open your businesses everyday, sells drugs and guns, and you all come over here to f---! You all need to stop telling that lie--too afraid...you all eat our cooking and our p---- to. So do not insult us like that ever again."
The point is: Whites, Arabs, Koreans, Indians, Egyptians, and anybody else you want to name come to the black community to open and do business, see [their] women, sell drugs and guns to our children, and otherwise engage in multiple activities. But what they won't do is give black people jobs or economic opportunities (and we're so stupid, we're okay with that). Out of all the groups of races named, whites are twice--three times--more likely to give black people jobs.
In Chicago, back in the 1980's, it was a black women's organization that forced the issue of Arabs and Koreans hiring black people--from whom they realize 100% of their revenues. And believe it or not, it was Rev. Jessie L. Jackson and Rev. Willie Barrow (Operation Push) that interceded on behalf of the Arabs to try and stop us from pressuring Arabs for jobs--can you believe that? BELIEVE IT! (One day in the near future, I'll will discuss the carpet-begging, robber-baron, so-called black leaders in the black community, especially here in Chicago--the ones who have been standing our our necks for 40+ years, sucking the life out of whole communities via mismanagement of anti-poverty funds and pretend civil rights movements.)
I'm pissed-off! I'm ready to fight!
For you I pray. I retreat to stay and fight another day.
Love, Saishe. Holla-back!
I begin by making one thing clear regarding the above title: As black women, we have an obligation to step-up and/or initiate the process of financially supporting black-owned businesses, salespeople in other peoples' businesses, professionals, movie-makers, etc. whenever we need or want to spend our money in the "marketplace." We can no longer afford not to. Are you clear on that?
Frequently, black women tell me: "It's hard doing business with black people...Black [business] people are not reliable...They don't do good work...I can't find blacks to do the work...They don't show up...Blacks charge too much money...blah, blah, blah! Like I said: We are our own worst enemy. I am beyond ashamed of [the] blacks that believe and practice such self-oppressive rhetoric. We are in social and economic crisis mode due to this type of thinking and practices, i.e., we make it possible for everyone else to create jobs/wealth for their families by patronizing their businesses, while flat-out refusing to shop with and through blacks.
I am sick of black women [and men] advocating such [a] blanket indictment against black businesses, professionals, etc. I am sick with it! There is no excuse in the world as to why you/we should not [be] support[ing] black businesses, professionals, and blacks working in establishments owned by non-blacks.
Has it ever occurred to you that black people are [still] largely in an unfavorable economic position--globally--because of the negative attitudes we harbor against our own people? Has it ever occurred to you that other races of people prosper because they [financially] support each other (they are trained culturally to do so)? Has it ever occurred to you that other races of people embrace their moral obligation--with pride--to successfully build economic foundations from which to thrive for their people? Has it occurred to you, yet, that it is this backwards way of thinking and doing that is keeping us from achieving prosperity in masses? "White" people aren't holding us back. We are!
Black people are a very capable people. We're just not collectively utilizing our resources to benefit our people.
Pay close attention here: Collectively, we are a sleeping economic giant. A white man's greatest fear is for a black man to ascertain and sustain economic parity or superiority, and a black [wo-]man's greatest fear is actually doing it. Crazy, ain't it?!
Why?
Because our economic salvation would be their economic sacrifice--somebody has to be on the bottom. I'm simply suggesting that we engage a real-time economic strategy to take [a] top tier.
Racism is not grounded in the color of one's skin. Racism is anchored by economics--BELIEVE THAT!
Let me bring something to your attention: I once served as a Membership Chairman for the Boy Scouts of America, a top Chicago Police Commander was my co-chair, and an ex-mayor of Chicago [Eugene Sawyer] was our District Chief.
One night, we were in a planning meeting for our district's boy scouts units--blacks, whites, Hispanics, men, women--from every profession you can name was in attendance. Intelligent people, right? Right! Then the question came up about where to hold our regular meetings. White guy says: "I don't think we should have our meetings [over here anymore] in black community because people will be too afraid to come over here." (Mind you: we were meeting in an upper-middle class, well-maintained black community in a church.)
The lady who, at that time, recruited [ex-mayor] Eugene Sawyer to become the District Chief spoke up and stated: "Too afraid? I can't believe you said that! You all come to the black community to open your businesses everyday, sells drugs and guns, and you all come over here to f---! You all need to stop telling that lie--too afraid...you all eat our cooking and our p---- to. So do not insult us like that ever again."
The point is: Whites, Arabs, Koreans, Indians, Egyptians, and anybody else you want to name come to the black community to open and do business, see [their] women, sell drugs and guns to our children, and otherwise engage in multiple activities. But what they won't do is give black people jobs or economic opportunities (and we're so stupid, we're okay with that). Out of all the groups of races named, whites are twice--three times--more likely to give black people jobs.
In Chicago, back in the 1980's, it was a black women's organization that forced the issue of Arabs and Koreans hiring black people--from whom they realize 100% of their revenues. And believe it or not, it was Rev. Jessie L. Jackson and Rev. Willie Barrow (Operation Push) that interceded on behalf of the Arabs to try and stop us from pressuring Arabs for jobs--can you believe that? BELIEVE IT! (One day in the near future, I'll will discuss the carpet-begging, robber-baron, so-called black leaders in the black community, especially here in Chicago--the ones who have been standing our our necks for 40+ years, sucking the life out of whole communities via mismanagement of anti-poverty funds and pretend civil rights movements.)
I'm pissed-off! I'm ready to fight!
For you I pray. I retreat to stay and fight another day.
Love, Saishe. Holla-back!
I Witness. I Swear. I Do Delcare!
Everyday, I witness us [women] being unfriendly with one another.
I swear I'm not willing to accept this.
So I hereby declare: HELP ME TO HELP US TO LOVE ONE ANOTHER.
Before we can tackle our social and economic issues, as women, we must renew, pronounce, and practice our love for one another--a coming together love-fest.
Why do I say this?
For Example:
For years, I've been conducting my own undercover experiment--no one knows I'm doing it except me. As I encounter and make eye-to-eye with [individual] black women, either walking, driving, etc., I smile and say hello or nod in the affirmative. I might get one smile back and/or one "Hi" or "Hello" out of every 10 women I encounter. Some of them look perplexed as to why I am smiling or speaking to them before actually smiling/greeting me. A few immediately burst into smiling, enthusiastically responding "Hi. How are you?" Most do not smile or greet me back at all. And some even roll their eyes.
Last week, I parked my car near downtown Chicago and rode the bus the remainder of the way. When I got on the bus, I said in a moderate pleasant tone: "Good morning, everybody." No one said a word. Instead, most of them looked at me as though I was an escaped mental patient. It made me laugh. Then I scrutinized the inquisitive faces sizing me up and asked aloud: "Are you all really not going to say good morning to me?" They really thought I was crazy then. I guess[ed] their respective assumption was understandable because I was laughing--truly tickled by the fact that [those] people thought I was "special" because I not only greeted them, but asked them if they were going to greet me back. Mind you: These were all African-American women--young, middle-aged, and seniors.
After taking a seat, the lady I sat next to asked: "How are you this morning?"
Still tickled, I replied: "I'm blessed. But I am amazed at how unfriendly we are with one another."
Before her next statement, the lady studied me pensively as to gauge whether or not I was truly crazy. She stated: "I'm sorry for not acknowledging your greeting when you got on the bus. But you know how it is out here: People are crazy. You never know where they're coming from..." We went on to have a pleasant conversation about us.
When I got off the bus, a young lady--approximately 18-20 years old--got off behind me and said: "Hey, Miss. I didn't think you were crazy. I just thought it was unusual for someone to speak to everybody. Thank you. You made my day."
These experiences serve as a barometer as to how much avocation has to be done to improve our relations with each other.
Another Example:
While exiting Walmart one recent Saturday, A young boy [age 10/12 years old] standing outside the store holding a box of M&M's candy asked me if I wanted to buy some candy for his team fundraiser. Of course I bought 5 packs. But while I was digging in my pocket, he asked a couple more black women, and both of them rudely dismissed him. I paid him and rushed to catch-up with them. I explained to them that that little boy belongs to us and as mothers, etc., we have a responsibility to support him. They listened, agreed, and walked back to buy some candy. One asked me how much it cost. I said: "$1.00 per pack." They each bought 2 packs. I was proud of them--and so was the little boy.
We're going to have to get this "I love you. You're my sister/my children" thing right.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back. Leave a comment please--good, bad, or indifferent.
I swear I'm not willing to accept this.
So I hereby declare: HELP ME TO HELP US TO LOVE ONE ANOTHER.
Before we can tackle our social and economic issues, as women, we must renew, pronounce, and practice our love for one another--a coming together love-fest.
Why do I say this?
For Example:
For years, I've been conducting my own undercover experiment--no one knows I'm doing it except me. As I encounter and make eye-to-eye with [individual] black women, either walking, driving, etc., I smile and say hello or nod in the affirmative. I might get one smile back and/or one "Hi" or "Hello" out of every 10 women I encounter. Some of them look perplexed as to why I am smiling or speaking to them before actually smiling/greeting me. A few immediately burst into smiling, enthusiastically responding "Hi. How are you?" Most do not smile or greet me back at all. And some even roll their eyes.
Last week, I parked my car near downtown Chicago and rode the bus the remainder of the way. When I got on the bus, I said in a moderate pleasant tone: "Good morning, everybody." No one said a word. Instead, most of them looked at me as though I was an escaped mental patient. It made me laugh. Then I scrutinized the inquisitive faces sizing me up and asked aloud: "Are you all really not going to say good morning to me?" They really thought I was crazy then. I guess[ed] their respective assumption was understandable because I was laughing--truly tickled by the fact that [those] people thought I was "special" because I not only greeted them, but asked them if they were going to greet me back. Mind you: These were all African-American women--young, middle-aged, and seniors.
After taking a seat, the lady I sat next to asked: "How are you this morning?"
Still tickled, I replied: "I'm blessed. But I am amazed at how unfriendly we are with one another."
Before her next statement, the lady studied me pensively as to gauge whether or not I was truly crazy. She stated: "I'm sorry for not acknowledging your greeting when you got on the bus. But you know how it is out here: People are crazy. You never know where they're coming from..." We went on to have a pleasant conversation about us.
When I got off the bus, a young lady--approximately 18-20 years old--got off behind me and said: "Hey, Miss. I didn't think you were crazy. I just thought it was unusual for someone to speak to everybody. Thank you. You made my day."
These experiences serve as a barometer as to how much avocation has to be done to improve our relations with each other.
Another Example:
While exiting Walmart one recent Saturday, A young boy [age 10/12 years old] standing outside the store holding a box of M&M's candy asked me if I wanted to buy some candy for his team fundraiser. Of course I bought 5 packs. But while I was digging in my pocket, he asked a couple more black women, and both of them rudely dismissed him. I paid him and rushed to catch-up with them. I explained to them that that little boy belongs to us and as mothers, etc., we have a responsibility to support him. They listened, agreed, and walked back to buy some candy. One asked me how much it cost. I said: "$1.00 per pack." They each bought 2 packs. I was proud of them--and so was the little boy.
We're going to have to get this "I love you. You're my sister/my children" thing right.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back. Leave a comment please--good, bad, or indifferent.
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