Excuse Me As I Indulge In Some Baby-Talk.

Today, my son was to have been born. It seems however, the Universe decided it better he wasn’t. I miscarried. Six years later, I find myself still missing a presence that was all-too-brief and still wondering at just whom he would have been. With the fullest of awareness that life would have been infinitely different had he been here, all I now have are the speculations as to just what those differences would have looked like. I find myself mourning the beautiful chaos he would have caused. I find myself marveling at the changes he inspired… without being here.

My son showed up at a time when not even I thought he could. He showed up and showed me miracles still happen. He showed up and showed me that dreams, even the ones we did not know we were dreaming, can come true. He showed up and showed me that with love, life can be breathed into any situation. Into every reality. He showed up. Then he left. And what that showed me, is the value of life. The value of his, my daughter’s, yours. And, the value of mine.

I have changed. In many ways I am softer. In most ways I am stronger. My tolerance for the ways in which we tend to waste time, to waste our lives, is miniscule. I am both reckless and thoughtful. I am brave, determined and absolute in my decisions. I am committed to squeezing every ounce of goodness this life can offer and giving back the best of me. I am determined to show up being and looking my best always. That’s how I honor life.

Today I honor all the women, all the parents, who have had their souls touched by this loss. I encourage you to be kind to yourselves. I encourage you to live. Live in spite of. Live because of. Live in honor of.

Happy Birthday, Baby Wiltshire-Alabi.

Someone Needs To Go Digging For Treasure!

Yesterday, I was carelessly flipping through channels, trying to find something, anything, that would allow me to empty my mind for a few minutes, before refocusing on the multitude of readings and papers due for any/all of the four English classes I thought it a great idea to take this semester. I needed a break… before I broke. So while flipping, I stumbled upon a Dr. Phil episode and tuned in just in time to hear a young black girl say, “I know I am Caucasian.” I was as hooked as I was stupefied. Her name is Treasure. She is sixteen. The following is the part of her story we were exposed to… because you must know there is so much more we are not privy to.

I had only missed approximately ten minutes, so unfortunately, I spent the next forty minutes or so (gotta have that commercial time) listening to one of the saddest realities I have heard. Treasure, who is as dark-skinned as I, informed all of the world who was unfortunate enough to be listening in, that she does not believe she is white, she knows she is white. She knows it in part, because every morning she wakes up, she wakes up with an amazing life and if she were black, that would not be the case. Additionally, she knows it (aside from knowing it in her blood and bones), because her ears are not black people’s big ears, her lips are “not too big or too small, but perfect,” her hair is “naturally straight” (I smelled the chemical all the way in my home; but who am I?) and, her body is very much like Kim K’s, who has the perfect body (it is not and she does not). Another tell-tale sign for Treasure that she is in fact not as afflicted with blackness as we, is that she speaks very well (she does) and she does not behave like us. She called black people “hood rats, fat, ugly, niggers, losers and hoodlums.” She said Hallie Berry and Lupita were “hood rats, disgusting and ugly” and the only reason they were ever name “Most Beautiful” was because black people needed a “token.” She said all of us were criminals and all end up incarcerated. She has contacted the KKK, says she would be honored to attend their meetings and look forward to the day they send her a hood. She says Trump is the best president ever.

She is sixteen. And, she is in such a crisis (although, according to her, we are the delusional ones and the ones who should seek help).

As I listened to this young lady, I vacillated between wanting to hug the stupid out of her and wanting to fuck her up! But, I quickly realized… she is already quite fucked up! I, like all of the audience, watched and listened with my mouth hanging open and my skin crawling. I spent the entire show wondering just what went wrong and who was responsible for the brokenness and crisis this young woman was in. Because I, like most who would experience her, find it necessary to ‘blame’ someone or something. The alternative, that this is just who she is, invites the thought that, without a cause, she is beyond repair. If we cannot blame the go-to, parents, her social circle, some kind of physical or emotional abuse committed on her by a black person, colonization, something we can identify, address and fix, then we are left with a severely damaged young lady, unleashed onto an as-yet unsuspecting world. And here’s the thing, this world, our world does not need one more person, especially a black person and one young enough to have many years left, spewing more hatred at us. We are already struggling under the weight of a hate that has spanned generations and one that buckles our backs and dents our souls. We do not need those vessels of hate to consume what should be one of our own and unleash her back onto us. We need her voiced raised in solidarity with ours. Not against ours.

Something happened to this young lady. And sadly, something will continue to happen to her as long as her damage is not reversed. I am sickened by what I heard. I am devastated with what I am left to feel. I realize it is so easy to hate her. But, why bother? She so clearly already hates herself.

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