Angela Bassett Is Allowed To Be Upset

 I stream everything I watch these days, so I didn’t watch the Academy Awards, but I read the live updates posted on The Hollywood Reporter’s website.  When I read that Angela Bassett lost the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress last night, I headed over to my favorite town crier app, Twitter, to see what was being said about it.  Black Twitter was up in arms, as well they should be, but I also saw some questionable tweets from White people regarding Ms. Bassett’s reaction when her name was not called as the winner of the award.  Some of the tweets I saw were saying her reaction to not winning was classless, that she is an entitled Black actress who was upset at not winning an award because she is Black, that she should have smiled and applauded the woman who won.  

Here’s what I know: 1.) People are allowed to feel their feelings.  We have seen much worse reactions from people who are not Black when they lose something that they feel they should have won (i.e. January 6, 2021.)  2.) Policing the behavior of Black people and stating how they should react in White spaces because it makes White people uncomfortable is racist as hell.  People are allowed to feel their feelings.  There are worse ways this woman could have reacted, but she did not.  She sat in her seat, stone-faced, with disappointment and sadness in her eyes, in a room that was at least 85% White.  She didn’t storm the stage, she didn’t yell, she didn’t slap anyone.  She sat in her seat and didn’t clap.  Angela Bassett is allowed to feel her feelings.  I’m sure that being a Black actress in Hollywood is exhausting.  Angela has handled herself with the grace and demeanor of a queen.  Last night, she lost an award that she has been striving to win for over thirty years.  She was favored to win it, and she lost.  This woman is allowed to feel her feelings.  She’s allowed to be disappointed.  She’s allowed to show that disappointment on her face.  She’s allowed to be a freaking human.  

One thing that White Supremacy has done is take away the ability of Black Americans to show their humanity and have it be considered as such.  We are told to smile in the face of disrespect and indignity.  We are told to not be angry over blatant disrespect towards us and our work.  Black women in particular are told to not express their anger and frustrations in public because we are automatically considered to be angry and bitter.  The policing of our humanity must cease.  We are just as human as anyone else and we do not flip over cars, burn things in the street, destroy property, or try to take over governments when things don’t go our way.  The media may try to shame Angela Bassett for not being a gracious loser, but after being denied a coveted award after thirty plus years, she’s allowed to be disappointed.  She’s allowed to feel whatever she is feeling, and most of all, she doesn’t have to smile about it just because you want her to.  Let this woman show her humanity in the moment.  Let Black people be human.  Focus your attention on why the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in its ninety-four year history has awarded 3,140 Oscars and only 18% of those awards have gone to people of color.  That’s the real issue here, not the reaction of an actress who showed her disappointment last night in the most graceful way she knew how at that moment, in a room full of stuffed shirts rewarding mediocrity.  

Midnight Two-Step

Upon entering the bar, I immediately noticed it wasn’t full. A few customers were sitting in corner booths, chatting quietly as I walked past. I’m pretty sure everyone in there had a story, but I’m positive that none of them were as readable as mine is. My red, swollen eyes should have been able to tell the tale sufficiently. Earlier in the evening, my husband had announced that he was leaving me. His explanation only made matters worse. After seven years of marriage and two beautiful babies, he was leaving because he had grown tired of me. I had trouble understanding what there was to be tired of. I gave him everything he wanted, yet that wasn’t enough for him. To say that I was hurt by all of this would not be saying enough. I was devastated. Roger was my sense of stability. The family that we had created had been my one true purpose in life, the one thing I felt that I could make perfect and flawless.

We had known each other since college, and when we married after grad school, I thought I had settled down with my best friend for life. We would still go for walks in the park with the kids and hold hands. Late at night, we would hold each other and talk about how happy we were. Now, with all of that gone, I feel lost, disconnected, sad, and confused.

I had no intention of going to a bar. All I wanted was to try and come up with a decent Plan B. I kept reassuring myself that everything would be okay, that the kids and I were going to be fine, but panic was slowly seeping through the cracks of my broken heart.

After taking a seat at the bar, I ordered a rum and coke. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but after tonight, I needed something to take the edge off. My head slowly started to clear after two sips of my drink. I barely noticed the well-dressed man as he slipped into the seat next to me. The sharp, but subtle sweetness of his cologne traveled up my nostrils, filling me with brief contentment. I shifted my gaze toward the man and gave him a weak smile. The man nodded his head and smiled back warmly at me.

I hope that he’s not getting the wrong idea, I thought to myself.

I wasn’t trying to come on to him or anything. I was just being nice. I returned my attention back to my drink and the thoughts that were now swirling through my head, when the gentleman spoke softly, but firmly.

“I hate bad days.”

I mustered up a snicker in agreement. “Me, too,” I said.

“My name’s Allen Richardson,” the gentleman said, extending his hand out towards me. I smiled again and shook his hand warmly.

“Rachel Latham. It’s nice to meet you. “

Allen leaned back in his chair and relaxed a little.

“I don’t usually come to bars, but after the day I had, the house wasn’t exactly the best place for me to be tonight.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Bars aren’t my style. I’m not even a social drinker,” I shared. Allen looked at me briefly, then he grinned broadly at me.

“So what really brings you here?” he asked.

“I needed to clear my head. I’ve had a little bit more stress than I can deal with this evening.” I answered.

“You and I both,” Allen agreed.

I suddenly found it shocking that I enjoyed this man’s company. He was easy to talk to, which was very comforting to my heart. I sipped my drink again and then turned my stool so I could really look at Allen.

“Have you ever lost your sense of security?”

Allen lifted his hazel eyes into mine. “Do you ever feel like the walls that surround you are crumbling and falling on top of you?” he asked.

I sat up straight in my stool, astonished at how we were feeling the same way.

“Yes, I do,” I whispered.

Allen looked down and fumbled with his necktie.

“So do I, especially right now,” he said softly.

I nodded my head in agreement. “The world seems so unstable to me now, and to think that just yesterday I felt as if it couldn’t be a more perfect place.”

“May I ask what changed your view?” Allen asked.

I gazed at Allen with unsure eyes. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s fine if you’re not comfortable talking about it,” Allen said.

Taking a deep breath, I looked into Allen’s eyes again. There was trust and comfort in them.

“My husband left me this evening.”

I grabbed my drink and took a long, hard gulp. This was the first time I had said it out loud, to anyone else.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How long have you been married?”

“Seven years.”

Allen put his drink down on the bar. “Were you happy?”

“I was very happy. This was totally unexpected.”

Allen noticed that my drink was empty. “Looks like you’re out. How about a refill?”

I nodded my head to express my acceptance of his offer.

“What are you drinking?” Allen asked.

“Rum and coke,” I answered, as Allen got the bartender’s attention and ordered our next round.

He turned back to me and said, “This one’s on me.”

“Thank you. I don’t mean to be sitting here dumping all of my issues on you,” told him, while using my finger to twirl the ice in my drink around.

“It’s okay. It’s good to let it all out. That way, you don’t go crazy,” Allen responded.

“Are you a psychiatrist or something?”

Allen smiled at me. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re easy to talk to. Not a lot of men are like that.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, Rachel. I’m just someone who enjoys listening. Our stories are somewhat similar, but very different.”

I frowned at Allen as I sipped my drink. “How so?”

“I lost my wife to cervical cancer earlier this evening. I’ve been driving around for hours. I just ended up here because I couldn’t think about driving anymore and I don’t want to go home.”

There was a long pause between us. I couldn’t think of anything to say. There were no words for this.

Finally, I managed to muster, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m still very numb. It’s amazing when you think of the vows of marriage, they never really become evident until you experience some trying times.

I never thought that death would separate Linda and I. I never believed that there would be sickness. Just being happily together spoiled us.”

“Now, it’s hard to let go,” I added.

Allen rested his hand on the bar. I noticed that it was trembling. “It’s very hard, especially when we are forced to.”

I reached out slowly and placed my hand firmly on top of Allen’s.

“How long was she sick?”

“They first found tumors three years ago. We were trying to have children and we wanted to know why she wasn’t getting pregnant. After undergoing radiation and chemotherapy, she went into remission. That lasted eight months. When the cancer came back, it spread to her liver and stomach quickly. It shut her whole body down. Watching her suffer day in and day out was unbearable.”

“I’m sure it was,” I said softly.

“Near the end, we used to cry together because we both knew what was going to happen. She fought hard because she didn’t want to leave me.”

Allen looked up at our hands, then. He took mine into his and held it tightly.

“She’s at peace now,” I told him.

“Yeah,” Allen said with a hard sigh.

“What was she like before she got sick?”

Allen closed his eyes and smiled tenderly, reminiscing. “She was bright, bubbly, and colorful. She was an artist and she was eager to try new things. One of the most amazing things about her was the way she looked at life. She enjoyed everything she did. Once, she painted a portrait of us together. I posed for six hours while she stood at her easel, splattering paint everywhere. It was wonderful to watch her work.”

I smiled admirably at Allen. “Sounds like she made you very happy.”

“I didn’t want to go home tonight because the first thing you see when you walk into the house is that portrait of us. I didn’t want to go home because all I would do is sit and look at that painting and hurt.”

Tears filled Allen’s eyes.

“I wish I had more comforting words for you.”

Allen placed his free hand on my shoulder. “Just you being here is comforting enough.”

Something inside of me, a visceral feeling that penetrated me from deep down in my stomach, made me want to hold Allen.

“Being alone hurts,” I said.

“More than anything else in the world,” Allen added.

A familiar song began to play on the jukebox. The jazzy sounds of “Don’t Know Why,” filled the bar. Allen started to stare at me again.

“Would you like to dance?”

“Dance?” I asked, shocked at his question.

“Yeah, dance,” Allen said confidently.

` “Okay.”

I allowed Allen to lead me to a dance floor in the back of the bar. When he pulled me inside of his arms and wrapped them around my back, it felt like I was surrounded by a giant wave of warmth and tenderness. We moved slowly to the music while Norah Jones sang of a heart drenched in wine and catching teardrops in her hand. When the song ended, another song that I was unfamiliar with began to play. The words and melody made me even sadder. I rested my head on Allen’s shoulder and sighed heavily.

“It’s okay to cry, if you want. This song’s killing me, too,” Allen whispered.

I blinked once and instantly, tears were falling from my eyes. “I have to raise two babies on my own now. I don’t know if I can do this alone. I’m so scared,” I cried. Allen nuzzled his cheek against mine. It was wet with his tears.

“I’m scared, too. I never entertained the thought of what it would be like to live without Linda. Now I have to get up and face it every day.”

We danced in silence for a few minutes more. Allen held me delicately, as if I would break if he let go of me. I felt safe in his arms.

“Were you there when she…” I asked hesitantly, breaking the silence between us.

“I was. Even though she couldn’t speak, I stayed with her and held her in my arms until it was over. I didn’t want her to be alone.”

Before I knew it, I was crying again. “Most people don’t get the chance to do what you did.”

“I’m grateful to God for having that chance,.” Allen expressed.

“I can’t imagine losing Roger like that, but I am grieving over the death of my marriage.”

“Did he give you a reason why?” Allen asked.

“He was tired of me,” I said sadly.

“Tired of you?”

“After seven years and two children, he told me that he was tired of being married to me. I’m still having trouble understanding that.” I stated.

“Are you angry with him?”

“Right now, I am more hurt than anything. Maybe I will be angry with him once the shock wears off. I just don’t understand how he could go from telling me how much he loved me to telling me that he was tired of being married to me.”

“Would you take him back if he asked you to?”

“Marriage is a big deal to me. It means everything. When you invest your whole life into someone, a relationship, a family, and make sacrifices for the greater good of that family and relationship, then it should last forever. To me, once it’s over, it’s over. There should be no going back.”

Allen gently ran his fingers through my hair, and then stroked the side of my face tenderly. “You still love him, though, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered firmly.

“I’m sure he still loves you, too. I think something is going on with his heart right now. Maybe he needs some time and space to figure things out.”

“Why would he stay married to me for so long if his heart wasn’t in it?” I asked.

“He was probably afraid of losing you.”

Allen’s answer struck me hard. I turned down many jobs after Roger and I had graduated college. Roger wanted me to stay with him in Washington D.C. so we could get married. Being as in love with him as I was, I couldn’t refuse him.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight. I didn’t want to leave Allen’s arms, but I wanted to go home to my babies. I stopped dancing abruptly. “I should be going, Allen. I have to get back home to my kids. My sister is with them.”

Allen smiled warmly. “I understand. How old are they?”

“Brandon is five and Briana is two. I feel terribly about being away from them so long. Sometimes, Briana has nightmares and can’t get back to sleep. Brandon wakes up in the middle of the night and asks for a glass of water….”

“You’ll be okay, Rachel,” Allen interrupted.

“Huh?” I asked.

“You’re going to be fine by yourself. What you just said proves it. You know what your children need, and that’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Your strength, love, and devotion to your children will carry you through this. There are times when you will be scared, but that will pass. Your love for your children will help you heal.”

I looked up at Allen and realized that he was still holding me.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It will take me a long time to heal. I have nothing else to put my strength and heart into besides my job, and that only gives me so much comfort.”

“What about a new friendship?”

Allen smiled again. “I’m willing to make that effort, but only if you are.”

“Deal.” I smiled. Allen embraced me tightly in his arms.

“Thank you for coming into my life, Rachel. You’ve made this evening a lot easier for me to deal with.”

I smiled while resting my head against Allen’s shoulder. “So have you. Thank you.” We walked back over to the bar and exchanged business cards while Allen paid for the drinks. We walked out of the bar together slowly.

“You know, tomorrow doesn’t look so bad to me now,.” Allen said as he walked me to my car.

“Yeah,” “I agreed.

“Next time, let’s meet somewhere that we are both used to.”

I laughed wholeheartedly at Allen, realizing how good it felt to do that.

“Good night, Allen. Call me if you need anything,” I told him, as I got into my car.

“You, too, Rachel. I’ll be here,” Allen said as he waved goodbye.

As I drove home to be with my children, I felt rejuvenated and powerful. It was amazing to me how Allen and I had come together in our grief. I believed that I would make it through this tragedy and come out better for it. I would also see to it that Allen would make it through his loss. We both had enough strength to cope with our losses and rebuild our lives again. The best part about it was that we would not do it alone.

What We Carry

I consider myself an anomaly.  Inside me, I carry the DNA of four hundred years of pain, oppression, perseverance, and strength.  My ancestors came from Nigeria and Cameroon.  I don’t know any of them beyond my maternal great-grandmother.  None of my immediate ancestors lived long enough for me to ask deeper questions about where we came from and what we experienced in this country.  I mourn that loss every day of my life.  

What I did see was my grandparents and parents struggle to make a life for us through the systemic racism in this country.  Oppression led to addiction, abuse, depression, anger, and other maladies that hindered them from living long, healthy lives.   My mother died at forty nine, a result of prescription drug abuse, due to the  pain and stress she suffered from poor health due to stomach ulcers.  My father died at fifty one, from liver cancer brought on by years of alcohol abuse.  As a child, I used to listen to his stories about seeing his brother die accidentally by hanging himself while they were playing in their basement.  He would cry telling me about how he felt like he failed his siblings by not helping to keep them safe.  He told me the story about having to identify the decomposed body of his brother who was found beaten to death in a sewer because he was gay.  I’m a carrier of my parents pain and depression and I wonder if I will die an early death too because of the inherited trauma that I carry in my DNA.  

Because both of my parents witnessed so much failure and sadness in their lives, they impressed upon my siblings and I the importance of success, of becoming more than what this world tells us we should be.  They wanted us to get good grades, to strive for more than just making it, to live lives free of strife and suffering.   As the middle child, I tried to live by this example, to let my intelligence and drive get me the attention that I craved.  I was an overachiever almost from birth.  I came into this world fighting, as a premature baby, born three months early, and severely underdeveloped.  My early years were spent in and out of the hospital dealing with issues from my premature birth.  I had asthma from underdeveloped lungs.  I had allergies from not having any sinuses.  I learned to read at three years old and my quest for knowledge never stopped.  I read everything I could get my hands on and began to learn about Black history at an early age.  I got good grades and consistently made the honor roll throughout elementary, middle, and high school.  

Learning about the experience of Black Americans in this country opened my eyes to the way we are treated.  I was able to earn a college scholarship to The Ohio State University, but I experienced racism there too.  When I applied for a position in student government, I was told that I wasn’t good enough to be a part of the organization, despite serving as class president and on student government in high school for three years.  It was a jarring experience for me and fueled my desire to be appreciated for my leadership skills.  I majored in English and African American and African Studies.  I learned more about the history of Black Americans in this country and the struggles that Blacks faced in this country and beyond.  We carry in us the pain and suffering of our ancestors who were enslaved, lynched, and murdered.  

We carry the generational post traumatic stress syndrome of our grandparents and our parents.  The pain of Black Americans still lingers today and is amplified by police killings, the school to prison pipeline, and economic disparities in our communities.  There are trophies celebrating the mistreatment of Blacks including the confederate flag, statues honoring those who tortured, murdered, and owned slaves, and the maintenance and reverence of plantations.  It feels as if America reviles in the pain and suffering of Black Americans.  There is an almost pornographic interest in Black pain and suffering.  Blacks are constantly reminded in this country of how little they are valued by society as a whole.  The judicial system jails Black Americans at a higher rate than Whites and they are twice as likely to be given stiffer prison sentences for minor offenses.  Black mothers are more likely to die from childbirth and complications of childbirth than any other ethnic group in the country.  This stems from a lack of access to quality prenatal care and medical racism in the healthcare system.  Black Americans are twice as likely to be denied medication for pain due to a false belief that we can tolerate higher levels of pain.  We also have the highest infant mortality rate.  Our babies cannot even thrive due to the generational trauma we have experienced.  America is the only place in the world that refuses to atone for the crimes it has committed against Black Americans.  Survivors of the Holocaust are treated with reverence and respect.  They were paid reparations.  When the subject of reparations for descendants of Black slaves comes up, we are told to get over what happened.  The denial of the pain and oppression that Black Americans have experienced is criminal. America continues to profit from the pain and suffering of Black Americans.  Slavery gave birth to capitalism in this country, and through low paying jobs, it is our labor that enables it to thrive.  When Black Americans ask for change, we get changes that don’t affect us.  We ask for law enforcement officers to be indicted for murders they are clearly guilty of, and we get racist icons on pancake syrup and rice eliminated in return.  When we show up to raise our voices and protest, we are called terrorists and thugs, and law enforcement shows up in riot gear to shoot rubber bullets and antagonize us.  When White Americans show up to protest, with guns, and American flags, they get cops on bicycles who try to calm them like daycare teachers.   America will break its own back rather than change its racist ways, and that is a tragedy all by itself. Black Americans just want to be heard, seen, and valued.  We are not disposable.  Without the labor we provided for free, America would not be what it is.  All we require is that America own up to its atrocities, to acknowledge its wrongs and right them.   Until that happens, we carry that pain and legacy on exhausted shoulders and backs.  It visits us again with the coronavirus pandemic, which has killed Black Americans at an alarmingly disproportionate rate.  We suffer again and it falls on deaf ears, again.  There is no compassion from those who run the country.  We have been left to fend for ourselves.  We’re not asking for much.  We just want to be able to live our lives peacefully and not be massacred just for living.  How difficult is that to give?  We don’t want to be in control of this country.  We just want to be treated equally and seen as human.  America needs to check its heart.  If we want to be as great a country as we aspire to be, we need to stop the hatred and oppression.  We need to acknowledge that America’s greatest strength lies in its diversity.  It’s what makes us strong.  Diversity is what makes America great and White supremacy cheapens it.  We all offer something great for this country and real success will come if we all work together.  Division only depreciates it.   

Until America can view Black Americans as human and worthy of living good lives, we will continue to carry our painful legacy and our future generations will suffer the same burden.  We are worthy of the same lives that White Americans live and we are tired of telling you about it.  We are tired of dying.  We are tired of suffering.  We are tired of not being heard.  This burden is becoming impossible to keep carrying.  It’s killing us.   It’s time for you to listen to us.  It’s time for you to stop the cycle.  We’ve done all we can.  The rest is up to you.  We can’t live under the veil anymore.  It’s time to write the wrongs and it’s time for us all to heal and thrive, together.  The future of this country is at stake.  

What Toni Gave Us

I have to admit, when I was first introduced to Toni Morrison’s work, I hated it. I was a freshman in high school, hung up on Angela Davis and The Black Panthers, and completely aversed to anything that resembled “slave language.” What’s laughable now, is how I failed to realize that even with the vernacular she used, Toni Morrison’s words exemplified Black empowerment and endurance in the midst of our struggles. It’s amazing to look back and see how foolish you were in your youth.

The greatest gift Toni Morrison gave me was her use of language. She used it with skill of a potter, molding words like clay to tell stories so beautiful, powerful, and relatable to all of us. It communicated our joy, love, sorrow, and suffering so well, that for me, reading her work was like a bud bursting open from a seed. A glorious growing, a shattering of my innocence and ignorance.

The first time Toni Morrison broke my heart was when I read, “The Bluest Eye.” It was as if she saw my little girl soul and spoke right to it. As a kid, I saw my younger sister get treated better than I because she was lighter than I was. Relatives revered her beauty, and ignored mine. I used to wish I could be lighter and it wasn’t until much later, as a teenager, that I discovered I was beautiful. Pecola Breedlove’s desire to be beautiful, to be seen, to be loved, was something I related to easily and there have been several times in my life where I was tempted to fall into a fantasy world where I was beautiful and loved. To know that there was someone who knew this pain and understood how to communicate that pain to the masses was Earth shattering for me and it made me more receptive to reading Toni Morrison’s work.

When I got to college and studied her work deeper, Beloved and Sula broke me open further. Beloved is my favorite novel. It is one of the deepest novels I have ever read and every time I read it, I learn something new from it. The depth of a mother’s love for her children, her desire for a better, free life for her children, and the bonds of a mother and her child are a few of the things that touched me most about the novel. With the horrors of slavery serving as the backdrop, Beloved is one of the first novels I actually sobbed while reading it. The pain, the cruelty, the desperation, the love reverberated from the page, directly into my soul. I haven’t been touched by a novel that deeply, since. The way Toni Morrison wrote that book, fascinated me. I admired the courage it took to dive deep into our history, bring out the ugly and the horrible brutality of it to tell a story that is just as beautiful as it is haunting. The novel means a lot to me, as a woman who not only loves children, but yearns deeply for every Black child to be their free, beautiful self.

We may be sad by Ms. Morrison’s passing, but there is so much to be grateful for in its wake. We can be thankful that Toni Morrison was unapologetically proud of her Blackness. We can be thankful that she saw us and loved us enough to tell our stories, to use language as her weapon against racism and to flummox her critics by resoundly telling them, “Yes, I am a Black writer and I am proud to be.” We can be thankful that Toni Morrison guided other Black writers, advocated for them, and made a table where all of us Black writers can sit and share our own stories.

Most importantly, I am thankful that Toni Morrison loved us all. She loved us enough to show us that we can love thick, that we can have joy, and that we can fly. Her voice belongs to the ages now, but her soul and spirit will live forever through us. If that isn’t the thickest love, I don’t know what else is.

In Their Honor

I have been without both of my parents for twenty two years. This year is the twentieth anniversary of my father’s passing. To have lost both parents, in the month of June, two years and twelve days apart from each other, makes the month a very somber one for me.

Time has made the grief easier, but the hole in my heart won’t ever go away. I struggled for the better part of the last twenty years just grieving their loss, grieving their absence. Now, I’m struggling with wanting to know more about them, the kind of people they were, if I am really more like them than I thought. I grieve not getting to know their human sides better. I want answers to all the questions I was afraid to ask as a kid.

My Dad and I used to spend Saturdays together during my teenage years. We would spend hours in his basement listening to music, talking about life. He would tell me about how he grew up, pass on his musical wisdom, and share his lessons on life. Those days meant so much to me, but I wish I could have learned more.

I’m curious about my parents’ hopes and dreams. They were never married, but I wonder if they were each other’s soulmate. Who broke their heart? Who was their role model? How did they feel about their parents? What did they learn from them? These are questions that I wish I could ask them.

Both of my parents were addicts. My mother was addicted to prescription drugs and my Dad, alcohol. I want to know what was it that made them choose to self medicate. Was it depression? Was it the pressures of providing for us? Was it disenchantment with life? Did they not think they were enough?

I often visit with my parents in my dreams and in the spirit realm when I am doing healing work. I never ask them these questions. I always tell them how much I love them and how much I miss them. Mostly, I let them talk to me, tell me how they feel. It’s always beautiful and powerful, the things they tell me.

In these twenty two years without them, I have learned to let go of the anger I held as a kid about my parents’ addictions. They did the best that they could, when they could do it. I am not angry at them for being human. I understand that now, as an adult. You can’t be everything that people need you to be. The weight of expectations are often too heavy to withstand. People can buckle under the pressure.

I’m not sure if this is what happened to my parents, but I do want them to know that I forgive them. It takes growing up and walking in your own imperfections and darkness to truly understand that life isn’t easy. Being a parent is for damn sure not easy.

Looking at my siblings and myself, I can honestly say that my parents raised some amazing humans. We are reflections of the best in them. They shine on through us. Michael and Ingrid, I hope we make you proud. Your legacy is forever strong. I love you.

The Girl

I knew from day one, that she was the girl. I will never forget the first time we met. My best friend, amazing friend she was then, drove me out to where she worked. I was nervous, because we’d talked on the phone and online for hours about any and everything. I knew she was special. Her soul spoke directly to mine, in a way that no one has ever done, still to this day. She was with someone then, and very unhappy, at least it seemed, but when she talked to me, her spirit would light up. I felt her energy.

When she came outside to meet us, right away, I knew she was shy. Her steps were hesitant, but her smile was bright and beautiful. When we locked eyes, I knew it was a done deal. Her eyes. Those big, beautiful, but sad brown jewels shined when they looked at me. They bore into me and saw me, my soul, and everything I could ever be. I would give my life to be able to stare into her eyes. I saw everything I ever needed and wanted in them.

I embraced her and she melted into me. She was peace. She was the universe. She was life, and the answer to every question I had in me. We talked for at least an hour, blushing and stealing glances like teenagers. I didn’t want to leave her. We were friends, but from that moment on, at least for me, we were always, more.

As my best friend and I left, I remember telling her that I was going to marry that girl one day. She laughed at me and told me I was being ridiculous. In my heart, I knew I was sure. She was the girl. The one you search for your whole life. The one who makes you better. The one you love with everything.

Even today, she still is. She always will be.

Reflections

Life has been crazy busy lately. I haven’t had much time to sit and really reflect on how much beauty has unfolded in my life recently.

A lot of things have shifted and my path has gained more clarity and trajectory. I have begun to fall deeply in love with my life and the magic that surrounds me.

In this quiet moment, I am overflowing with love and gratitude. God has blessed me with some of the best friends I have ever had. They see the beauty, love, and goodness in me. They encourage me. Most importantly, they let me shine. They protect me. They love me unconditionally. We have created a love that is unconditional, pure, and breathtakingly powerful. Love amplifies when it’s truly supported and given space to flow freely.

It feels good to wake up with joy in my heart. I love how I show up in the world. I love how the world has shown up for me, in some of the most beautiful and deliciously unexpected ways. I understand now. I see it perfectly. This is what life looks like when love shows up for you. This is how life is loving me in return. This is the reciprocity I have longed for.

I plan to show up for life, every day.

One Day My Soul Opened Up

I think it was meant for me to not have firm plans made for my 41st birthday.  I think Spirit planted other things in my way to keep me from thinking about it because it wanted me to do something different this year.  What occurred on January 20, 2018, was something powerful, life altering, and beautiful.  I had the honor and privilege of taking an eight course, taught by my bestie/soul sister Heidi Howes, about becoming a shamanic healer.

Over the past few years, I have started to open myself up to other methods of healing.  Meeting and working with Heidi has changed my life in ways I never would have known otherwise.  I have been in and out of therapy for my depression for years.  Talking to an impartial person and learning coping skills is great, but there’s nothing like repairing the hole in your soul.  Heidi has taught me how to do that.  With her help, I have learned to draw strength from Spirit realm and the ancestors who watch over me.  The healing that I have done on a soul level, is remarkable, and it has changed my life.

During this class, I was introduced to a technique called soul retrieval.  When we experience trauma, pieces of our soul leave us.  Sometimes, someone can take a piece of our soul from us.  Other times, we give pieces of our soul away to other people.  During a soul retrieval, we are led to the pieces of our soul that we have lost throughout our lives.  We are supposed to reconnect with that lost piece of our soul and bring them back home to us.  This can be done through shamanic journeying (which is a form of deep meditation).

During my first retrieval, I was led to the hospital where I was born.  I saw my premature infant self, in an incubator, struggling to breathe and fighting to live.  I stood in awe, because I was looking at myself, watching how I fought for my life.  I could hear my mother’s voice surrounding me in the room, saying, “I am so happy that you came through me.  I’m proud of everything you have become.”  I walked up the incubator and told my infant self to fight, to breathe, to live, and if she did, she would grow up to be a great warrior.  I then reached into the incubator, picked up my infant self, held her close to me, and she absorbed into me, in a warm, glowing flash.

My second retrieval was actually a soul recovery.  I was led to take back a part of my soul that was taken from me.  I was led back to the house that I grew up in.  I walked down the hall to my bedroom, and saw my twelve-year-old self playing video games with a family friend.  Immediately, I ran into the bedroom and stood in front of a baffled, twelve-year-old me.  “Find something else to do,” I said.  My twelve-year-old self was confused.  “You need to leave.  He’s going to hurt you in a way that will change everything,” I pleaded.  My twelve-year-old self looked terrified and asked me how I knew that. I grabbed her hands and said, “He’s not your friend.  He’s not your brother.  You cannot trust him.  Please, come with me.”  My twelve-year-old self took my hand, and I led her out of the bedroom.  I looked her deep in her eyes and told her, “I will never leave you alone again.  I will always protect you.  I will never turn my back on you again.  I promise.”  I hugged her tightly and she absorbed into me.

My third retrieval involved me trying to convince a drunk thirtysomething me to not go home with a woman who would end up breaking my soul in ways that I thought I would never recover from.  I struggled with this retrieval because my thirtysomething year old self didn’t want to leave and she didn’t believe what I was trying to tell her. She was already in a broken place and was caught up in the beauty of the woman she was with, thinking she had won something great.  I ended working to get her to come with me until the very last second before we were called back to the world.  It made me realize how stubborn I had really been during that time of my life, and how I didn’t want to hear the truth.

This experience has changed me and I am still trying to process what happened to me.  It took me a few days to feel normal in my body, which I was told was normal after incorporating parts of yourself that have been gone for a while.  I took away a lot of things from this course.  My soul was opened up in ways that it had never been before.  I feel like I was filled up to brimming with light, and now that light is flowing through me.  I feel supercharged, like I can shoot light and love from the center of my chest more powerful than Tony Stark and all of the Care Bears combined.  The love I feel flowing through me is incredible. I feel new.  I feel reborn.

This was the best birthday present I’ve ever received.  I have awakened in my power.  I have awakened in my love for myself and for the world.  I am forever grateful and I am happy to welcome my missing pieces back home to me.

What 2017 Taught Me

I learned a lot in 2017.  I learned a lot about myself and I also learned about what this beautiful roller coaster ride called life really means.  2017 showed me the highest of highs and the absolute lowest of lows.  A few short months ago, I was ready to end my life.  I faced my demons for what I hope will be the final time, and I made the difficult, but necessary decision to start taking medication for my depression.

During all of those tribulations, I realized that I needed to stop carrying all of my pain.  I had to let go of every hurt, every person who hurt me, and the guilt I felt from hurting people who I love.  I dug in deep, opened my eyes, and took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.  It’s hard to admit to yourself that you need to stop running from your demons.  It’s hard to admit that you’re tired of fighting them.  It’s hard to admit to yourself that you cannot fight your demons alone.  It’s hard to ask for help.  When I decided to get on a medication for depression, initially, I felt like I was admitting to defeat.  I wanted to have a great warrior story about how I defeated my depression all by myself and vanquished my enemy with my own two hands.  The truth is, that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t defeat my depression alone.  When I finally went to my Primary Care doctor to ask for medication, I didn’t feel defeated.  More than anything, I was hopeful, and quite a bit desperate.  I have dealt with depression off and on for the past twenty years, if not longer.  It was past time for me to try a new option, and I am so glad I did.  The medication has completely eliminated my depression symptoms and I feel like the world has opened up for me.  I see life differently.  I see it in vivid, vibrant Technicolor for the first time since I was a little girl.

With the help of medication, my therapist, my incredible spiritual healer, and my amazing supportive tribe and family, I have finally come out of the dark for good.  I have embraced my joy completely and live fully in it.  I say yes to more things that will make me happy.  I reach out for connection with my friends and family.  I give my love freely and no longer harbor it in fear of being hurt or rejected.  I am blooming and soaking up every ray of sunshine I see.

2017 gave me the gift of rock bottom.  It gave me the chance to see that I am needed in this world, that I have more to give, and my gifts are something real and genuine to offer to society.  2017 gave me to the chance to discover the power that lives in me.  I have learned that life is not something you suffer through until it’s over.  Life is something that you cultivate, that you grow, that you care for.  Life is something you love, as fully and wholeheartedly as possible.  Life is golden and beautiful.  It’s your own masterpiece and you should choose to make it as beautiful, loud, and unique as possible.  We can create the most amazing mosaic of pain, love, and beauty.  We have the fibers, pieces, and scraps to make it so.

2017 will be known forever as the year that Chere was reborn.  I was reborn in my purpose.  I was reborn in my faith.  I was reborn in my power.  My soul has been  reawakened and it will never sleep again.  Spirit fills me and flows through me.  I am letting life love me and I am loving the hell out of it in return.  I’m training my eyes to see the beauty in every single thing, even the things that don’t go my way or cause me pain and strife.  If I had to choose a word to describe 2017, it would be rebirth.  I have shed my dead weight, my demons, and my baggage.  I can dance now because I am light on my feet.  I have nothing holding me down.  My arms aren’t full of pain, regret, doubt, or fear.  My arms are open and reaching out for joy, love, and happiness.

My word for 2018 is live.  I intend to live fully, with intention, purpose, and presence.  I want to taste everything that life gives me.  I will walk in my light and let the wind carry away any dark clouds that drift in.  We only get so many days, so many chances to enjoy the miracle that is being alive.  I will no longer spend those days sad, angry or bitter.  I will spend them living, loving, laughing, giving, and creating beauty.  Welcome to 2018 guys.  Let’s be brave and love each other while we can.  Life is so much shorter than we think.  Happy New Year.