Gosh, I don’t even know where to begin. I am writing this post a little prematurely. We still have a few forty days or so left before auld lang syne. But it is a little past a quarter after nine o’clock on a Friday night, November 19th, 2021, and I am sitting here next to my Christmas tree, happy with my choice of these pretty sapphire ornaments, trying to appraise the year. Blue is my favorite color; how have I never infused it into any past Christmases?
Earlier today, I noticed myself starting to feel melancholy. I introspectively chalked it up to hearing the Rittenhouse verdict, especially in parallel and in contrast to the case of Julius Jones. Or heck, Chrystul Kizer. I purposefully had not been intensely following these cases. But, of course, all of the highlights have regularly come across my IG and Twitter timeline over the past weeks, including the ridicule and memes of Rittenhouse’s “crying” scene on the stand. I rolled my eyes at that and kept scrolling. Hearing the verdict today though, I felt a few things, first being a disgusted non-shock. Then I thought, at this point, these types of rulings feel like a taunt. On a quick IG scroll, I stopped to listen to Lynae Vanee’s scheduled Friday post, “…because playing God for them is not just deciding if and when we will live or die, but also how and when we move in spaces they desire to have control of.” A few specific instances this year where I have experienced first-hand this ‘god complex’ came to mind. All of this summoned anger. No matter how much I purposefully try to close my eyes and take a break from it, I can’t. I stopped again to read an IG caption from activist Tamika Mallory, “…my soul is tired. It’s all way too much,” And I felt that.
Ahmaud Arbrery, a 25-year-old Black man, was chased and killed by three white residents of a South Georgia neighborhood. Today, November 24th, 2021, they were found guilty on murder charges. I heard this verdict and still felt numb; the feeling of relief did not instantly come. Maybe it was from the holding of my breath, not being sure if justice would taunt Ahmaud’s mother. But God be with you Ms. Cooper-Jones; I am grateful for some consolation.
It’s no secret that I’m a huge fan of Ava DuVernay, and for Halloween 2017, I braided Asher’s hair back in cornrows and bought him a Kaepernick football jersey, so I was devoted to watching Colin in Black and White. It was a great short series. I did not know of Kaepernick’s baseball stardom. But it was how he told the story, painted the picture, of his decision to play football over baseball that resonated something familiar. “You gotta play the game that’s right for you.”
And still, there is no one I would rather be than a black woman. There’s this Zora Neale Hurston quote I often come across, “Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.” I can’t say that I agree about the realities of discrimination not making me angry because it does. In a way I cannot even explain. But I wholeheartedly agree with the rest of her sentiments.
Today, November 28th, 2021, Virgil Abloh died—and it was a little gut-punching to hear. “Awww, man, ya boy passed away….” Brian turned his phone and held it out in front of himself for me to see the headline. No, I don’t personally know him, but those who have followed me know I did a post on Off-White back in early 2019 (A belt you can replace your Gucci one with). And if you have followed me on IG, you have seen my yellow and black industrial belt more than a time or two. Virgil Abloh was the director of Louis Vuitton men’s wear and the founder of his brand, Off-White. Like the beloved Chadwick Boseman, he was young, in his forties, and did not announce his battle with cancer. Just like Chadwick, he led with his art until the end. And now I feel that awakening need.
Yesterday, November 30th, 2021, there was yet another school shooting, but this time it wasn’t hundreds of miles away; it was just a little over an hour northeast from me. I almost cannot stand to hear about these types of tragedies—something as innocent and routine as a school day, ending in the loss of life. It is paralyzing. And now I have a son in school, so it is even more chilling. It is so much sickening privilege wrapped up in these repeated tragedies, the resistance of the privileged for sensible gun control, and often the empathic portrayal of a privileged shooter. There was so much raging protest about teaching Critical Race Theory in classrooms, literally parents cursing and screaming about America’s history being understood through the lenses of racism, and so much dishevel from parents about simple masks mandates for schools in the middle of a catastrophic pandemic. I do not know if I have ever heard or ever seen the same level of distress, the virality of anger about these school shootings, and the need to do something constructive, definite about keeping unnamed bullets from ricocheting off school corridors. I prayed for my son and hugged him more than once before school today. I told him I loved him several times. I saw him walk into the building, and when I got back in my car, I felt something I had never felt before as a mother.
Hana St. Juliana, Madisyn Baldwin, Tate Myre, and Justin Shilling, I’m so sorry. My heart to your loved ones.
Today, December 2nd, 2021, Bishop James Garrett died. I dropped Ash off at school and got back in the car. I looked down at my phone to a text from my brother. I could barely wrap my mind around it. In 2018, I wrote a love letter to Detroit; I called it Three One Three Forever (a play off of Wakanda Forever since Black Panther had just been released a couple of months prior, for those who never picked that up). In the post, I wrote about my dad being in a quartet singing group called The Emmanuels. Bishop Garrett was the manager and one of the lead singers. He was about ten years my dad’s junior, and my dad and he sang together for well over thirty years. I felt heartbroken. My last communication to Bishop Garrett was a text message I sent asking if The Emmanuels could pull off a performance for me at an upcoming event. “You are the good that’s waking up the dead. Just receiving this text from you has caused my energy to surge….” he wrote. Unfortunately, the event never happened because COVID shut us all in last year, so there was no performance. My heart broke over and over again today thinking about this.
I picked Ash up from school and headed over to see my dad, offer my support to him, offer the energy of his grandson to keep his spirits lifted. My sister, brother, and niece were all there for the same. My brother thought it best to deliver the news to him this way. I saw the shock from hearing the news of Bishop Garrett’s passing on my dad’s face. But, I also saw the joy in him talking about memories of rehearsals and singing. We talked and watched a video of one of the group’s last performances, my dad leading the song. Ash bounced around while his Papa sang on the TV. So, there it was again, these two souls, the Emmanuels, dedicated to leading with their art for decades right in front of my eyes.
I was bracing myself earlier this year for the separation anxieties kindergarten would bring, but that was surprisingly short-lived and, as far as adjustments are concerned, did not take the cake. It is only halfway through the school year, and I’ve been worried about FOMO–fear of mothering out. I have quipped with my sister about kindergarten being ghetto. It was hard enough to let go, knowing he would be outside of our care for several hours a day now. But the conversations I’ve had with my five-year-old because of something disrespectful another five or six-year-old said or did makes me repeatedly question what kind of parenting is being done these days?
Ash came home one day saying one little boy (a repeat offender of suspect behavior) tried to persuade him into playing Truth or Dare. Truth or Dare? You are five years old; why do you even know about that game? There is trending controversy on social media about whether or not it is appropriate for little boys to play with toy kitchen sets. I’ll just say that I would much rather my five-year-old son have fun making some fake spaghetti for his friends than being dared to pee his pants or suck his nose. On a side note, Ash loves to cook for real and often helps me in the kitchen, so.
A semi-automatic 9-millimeter handgun was given to a 15-year-old as an early Christmas present by his mom and dad. A teacher reporting to them that their son was caught searching online for ammunition. A mother texting her son in response to that, “LOL, I’m not mad at you. You have to learn not to get caught.” That kind of parenting; that takes the cake.
Today, December 4th, 2021, Michigan led 42-3 against Iowa and won the Big Ten Championship. Go Blue!
This year I leaned into doing my make-up and photography. There is such sweet satisfaction in creating something from yourself–something of which you are proud. I saw it in my dad’s eyes as he watched himself sing on TV. Plus, Cardi B retweeted some of my pics, so, yeah, total satisfaction.
It is the end of the year, and I find myself disappointed in a few folks I would not have expected to be disappointed in, c’est la vie. Thank goodness Silk Sonic definitely did not disappoint this year.
It has not been my best year, but I’ve learned a lot. And in this space, I’ve queried more than once about purpose—Reflecting on Sunday’s Sermon, Have you ever felt like Vanellope Von Scheetz?, What do you want to do? And now I am reminded of another one of my favorite Zora Neale Hurston quotes, “there are years that ask questions, and years that answer.” It is not entirely poetic to my point because I wrote two of three of those posts earlier this year. But maybe through all of its anger, tragedy, disappointment, and growing pains, 2021 has yielded my answer.
Cheers to the fight of overcoming.
Cheers to creating more, writing more, cheers to art.
God be with our children.
