Category — By Hope Alone

From a very young age I didn’t think I was different, but I did feel set apart. There seemed to be some familial dissimilarity between me and my siblings who are an older sister and brother and a younger sister, born 4 years later on my birthday. Even with our shared birthdays, there still seemed to be a block between us.

I spent most of my inquisitive time with my father because my mother seemed to find fault with everything I did or said, including the dissenting mumblings under my breath for which I would often get a smack in the mouth. So I grew up under strained circumstances that made me aware of being in conflict with most of the people in my life.

Besides feeling separated from my family, my extreme thinness and gawkiness had an effect on friendships which limited my associations with my peers of both sexes. I was too quiet and introverted for the girls, and felt too unattractive and shy for the boys. As a result, I married the first man who came along when I was 19 just to escape my mother’s overbearing ways.

The marriage turned into a disaster with my husband’s infidelity, which coincided with my turning 21 and the happening days of the 60s. So for the next 13 years I lived a life of experimentation with drugs and sex, with people who had different slants, beliefs and attitudes unlike those with which I had been brought up.

My life continued its spiraling into the world of strong-willed activity until 1978 when I relocated to another state and sought a different spiritual path from the one I had been traveling. Although I found a deeper relationship with my concept of “God,” life wasn’t quite finished with me, and my period of metamorphosis was yet to come.

I met my “soul mate,” fell in love and added 2 more children to the 4 I already had with my husband. This man and I ended our violent and dysfunctional relationship involved in the throes of a civil child abuse case in 1988, and that  was when my life took a turn and my period of greater enlightenment began.

Sitting in court during the trial, and feeling completely anguished and sorry for myself, a voice spoke to my spirit and told me to “Pay attention.” These two simple words changed the perception of who and why I exist until today. I began to look outside myself at my life and the people in it to realize that I was not the only one “going through” something. The first victims I recognized were my sons and all the other children in their current situation of foster care or out-of-home placement.

There were many other parents, children and families just like me who were or had been alone, lonely, rejected, ignored and abandoned. But the voice made me realize that regardless of our circumstances, guilt or innocent, we are never alone. There is a supreme compassionate spirit, and my prayers which my mother said only went to the ceiling had not been rejected, were not being ignored, nor had I been abandoned. I might have felt lonely at times, but there was a power within me and in all of creation which had compassion for me and cared about my well-being.

The realization of the need to know that source of compassion struck me to the core, and from that time on I have felt it is my responsibility to give awareness of that source to others. So I blog about it and talk about it not only to those like me, but to everyone in which I came in contact, and I have become an advocate for those on the fringe, those considered “different.”

My understanding of the need to know about compassion goes deep into my moral fiber. I believe my experiences through life have groomed me for the mission I accept each day. If I am able to add value to just one life through the sharing of my experiences, I feel I have been able to extend the consideration that was shown to me. We are all human beings. One with the spirit of creation; and worthy of forgiveness, understanding, tolerance, and acceptance. But most of all, we are worthy of compassion.

When I awoke this morning, I had the words of my title in mind, but I was remembering an old Negro spiritual we used to sing in church. “How I got over. How I got over. My soul looks back and wonders, how I got over.” I remember my mother, grandmother and others singing it with gusto, thanking God for helping them to “make it through.” Then I typed in the words on YouTube, and found this song by The Roots, and it changed my whole attitude.

Rather than praise and worship, the words, music and images took my heart and mind into a totally different mood of distress, despair and disturbance. Tears began to flow, and my heart began to ache. For I remember, can almost smell and feel, the sensations of the people portrayed in the video; because it wasn’t too long ago that their plight was my own, and it hit too close to home.

I sit now, at my computer, with my heater going full blast in my cozy third-floor apartment overlooking a majestic oak tree, while the capitol building of the state of California is at the end of my block. There are limos, Lamborghini-es, and other luxury cars nightly pulling up to the restaurants, coffee houses and cafes that line my street.

Happy people sitting outside having lunch, dinner or just over coffee fill the air with their laughter and content. They smile and some even nod as I pass, thinking and accepting me as one of them, an equal. But I wonder what they would think about me if they knew that it wasn’t too long ago that I was homeless, living in a shelter with my two kids…friendless and alone? Would their looks be diverted away from me?

This is not the way I envisioned my day going when I woke up full of gratitude and rejoicing this morning. I had no intention of spending my morning revisiting an episode in my life that I seldom visit anymore. Not that I am trying to forget it, because I think it plays a significant part in my current sense of empathy. But today was not going to be one of those days when it would come back to me with such force, with a video as stark evidence that what happened then was real to me, just as now it’s very real to others.

But now that I think of it, both the rejoicing and the pain belong to me. I embrace them as value which has been added to my life. For without the pain there would be no joy. I would not know that it is possible to overcome and not be genuine in sharing that hopeful message with others. I would also not be able to serve as an example to those who think themselves above and beyond the possibilities of becoming like their less fortunate neighbors. It can happen to anyone.

There is a message for all of us in this, I think. For me, reminiscing keeps me grounded. For those who are struggling, I wish them God’s best. For those who are reading this, I hope it stirs something in you to reach out to even one in whatever way you can to those disenfranchised by the state of their birth or whatever life has thrown their way. A simple smile of encouragement will go a long way, and with just a little help one day those who are suffering won’t have to wonder how they got over, they will know.

History has shown that when one chooses to live life as a spiritual mission, one must first fall in order to rise again; to die to the self in order to rise in the spirit. Examples are Joan of Arc, Jesus, Moses, Martin L. King, Jr., and Malcolm X, just to name a few. Often the novitiate messenger has difficulty explaining what is stirring in them during the transition, only that “something is happening to me.” The transformation from flesh- to spirit-rule is traumatic.

It is not until the cocoon is cracked and the breath of life is allowed to touch the inner is the outer allowed to drop away. It was not until my involvement in a child abuse case threatened the loss of my children did I change the direction of my life completely. To the observant, the example of the butterfly is an ingenious way nature has provided us to recognize spiritual renewal and explain our metamorphosis to others.

Once we are able to grasp the implications of responsibility to our fellow human beings, our “calling” as it were, the picture becomes clearer. The fears of life dwindle in comparison to the brilliance of purpose that looms ahead. The scripture, “though you slay me, yet will I live” becomes the anthem of one’s existence. It is the attraction of the moth to the flame. The pull to get closer to the source by our willingness becomes over-whelming and draws one nearer to the light which is death of the flesh, but rebirth of the spirit…revival.

To enlighten others about the possibilities available to all human beings for as long as possible before the time arrives to depart this world becomes the mission. Once the seal is broken, the purposes and realities related to everyone you meet become clear. Their roles and yours becomes pieces of the puzzle which start to fit, and the picture begins to look like the top of the box. You can see where you’re headed and what the outcome will be.

We accept that everyone and everything comes into our lives for a reason and a season, not to stay forever because there is no such thing; all being temporary. Though the scenery and the players change, the story of revival remains the same…one of rejuvenation, redemption and reconciliation.

When I wake up every morning, and I’m grateful for that blessing, I know that this is a day I have been given to create, or be or do something different. It is with that freshness of anticipation that I love to begin my day. Although there may have come up issues I had to address yesterday, or there may be things which have lingered around for quite awhile, each morn brings a chance to learn a new lesson; something exceptional. And that possibility is what makes living life a wonderful experience.

Since I have been old enough to remember, I have always been a crier. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad. I even cry when I think about all the times I’ve cried. I realize now that mainly I was crying out of frustration, because I put so much on my plate all the time, and usually didn’t know how to find myself out of the maze of decisions I was making; so I cried. I also remember mourning the death of my parents years and years before they died, but when they did I was quite prepared. They had taught me all that they could, and although I missed them tremendously, accepting their passing was a lesson I had to learn.

Life has become more enjoyable for me as time goes on, and that’s because I have opened my mind to the possibilities that all my experiences come to teach me lessons, and the sooner I learn them, the sooner I can move on. In addition, if a similar experience or lesson comes up again, I can act rather than react in behalf of my own well-being and peace of mind. I have also learned to ask for help when I need it, I have stopped trying to do everything myself; which was one of my biggest problems. Others know equal to or more about certain things than I and it is their mission in life to provide their expertise, just as it is my purpose to provide mine. We can’t be all things to all people, not even to ourselves.

Each of us has something important to the world. As we go along, we should share our knowledge, even if it hurts or makes us ashamed to admit our choices…especially to our children. For it is in the relating to others that we receive forgiveness and restoration. We may think we are the only ones who have committed our acts, but logic should tell us that with billions of people in the world, there are many others who have made the same mistake, if we want to call it that. I believe there are lapses in judgment or misdirections or experimentation, but they are only mistakes if we do not learn the lessons they come to teach. Learning the lessons is what primarily makes life such a wonderful experience.

The best way to stop feeling sorry for oneself is to consider the plight of another. When the brightness of your self-pity is deflected from the mirror of your mind and you illuminate the path of someone else, you can stop squinting and open your eyes widely. Your light is no longer blinding.

But one of the most difficult things for a person to do is to turn attention away from themselves and devote it wholeheartedly to another when they themselves are confused or in pain. Being selfless is usually an act that requires a conscious decision, particularly if the other person is our equal or close to it.

We may sympathize with or be empathetic about someone’s pain. We may internalize or choose to ignore their suffering, but our reaction is based on how it will or does affect us. Regarding another becomes a personal matter of considering our own wellbeing first before promoting the caring focus toward the other person. We may eventually decide to put their need(s) before our own, but only after some thought as to what it will cost us.

It is not that we should dwell on our shortcomings as human beings, because we more often than not recognize our need to survive first and foremost, and usually make our determinations out of concern for our limitations. Therefore, in our interactions, it is normal to be well aware that we are not created to “be all things to all people.”

When you read the paper or watch the news and there’s a tragic story, what is your reaction? Do you first consider the persons involved, or do you think, “I’m glad that’s not me?” And if you are grateful that it’s not you, do you then move on as if what you’ve just read or seen was the problem of someone else and just a story that does not concern you? Have we become so jaded to mayhem and tragedy that images of men, women and children being blown to bits, starved, tortured, or mistreated in anyway have no affect or garner any reaction? Has the viewing of horror movies, video games and special effects removed or blanketed our sensitivity to human suffering?

People seem to have become so used to tragedy until and unless it touches us personally or is a national disaster do we even flinch. Local stories of murders, robberies, abductions, gang wars, domestic violence, family breakups, school and office shootings, child abuse, rapes, drownings, bombings, and all the many other painful experiences our neighbors, friends and even loved ones are having are shrugged off as, “That’s their problem. I’m glad that’s not me.”

But when does it become our problem? How close does it have to get to be seen as something which affects us no matter how distant the situation is from our personal experience? Should we consider ourselves lucky or blessed because this time we are not the ones bearing the burden or suffering the pain? How are we supposed to act or respond?

That is a tough question to consider, especially with the almost instantaneous news flashes from around the world. We live in a global community now, so our neighbor can be anyone from anywhere, and how can we feel for everyone who is going through some tremendous experience? We can’t. If you feel guilty for sometimes thinking, “I’m glad that’s not me,” don’t worry. That’s a normal reaction, and the problem is probably one which is beyond your control. The first law of nature, it is said, is survival, and survival is more than making sure the essentials of food, clothing and shelter are available. There is also survival of the mind, heart and spirit.

We are not responsible for all the things which happen to our neighbors, unless we are aware of the situation and ignore our duty to assist or we are complacent in our reaction to their plight. But standing by and watching when a word, a helping hand or some other gesture of humanity one to the other can be offered is to me a dereliction of our responsibility, and could make all the difference in the world. In any case, if it is not your turn to suffer heartbreak and heartache, the next time it could be and someone could be saying of you, “I’m glad that’s not me.” So consider how you would feel, because “what goes around comes around,” and “there but for the grace of God, go I (you).”

When Arnold Schwarzenegger, Governor of California, threatens to reduce state workers’ salaries to minimum wage, there is a great cry of alarm from many sectors. According to an article written by Jon Ortiz, reporter for the Sacramento Bee, “doctors and lawyers would get no pay…and (the workers who) don’t get overtime would receive a flat $455 per week.” The order to reduce pay would be voided once the state budget is approved, with back pay rewarded and pay levels returned to normal.

Considering this situation by having been a state and federal civil servant during my working years, I can relate as there was a time or two when I was a victim of the same budget-related procedure. Now, as a retiree who is living on the fixed income of Social Security and Supplemental Security Income or SSI, I can again relate to a reduction in income because for the last two years we in my current financial position have felt the pinch of reduced income and no cost of living increases. But I say to the California state workers and all those up in arms about a reduction to $455 a week, try living on less than $900 a month, which is what most of us receive.

I believe that nothing happens by accident and there are no coincidences. Everything is life is being played out as it should, and in every special situation there is a lesson involved. The lesson for state workers may be to feel for a brief period, brought on by political in-determination, what those whose welfare they be in charge of is feeling all the time, due primarily to no fault of their own.

The Bee article spoke of workers having exhausted their savings or not having a nest egg to fall back on and how having to stretch their $455 for a week will be hard for some. But existing on $900 for a month leaves nothing for savings or a nest egg and is hard for everyone on SSI. Our incomes force us to live only in specific areas because of the need for low-income or subsidized housing, and some cut corners or take advantage of whatever extra funds are available, even if that means doing something immoral or other than legal.

Our low-income diets are less than healthy because we usually shop in self-service warehouse-type markets; variety stores where everything is a dollar or less; or the corner grocer that sells mainly junk and liquor. The other option is cheap fast food with all its sodium, fat and unhealthy ingredients. The majority of us have preexisting conditions which are make worse by a poor diet leading to additional health issues.

Because we are usually dependent on the state’s health provisions or MediCal in California, the quality of care is less than adequate even when compared to prison inmates, especially the dental, mental and vision needs.

For state workers, the budget will be signed soon and salaries will return to normal, and workers will be able to continue their comfortable lifestyles. This will not occur for us on the lowest level of state or federal funding. Many of us receiving SSI have worked, paid taxes and lived productive lives prior to our serious physical and mental challenges forced us to seek the only financial solution available. But there will be no restoration of the reduction in our income which has been taken due to budget cuts.

The lives of low-income people who work for minimum wage and SSI recipients will continue as a struggle from day-to-day. I hope that those whose help we depend on to finalize the processes they are in charge of will remember how it was during the time of wage reduction and speed things along. Our well-being and lives depend on it.

Sometimes I take public transportation in my travels, and yesterday was one of those days. I live in Sacramento, California and it was a perfect day; not too hot for July. The bus was crowded, particularly with mothers and their babies. Some of them were struggling with two or three toddlers, diapers bags, folding strollers, purchases and their surroundings. I watched with gratitude now that my children are grown, how far removed I am from all that multi-tasking to the extreme. And I wondered if all of those children were expressions of love.

An older woman in my building married a much younger man about a year ago. She had lived there for some years before the marriage, and all the neighbors were familiar and friendly. When her new husband moved in, everything changed. Seems that his lifestyle is incompatible with what the neighbors had established with her and a conflict ensued. Her expression of love has resulted in a legal separation and a restraining order she was encouraged very strongly to obtain in order for peace to return with her neighbors.

A very dear friend is 86 and her husband of six years is 103. They are a delightful couple who are very devoted to each other, and until recently, both have been very active. They walk everywhere together or alone, shopping, visiting, even going to the local pub to have a beer or two. He fell a few weeks ago and severely injured his back and neck. It is heartbreaking to see her in such emotional pain as she watches her expression of love in such a fragile state.

All of these expressions of love are different, but the same. What we expect from love should be wonderful, and it often is; but it can also be overwhelming, devastating and tragic. How we express love and how love is returned is unpredictable once we set it in motion. Even when we are watchful, love can cause our lives to spin out of control or make us retreat temporarily into a dark shell or cause us to want to escape from life all together. Love and our expressions of love are merely life, and life, like love, just happens to be another four-letter word.

Checking new comments on my site regarding my latest blog entitled

“Why the “angry black woman” is angry,”

I received a response from the writer, producer, director, Ted Alexander. His movie, “Diary of a Tired Black Man,” was the subject of the blog. His response was welcome, of course, but his subsequent explanation of what the film was about are worth sharing, particularly with women who may have occasion to watch it.

I am including his response and my reply in their entirety here. After you read my blog, I would like to know if my take on the movie and his response represent two different trains of thought between what was portrayed and what he intended.

If the movie was only about the problem of the main character’s wife, what was the necessity of all the interviews about black women and the conclusion he seemed to draw regarding the “Angry Black Woman Syndrome? Is he suggesting that all black women are born angry and are angry for no “obvious” reason? How did her individual problems become the same problems for the entire group? If black women are different from other women, why were the women of other ethnic groups in the movie angry? Why is infidelity a “non-issue” when it comes to any woman being angry? Why, in general, do men think that infidelity is a “non-issue?”

I’d like to hear anyone’s take on this, regardless of ethnicity or gender. Anger is a serious problem which affects many relationships. I am grateful to Mr. Alexander for making this movie, because it provides a vehicle to openly discuss the subject of anger in women, its cause, its expression, and the results.

Mr. Alexander’s response:

You so missed the point of this film. By a country mile. He was not a cheater, so what was her problem? Her issues started from childhood long before they met. Watch it again. All of those people are not wrong. Anybody is upset if someone cheats – even MEN! Women cheat too. That is not the point. Anger for an obvious reason is obvious. I am talking about unprovoked internal anger issues… Not an obvious and valid reason to be angry like cheating. You don’t get it. Watch it again. And all men do not cheat, as James did not. But many women do. Non-issue in this film.

My rebuttal response:

I imagine it might have been rather difficult to include infidelity in James’ role, as he was not the protagonist, but the way the movie was played out seemed to suggest that although men have very many rules for women and reasons why we’re angry, one of the primary reasons important to women was downplayed and dismissed as comical. And that external reason obviously made me angry.

Recently I watched the movie, Diary of a Tired Black Man, which was written, produced, and directed by Tim Alexander. In the movie it seemed that every reason for the black woman being angry was given. There were numerous statements by both men and women of various ages and statuses giving their opinions as to the causes of the “Angry Black Woman Syndrome.” Some of them made sense, but some were just guys and gals venting.

For example, the majority of both sexes thought it was the lack of a father figure in the home or in the young girl’s life that was the cause. For without a male’s expression of love, the girl would grow up to seek love in all the wrong places and didn’t know what to expect from a man. Therefore, when her relationship went sour, she became angry.

Another source of a black woman’s anger was purported to be listening too much to other female relatives or girl friends. Women were portrayed as sitting around being brainwashed about the limitations and downfall of men, and sharing in the anger of their peers. According to the men, male bashing was a primary pastime among women, and some of the women agreed that they traveled in “groups” to keep men at bay.

Other reasons included the idea that women just didn’t know what they wanted; or don‘t know how to “pick“ a good man. Choosing a loser was a source of her anger, and a much discussed thought was when women get a good man, they treat him with such disrespect and disdain until he eventually becomes turned off, resentful or even violent because of “her” behavior, and his reactions makes her angry.

“The woman doesn’t know her place as a man’s helper according to the Bible,” was another man’s reason. While the majority of men agreed that they expected women to “be available” mentally, emotionally and especially physically whenever her man needs her. It is her “job.”

As I watched and waited for the introduction of what I believe is a primary reason most black women are angry, there was only one small segment in the movie that dealt with infidelity. In the scene, three of the main character’s friends were chiding and encouraging him to seek comfort in the arms of another woman. From their perspective, it was the expected behavior of a “real man,” even if he was someone’s husband or significant other.

This lack of significant attention shown to infidelity shows how unimportant men, especially Mr. Alexander, thinks infidelity is to the attitude and behavior of women. I imagine that if women were polled, not only black women, but a cross section of all women who are or have been in relationships with men, infidelity would be at or close to the top of the list of causes for their anger. Men seem to have no idea what a turn-off, anger-provoking, disgusting feeling women get toward men who cheat on them.

To say that it is a man’s nature, or act as if it is no big deal, or expect forgiveness and understanding is an insult to a woman’s sensibilities. We may forgive the indiscretion, and remain and move forward in the relationship, but we never forget the hurt, disrespect or mental image of our man rutting in the arms of another woman. Mr. Alexander’s movie failed to discover, or even discuss with women, one true reason for why the angry black woman is angry.

I think men know why women are angry, but they continue to try and find reasons to take the light off themselves and shine it on us. And their disregard for our feelings about their actions is another reason which makes and keeps women angry…very angry.

http://roomfordebate.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/24/how-do-politicians-survive-sex-scandals/