Despite current events, I must start with a shameless plug and state, love is in the air! It’s lingering around me like the Delta variant. Recently, I got engaged to my girlfriend, and this has been a very joyous time for us. In addition to my engagement, I’ve been busy writing a full feature film entitled “This Thing of Ours.” It’s a romantic comedy that follows a group of 30ish people dating, marrying, or doing a little bit of everything in between today’s social world of Covid and online dating.
Given I’ve been surrounded by so many lovey-dovey oriented things, I’ve even thought about current events in relation to dating. Specifically, Afghanistan… and thinking if Afghanistan were a person, she would be Jennifer Lopez. Like J Lo, Afghanistan has had interactions with the greatest and most powerful, yet none have been able to stay.
And there’s a good reason for this. Afghanistan that is, not the J Lo dating history.
Back in the summer of 2019, when the world was still innocent and free of being attached to the greatest global health crisis since the 1918 Flu pandemic, Houston-based rapper Megan Thee Stallion released, “Hot Girl Summer.” A catchy little number about… well… being a hot girl in the summer. Meg, (is that what she goes by?), stated the song is simply about “being yourself” and “having a good time.” And like “Hot Girl Summer,” messaging is for people not to follow someone else’s rules for love, but follow your way. A political “Hot Girl Summer” should be applied to Afghanistan. Given the history of the country with constant foreign power intervention, Afghanistan should just be left alone and be single for a while. Let her get a new hairdo, go out for a 60-dollar brunch, even let her post dozens of dog-eared filter pictures, just let Afghanistan be her for a while.
Dating back to Alexander the Great in 330 BC, nations have tried to either conquer or control the Afghanistan region and people. The latest being the United States, whose involvement with the nation should have only been intelligence and law enforcement… instead, it became another decades-long terrible abusive relationship known far too well to the Afghan people.
This must end, for there has never been a positive outcome for any nation trying to force their hand with Afghanistan. What should happen is the allowance of an organic government and making it work best for the Afghan people. That outcome might not even be a political science-worthy name for it, but it will be solely for the Afghan people.
This is true for dating.
Either a single person themselves or their social networks always will find the need to force a situation on someone, simply to be with someone. Other nations want to force their will on Afghanistan… it’s wrong and should be changed. Some of that “change for democracy” is laced with capitalism and exploitation of resources; however, it doesn’t change the savage nature of the Taliban. The Taliban is one of the most intolerable, hostile, violent, and unproductive governments seen in modern times. With that being said, the nation up until a few weeks ago did experience two decades of some type of freedom and democracy. I just don’t believe a country the size of Texas, with a population bigger than Texas, will simply allow the Taliban to lay rule once again without disruption or outright taking over.
Love amongst couples is best to be left alone. No matter what you or anyone else thinks, you can’t legislate love. Because one doesn’t like another’s sexual orientation, or the look of their partner, their religion, or whatever, said couple is still going to find a way to be together.No matter how powerful a nation, their people can only be “controlled” or “managed” for so long. They yearn for independence and fate being decided solely by them is the spirit of all people. And if they have to be just “Jenny from the block to do it”, so be it.
The Constitution is a term that’s used regularly in the political world and in right-wing circles. But it’s constantly misused like the term love, which is used every single day. There are many levels of love. It can go anywhere from love for your favorite sports team, love for a family member, and of course, the love of your life (at the time lol). But again, the term love is used all day, every day. And similar to the adjective “the,” there’s often not much meaning behind it.
Similar to “love” and “the,” the term Constitution is used improperly or rather without true meaning. We live in a time where many want to bring up their Constitutional right, whether they are left, right, or somewhere in the political middle. We often hear “It is my Constitutional right…,” “I am protecting my Constitutional right,” or, “They want to take away our Constitutional right…” and so forth.
The issue is many who are yelling protection of their Constitutional right do not even know what the Constitution says. They are clueless about how many Amendments are in the Constitution and what they actually state.
There are 27 Amendments in the Constitution. Some remember popular Amendments, such as #1 Free Speech, #2 Right to Bear Arms, or #5 Remain Silent. But as mentioned there are 27 Amendments, and I can guarantee you judges, police officers, and government officials constantly use many of them as justification for their actions despite not actually following the law.
Let’s deal with the Second Amendment for today. Many gun activists believe that the Second Amendment is their only God-given right and the most important. They also believe that this Amendment justifies having 18-20 guns to protect themselves including military-like weapons. This may be true, but this is not the law of the Amendment nor is it the purpose of its creation.
Because these activists have chosen not to use the Amendment properly, they have subsequently created a Stand-Your-Ground Law. Stand Your Ground Law states that you have the right to use your gun to stand your ground when you feel your life is threatened. But these activists are using their guns any way they want because they believe the Second Amendment and Stand Your Ground Laws give them that right and justify their actions. Once again something that is not accurate. And what we’ve discovered is “Stand-Your-Ground” really means Whites can stand their ground and Blacks & minorities have no ground to stand on. Blacks can’t say, “I am standing my ground because I fear for my life.” Blacks cannot walk up and down the street waving a gun or have a large gun strapped across their chest and walk in a Burger King, gas station or Walmart without police or authorities being called. That phone call on that Black individual most likely will end in an arrest or murder by the police or civilians.
If we’re being honest, Stand-Your-Ground Law is another made-up law that allows White Americans to make civil arrests or take the lives of innocent people, mainly African-Americans. If it was really about protecting everyone then the law would also give African-American their fair protection and rights to STAND THEIR GROUND as well.
But the reality is it’s not for Blacks. They still believe how dare a Black man own a gun because that is NOT American so they must be up to some type of crime. How dare a Black man go golfing, take a jog, sit in first-class on a plane, or be in the park with friends.
But people used The Constitution as their American Bible to hide behind their hatred and evil speeches. Believing that The Constitution is their legal right to do whatever they want as long as they say my Constitutional rights. It’s the same ones that say, “Get over slavery it was a long time ago.”
But Blacks and minorities have Constitutional rights. It is their right to speak up, defend, and protect themselves and their families. It is their right to not be killed, shot at, or threatened. It is their right to vote, worship, love whom they deem fit, and it is their right to stand their ground and demand justice in our judicial system. The sad truth… justice is not blind, it can see real good. She sees color, skin tone, race, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, and income status. Justice is not blind and justice is not fair.So when will we make The Constitution something that protects and serves all Americans? Because it’s just not for White people.
He’s neva’ gonna come see you play, he doesn’t love you.
Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.
You’re not good enough for him to come see.
I was alone at Monsignor King Hall before practice one morning, working on my footwork.
The neckline of my green t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I was in the gym working my eleven year old love handles off to perfect my patented “drop step to the baseline” spin move.
The sound of the basketball bouncing off the kelly green floor and the squeaking of my sneakers were like music to my ears.
The season before I had fallen in love with basketball as a ball boy for the Monsignor King tournament. I had to be close to the action for the LaSalle high school game to witness one the nation’s top prospects, Ron Artest, play in the championship game.
My first teammates at St. Thomas Aquinas (STA) were a group of special kids: Izzy Bauta, Mike Blake, P.J. Marshall, Joey Romano, Nick Russo, and myself. We were coached by local mailmen, Joe Romano Sr., who was Joey’s dad, and John Browning.
Our team was good. Like, legendarily good. Our first season together we made a splash in Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) with an outstanding record. We’d easily score about 60 points a game. Any given game each of the starting five players could score 12-14 points each. I am still waiting for the local Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, to do a documentary on our successful run. We were unstoppaBULL. Get my drift? It was 1997 and who didn’t wanna be like Michael Jordan? Chicago was on fire that year, and so were we.
That year, people started to talk about how historically dominant we could become if we continued to play together throughout the summer.
And that’s saying somethin’. NBA Hall of Famer, Chris Mullen, used to workout on that floor and rumors have it that he once broke the backboards at Monsignor King Hall while practicing for the Dream Team before the ‘92 Olympics.
Yeah, so you could say that we were almost NBA Hall of Fame, Dream Team level nice, ok?
Anyway, that spring, we had won our first championship on a corner buzzer-beater against St. Rose. We had tasted the sweetness of victory and I wanted to improve my basketball skills over the summer.
But inside our apartment on 2525 Bedford Avenue, my world was crumbling. Dad was never home and the only time I’d hear from him was when he played music on Sunday’s. Sometimes he’d be so into his records that it felt like I was invisible to him.
With the hurt and anger towards my father growing, basketball was a much welcome distraction to muddle the chaos going on in my home and in my young mind. I had asked Mom if I could join karate to blow off steam but my mom felt that I might have been too much of a brute and injure the other kids my age. Not to mention that she just did not have the time to take me to practice with all that was going on in her life.
So when I came home from school energetically rambling about my desire to want to play on the basketball team, my mom initially rejected the idea. But she saw how excited I was and she finally relented with a little persuasion from another parent who offered to take me to weekly practices twice a week.
The turbulence when my dad would come home and the size of our cramped apartment felt like flying through rough air in a small airplane. The uneasiness from the tension created a cagey atmosphere that left me suffocating with resentment from how he had treated my mom and me.
Basketball was an escape to another dimension where I could be free to release the stress of my emotions. The more I poured my energy into the game, the more it gave me the fulfillment I was desperately searching for.
(Silverback’s Note: Read Power of Love Part: I, here. Remember, click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
Inside Monsignor King Hall, her voice rumbles across the court.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN! LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
My mother, sitting in the wooden bleachers, leans back, takes a deeper inhale and continues to bellow. I can hear mom’s voice from the center circle.
Just like her prayer time every morning, that voice got louder, and louder, and louder.
I adjusted my yellow Rec Spec goggles as the referee was giving our team’s final instruction. I can’t even hear him.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN!” “LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
Soon it’s the only voice that everyone can hear in the gym. There’s six minutes on the game clock to begin the first quarter and the scoreboard is buzzing with electric current. Adrenaline is running through my veins. The referee toots his whistle and lobs the ball into the air.
I won the tip-off, and Mom switched to a more provocative cheer.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!,” she shouts as we got into our positions to run our first play of the game.
Looking back, her volume was a somewhat obnoxious level of support considering that our team was about to dismantle our opponents during the first few minutes of the basketball game.
Monsignor King Hall was the home court to one of the most ferocious boys junior high school basketball teams in the history of Brooklyn CYO sports.
From 1996 to 1998, the STA boys’ basketball team would rack up 149 wins and 1 loss. We didn’t have a team mascot or a nickname so our fans would cheer for us using the color of our green cotton t-shirts. Our loudest super fan was my mom, Madeline Louison. At 330 pounds, she was also our largest and most gangster, cheerleader as well.
I can feel her fierce love and undying support with every echo of her voice that rang through the gymnasium. It’s that same voice that I can still hear in the echoes of my mind, passionately encouraging me to push myself to be better to this day.
She’s still cheering me on and is the driving force behind my competitive passion. She’s still in my corner encouraging me to strive for more through the power of her love.
You see, Madi has always been the personification of the Bible. She embodies the ruthless ferocity described in the battles of the Christian Old Testament combined with the warm loving narrative of the redemption story told in the Christian New Testament. That’s how I described her to my therapist, anyway.
“You know I am an atheist, right?” Dr. Brown says to me in one of our early sessions.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I respond as I am sitting across from him at a wooden table inside his apartment office.
“Tell me about your mother but with less Biblical references so I can understand,” he says with a slight grin that accentuates the shine in his brown skin.
I had just completed unpacking my father’s story of origin to my therapist and it was time to discuss my mother. I found myself in the therapist chair because I was experiencing an emotional block in 2014.
The woundedness of my father’s absence during my childhood and the effects of two colossally failed romantic relationships as a young adult had left me broken and searching for healing. I was struggling with emotionally connecting with humans – I felt unable to love.
“My mom and I have a really close bond,” I respond. “We’ve had to be there a lot for each other through the years…”
My goggles were foggy from the perspiration. It was scorching outside and I could feel the heat rising off the gravel courts in the Coney Island public housing complex.
Our Dream Team was playing in our first summer tournament. We had made it to the championship of the 2nd Annual Stephon Marbury Basketball Classic.
Our team had not played hard enough in the first half to be competitive. It was halftime and Coach Romano was red in the face.
“Get your heads outta’ your asses and focus!” Coach Romano growled at halftime. He usually didn’t cuss at us but when he did his Brooklyn-Italian accent really came out.
Izzy and I plop our dense 180-pound frames into the lawn chairs. We both stood about 5’8 and our knees were protruding off the edge of the nylon seats. I cross my arms in frustration.
The PA announcer had been talking nonstop during the first half and it was good to finally hear some music blaring from the speakers set up near the courts. Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was playing during a break in the action.
Our team was not accustomed with losing and we began allowing the unfamiliar territory to disrupt our flow.
One of the parents passed around a bag of frozen orange slices to cool us down.
“Put those orange slices down and focus, Andy!” my teammate P.J. shouted. “You’re not boxing out!”
Focus, I thought.
How could I focus when all I wanted was for my Pops to come watch me play ball? I had so much heaviness on my heart. All of my teammates’ dads were there to watch them play. Even the ones that didn’t get much playing time.
Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? I got game.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my mom being there. It was just that she didn’t know much about sports and I just wanted my dad’s guidance like all the other boys. Some of my teammates wondered if I even had a dad at home.
Basketball apparently was a “waste of time,” according to him but the game I loved had already given me more than he ever had.
“Pick your head up!” my mother commands. “Get your head in the game. You’re letting those little guys get the rebound over you!”
We were playing in a rough neighborhood against a gritty team of all Black players from Coney Island. I was the only Black kid on our team and you could tell that my White teammates or their parents had never played in such a lively environment. Matter fact, they were the only White people participating in the tournament, the only White people on the basketball courts, and most likely the only White people for a few blocks.
Far away from our home court and in strange surroundings we were down by 15 points. We had been down before but not by this large of a margin. The pressure of the deficit and the exuberance of the crowd was becoming increasingly stressful.
Maybe we weren’t as good as we thought?
The horn sounded to start the second half. I looked on as all of my teammates’ fathers assured their sons and provided final instruction.
At that moment, something switched inside of me. The separation from my own father felt more pronounced. I felt so alone, so unprotected, so wounded. In order to protect the vulnerability of my feelings, a menacing ball of anger ignited inside me.
Enough.
We inbound the ball and I beeline to my spot on the post and call for the ball with gusto. I wanted to get a bucket.
The shot went up and I found a body to crash into as the ball was in the air. I boxed out, snatched the offensive rebound out of the air and scored on the put back layup.
“Oh he’s a beast on the inside!” the color commentator says to start the second half commentary.
Damn right I am a beast! I’ll ball out without my Pops.
The sound of male validation sparked such a self-confident feeling inside of me that I began to chase it by playing harder.
“Great rebound, Andy!” shouted one of the White dads.
Keep rebounding, they can’t stop you.
We score on a few back to back possessions and cut into the lead going into the final quarter.
Every time I glanced over to the stands and remembered that my father was not there I felt my blood boil hotter and hotter. I wanted every damn rebound. I wanted every freakin’ loose ball. I wanted to squeeze every pebble on the basketball’s leather skin.
Who needs a Pops anyway?
I was on a roll and our opponents didn’t seem to have anyone on their bench to match my ferocity in the paint.
I began mouthing off at the referee after he called a loose ball foul on me. I was being too aggressive positioning for the rebound, he said.
“I didn’t even touch him!” I lashed out.
Okay… so I elbowed the kid. But I had no capacity to care even if I was playing on their turf.
“Callate la boca,” my mom shouts. I am chewing on my jersey to keep from erupting and I softly whisper into my jersey, “That’s such a bullshit foul call.”
Well, at least I thought I whispered it, as the referee whistles me for a technical foul.
Coach Romano is besides himself and Coach Browning has to hold him back from yanking me off the court by the strap of my goggles.
He decided he can’t take me out of the game, we had the momentum and we needed a big body in the paint for rebounds.
Coach Romano found his composure and Joey huddled up our players at the center circle.
“Keep your head in the game big guy,” my teammate Joey said, slapping me on the head. “We need you in the game to win this.”
With Joey’s pep talk, I regained my composure and got back to dominating in the paint.
The game was back and forth as we entered into the final minute of the championship. We had clawed back to take the lead by one point with 42 seconds remaining on the game clock.
Just then, out of nowhere, a rainstorm soaked the court. Everyone scattered for shelter ending the game with mere seconds left.
When we all returned the following week to play, we had found our winning confidence. With NBA rookie sensation, Stephon Marbury, watching court side, we walloped their asses for the remaining 42 seconds left in the contest.
Marbury, A Kid From Coney Island housing projects, had just completed his rookie season for the NBA’s Minnesota Timberwolves as a member of the now iconic 1996 NBA rookie draft class that featured future all-time greats Allen Iverson and Kobe Bryant.
It was an odd way to end such a hard-fought game but we were going to meet an NBA player and take home a giant trophy. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I didn’t care much for Marbury at the time, other than that I could brag to my friends that I was somehow closer to Michael Jordan.
I can still hear mom as we victoriously left the basketball court that day.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!”
My mom and I were in a joyous mood on that drive home in the minivan. Boy, did we need that victory to lift our spirits. Winning gave us something to celebrate. I still wanted my dad to be there, but it was great to look up from the passenger seat and not see her tears.
Mom switched on the ignition of the minivan to pull off. The choir picks up mid track where the song had left off earlier in the day. This time the choir sounds so angelic, so sweet.
“Jehovah Rapha” the choir croons.
“You’re my healer…” mom and I triumphantly join in unison as we try to hit the high notes of the songs crescendo. We both sound terrible.
It was in Coney Island that I began to understand what the lyrics of that gospel song really meant.
Basketball had provided a space to set my pent up emotions free. Jehovah Jireh.
The game had supplied me with the confidence and male validation that I was craving in my father’s absence. Jehovah Shamma.
All undergirded by the support and the healing love that my little heart so needed. Jehovah Rapha.
In addition to my teammates, Mom and I have always been a team. I consoled her through the sting of her tears and she soothed the intensity of my rage. Our wounds shared a common source but the power of our love was more than enough to bring us through any challenge we faced together.
When I reflect on that era of our lives together, one of the tracks on my favorite album by Jay-Z comes to mind. The lyrics on Blueprint (Mama Loves Me) remind me of the things I asked God for in my nightly prayers as a child.
“Mama loved me, Pop left me…” Jay begins. “Mama raised me; Pop I miss you. God, help me forgive him; I got some issues…”
Thanks for always being more than enough for me, Mom. You’ve always been the answer to my prayers.
I can hear mom’s voice battling with God in prayer. It’s the first thing I can hear even before I can open my eyes to start the day.
My bedroom is underneath my parents’ bedroom in the basement of the house.
Some mornings the murmurings of her voice cajoles me out of my sleep. Some mornings it jolts me out of my sleep. Some mornings her syncopation consoles me back into sleep.
She prays like someone having an argument on the telephone.
You know when you can’t hear the person on the other side of the phone call but you know that the side you can hear is winning because the passion in their tone is increasing?
This was the voice that woke me up. Every. Single. Weekday. At 6 am.
“LORD GOD, I’M COMING TO YOU IN THE NAME OF JESUS…”
I bet you her fists are balled right now, I think.
“YOU SAID IN YOUR WORD, OH GOD…”
Yep, she is definitely wagging her index finger in the air right now.
“HEAR THE CRY OF MY HEART, OH GOD…”
Ah, she’s slapping her chest again.
“BRING BACK MY HUSBAND, LORD! HEAL MY MARRIAGE! RESTORE THE YEARS THE LOCUSTS HAVE EATEN…”
Welp, that shit’s neva’ gonna happen.
“Time to get up for basketball practice,” I think to myself as I get out of bed.
I could hear that she was crying again. But unlike at night when she would wail herself to sleep, I could hear the fight in her voice in the morning. I could hear her grappling for her marriage, for her sanity, and for her survival at dawn.
I mean, how else can you manage raising four children playing sports, a full time job as a NYC public school teacher, studying for your Master’s Degree in English in the evenings, and emotionally reconcile with the implications of a wayward husband in the late 90s without seeking daily divine intervention?
(Silverback’s Note: Welcome back y’all! There’s so much to say about the global public health crisis that has most of us currently confined to our homes. Until we are safe to roam free, I am reminded that Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years and if Madiba could endure, then so can we. Blessings to you and your loved ones.
My last piece, “Music Is Life” triggered healing conversations and reflections for a lot of folks. I am so grateful for your feedback, thank you. The piece also unlocked my ability to share stories about what fueled my drive and focus on the basketball court.
If my father’s absence was the antagonist in my life story, then my mother’s presence was the protagonist. I am excited to share my love for my mother, the game of basketball, and most importantly, the love for a lifelong journey I have embraced through therapy. Please enjoy reading this very special 3-part series. For the first time ever, we present Power of Love.
P.S. – Click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
It was around 1996 when we learned of my father’s infidelity. This news was a devastating blow to our home. I was unable to fully contextualize the damage but I knew that my dad was with another woman. Their explosive arguments were burning hotter by the week.
Raising four young children, effectively as a single parent, was taking its toll on mom and she had ballooned to 330 pounds.
I learned one morning that her nightly tears often continued well into her twenty-five minute drive into work. She was a public school English teacher and on the days that I had off from Catholic school, I would witness how she began most mornings in the car.
The northbound drive from East Flatbush to Bedford Stuyvesant in the late 90s was not pleasant.
I wanted to listen to this new rapper named Jay-Z on the radio but Mom always wanted to listen to the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. She loved this one particular album on cassette, God Is Working. Oh man, did she love this one song called “More Than Enough.”
She couldn’t sing worth a lick but she would rewind that song over and over. She used to say that one day she was going to audition for the church’s Grammy-award winning choir.
Fat chance.
Sometimes her singing would be so off putting that I’d just tune out her words. Until, about five minutes into the drive, I’d begin to hear sniffles.
The drive would take us past the cross street where my dad’s other woman and their two young children lived. The sight of the block was too much to bear for my mother. The tears would fall.
Then she’d turn up the volume, as the rumble of the piano keys welcomed us to her favorite song, the sound of the keystrokes pierced through the silence in the minivan.
“Jehovah Jireh” the soloist would sing. “My provider…”
On one of our rides, I remember approaching the intersection where Ebbets Field formerly stood. There was a painted mural of my idol, Jackie Robinson, to commemorate his becoming MLB’s first Black baseball player.
“Look!” I pointed. “Did you know that Jackie broke the color barrier in 1947 playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers?” I ask, attempting to distract her from her sadness.
Ignoring my attempts at a diversion, mom would continue to sing along with the choir with more vigor, “Jehovah Shamma,” she continued through her tears. “You supply all my needs…”
By this time on our drive, we were stopped at a red light and her eyes were closed. Suddenly, a knock came to the window. Startled, we realized it was a panhandler from the men’s homeless shelter looking to squeegee our front windshield in exchange for small change.
“You know I really wanna get better at basketball,” I continue blabbering, ignoring the strange man at the window. “I am excited for my teams tournament this weekend. You think Dad will come?”
She kept singing her heart out without responding. She was in her own world.
Those drives were tough for me to experience from the passenger seat but even more painful for her to experience as the driver but we both were looking for inspiration to get us through the day.
As our old minivan puttered and squealed to a halt in front of the burgundy clay colored doors of Primary School 308, Madi would begin to transform out of her sadness.
“Come on Madi, you gotta focus now,” she’d say to herself in the sun visor mirror.
“Lord, you are more than enough…”
She turned off the ignition.
“You are more than enough for me.”
I too was struggling with feeling that I wasn’t enough. Mom had discovered her resolve in the mountains of Puerto Rico. A resolve that I was lacking.
Where did she develop such resolve? I wondered.
Instead of telling you, I’ll step aside and let Mama Soulful share her own journey with you.
Mama, tell us about those dreams you had about “La Isla del Encanto.”
OYE COMO VA.
I open my eyes wondering if I’m in my Tío Felito’s house in Puerto Rico. As I look around the room, I remember, Oh, I’m in my dorm at Stony Brook.
Why do I keep having those dreams?
In my dream, my Tío Felito, the quintessential Catholic, keeps warning me to go to church.
Why? What does he mean?
Somehow I knew in my gut that God was calling me to serve Him, but I kept pushing that thought to the recesses of my mind.
I knew that I could not serve God and date Jordache — my unbelieving boyfriend — at the same time. In my mind it was either God or Jordache. Of course, I chose the love of my life, Jordache. That one decision led me to speed through my blossoming girly college days into unanticipated womanhood.
During the course of one week in May of 1984, my life changed dramatically: I graduated from Stony Brook University on Sunday, May 20th. Three days later, I turned 22, and three days after that, this emotionally immature woman had become a wife.
It would take a few more dreams and many, many more explosive arguments with my husband that would lead me to the altar of the Brooklyn Tabernacle in March of 1986.
I was so disheartened. It was at that altar that two young women approached me, as tears of pain were streaming down my face. They sympathetically asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior and say a prayer of confession with them.
I said, “Yes.”
Of course, I had no idea what I was doing and the tremendous lifelong impact that one decision would have on me and my little two month baby, Neville Andrés (Andy). A decision that I can honestly say transformed me from a weak, emotionally immature woman to a mighty warrior for Jesus Christ. My heart is saturated with profound gratitude as I recognize that I am still evolving, still growing and still seeking God’s truth to define who I am. As I reflect upon my metamorphose into womanhood, I know that this journey of faith began long before my college years. It began when I was just a little girl.
“Ouch,” I whispered in pain as my mom pinched me.
She did this sneakily under her crossed arms as the church choir sang, “Hear, O Lord the sound of my call.”
She was always nudging me to pay attention as the priest gave the liturgy. I can remember from the time I was a little girl how Mami adamantly taught me and my two older sisters to fear and love God. She insisted we pray before a meal; reminded us to always say, “if God wills it” when we made plans; or urged us to kneel by our bedside to recite The Lord’s Prayer. She made sure we received all the sacraments and attended church every Sunday despite the cold temperatures or our grumpy adolescent attitudes that only desired to sleep in on Sunday mornings.
Despite my religious conversion to a nondenominational Christian Church at the age of 23, I am extremely grateful for my Catholic upbringing. This orthodox foundation was the cornerstone upon which my faith has thrived on for decades.
In 1950 my beautiful mother, Isidra Natal, prematurely left her home in the country at the tender age of 18. She arrived after two days of weary travels from Puerto Rico then to Florida and finally to her final destination, New York, a strange city she had never encountered.
While living in a two bedroom apartment with her three cousins near Albee Square Mall in Brooklyn, she is acquainted with a young, handsome brown skinned man with soft straight black hair from the island of Cape Verde, located on the West Coast of Africa.
Shortly after my parents met, they got married and eventually had three daughters: Antonia, Leda, and Madeline. I am a proud, native Brooklynite born in the early 1960s when it was very popular for Cape Verdeans to marry Puerto Ricans for a green card.
During my early years, I can vividly remember the instability of my home. Growing up, my dad would always argue with my mom for many different reasons. It was either the house was not cleaned well enough or we had company visiting without his approval or simply lies that my dad’s family spewed out to enrage my father against my mother. Most of these arguments would always end in some sort of abuse. The arguments were constant and fervent while living in Brooklyn and continued even more when my parents bought a house and moved the family to Hazlet, New Jersey.
As one of fifteen siblings, my mom is the matriarch of our family. Over the course of their marriage she endured emotional and physical abuse as well as infidelity until she could no longer tolerate it. She tried to keep the family intact as best as she could, but the abuse was more than she could handle. In spite of the chaos in our home, Mami shielded us by keeping us girls as close to her as possible.
In 1975, she decided to move to Puerto Rico with my sister, Leda, and me in order to file for divorce. Despite the many years of loneliness and neglect, my mom was and is strong and resilient. She made sure we did well in school, attended every parent teacher conference, put food on the table, exposed us to the world of travel, and even made sure we maintained very close family ties. She taught us that family relationships are fundamental, and the importance of supporting each other and staying connected. My mom is a woman of character, as my grandmother would say. She instilled the will, drive, determination, and the gift of civic pride that women during her era were not sufficiently accredited for. Her fortitude of character can be easily traced back to my grandmother, Petrona Adorno Natal.
“Madelina, olvidate de esa gente que familia tienes demás aquí,” my grandmother would lovingly remind me to forget about my father’s side of the family because my maternal side of the family was more than enough.
She’d tell me this every time I’d pour out my anger, pain, and frustration of how my father’s family treated my mom, my sisters, and me. She assured me that their rejection meant nothing because of the enormous family in Puerto Rico that loved us deeply.
The rejection and my father’s violent temper led me to reject my Cape Verdean roots. I wanted nothing to do with any of them. They shunned us, and I buried the memory of this abusive family into the deepest part of my recollection.
That is why the move to Puerto Rico was critical to my identity. Who was I? Where did I self-identify? It was there in the mountains of Puerto Rico that I found true familial love.
It was there that I found a part of my identity as a New Yorican as I embraced the vibrant education, the Spanish language, the rich culture, and the delicious food.
Every morning abuela brewed a steamy pot of fragrant coffee. She’d always make sure my tacita de café was on the table ready for me to drink before going to school. This was the beginning of my lifetime love of having una tacita de cafè every morning except now they are not tacitas they are large mugs of coffee.
The caffeine fueled me, late into the night, to study books that were written in a language that was very unfamiliar to me until I slowly and arduously adopted it as my second language. The pay off of those long exhausting nights of studying finally came the day I graduated from 9th grade as the valedictorian of the graduating class. A distinction I embraced because many kids in the class did not like that a New Yorican, who had arrived two years prior, snatched up this prestigious title.
Life there was rich, peaceful, and filled with wonderful, new experiences that I didn’t always appreciate at that moment, but learned to treasure them as an adult.
In the summer of 1977 Leda and I arrived in Brooklyn before my mom. We stayed between my father’s house in New Jersey and my paternal grandmother’s house in Brooklyn. In preparation for my mother’s arrival to New York, I took on the responsibility of trying to find a place for us to live because after all my parents were divorced, and I did not want to go back to living in the house in New Jersey where so much suffering had taken place. So at 15, I was able to find an apartment for Mami to look into upon her return.
When she arrived she secured our three-bedroom apartment in Flatbush. I was registered in the 10th grade at Erasmus Hall High School, and Leda was enrolled at Brooklyn College. Antonia had graduated from William Paterson University and was living in New Jersey in her own apartment. Mami then found a secretarial job at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. My father continued living in the house my parents had purchased in Jersey and would visit us regularly. Despite the divorce, he always stayed connected to the family.
I was reacclimating myself to my native Brooklyn roots and like most teenagers at the time, I was consumed by school, friends, disco music, and my first part time job.
Working at Tasty Twin, a small sandwich hero shop, taught me a different level of responsibility that I had never experienced. The owners, Juan and Manuel, were two elderly gentlemen from Spain who simply adored and trusted me, but they worked me like a dog for a mere $2.50 an hour. In their absence, I managed this modest sandwich shop where the Off Track Betting gamblers and commercial workers on Flatbush Ave would sit, socialize and build community relationships. As the cashier, I made sure all monies were counted and secured while Willy, the sandwich maker, cleaned up the shop before closing. My meager earnings allowed me to purchase things I knew my mom couldn’t afford to buy.
The late 70’s were the years of Elvis Presely’s passing, Jimmy Carter’s 39th inauguration as president, and watching and mimicking Soul Train dance lines. Disco music was blazing everywhere from the radio to people walking down the block with boom boxes on their shoulders blasting their music. When Saturday Night Fever came out in the movie theater, it was a hit of monumental proportions that also contributed to the disco fever of the day.
Next door to Tasty Twin was a movie theater where Leda worked the concession stand. The manager there favored Leda and I, and she always gave me free passes to see Saturday Night Fever at least half a dozen times. My goodness, I spent so much time trying to learn John Trovolta’s dance moves. Simultaneously, roller disco was also en vogue and everyone was trying flashy moves on their skates.
Every Friday night, Antonia, and I would hang out at the Empire Roller Skating Rink across from Ebbets Field. The DJ would blast the music and the skaters would skilfully roll to some of the sweetest, most soulful music of that era. Skating was so much fun, in spite of my ungraceful moves. Antonia was a talented skater, and I was just trying to copy her graceful moves as any little sister would do.
While at Erasmus, I was the president of Arista, the national honor society. I was also the vice president of student government. These roles allowed me to develop leadership skills that I did not possess.
Academically, the years in Puerto Rico had revealed that I in fact had some gaps in my education in comparison with other students. However, out of a class of 723 seniors, I graduated number 23. This sweet accomplishment was a reflection of my deliberate determination and effort to excel in my education.
Erasmus Hall blessed me with my life-long friends: Judy, Annmarie, Magally, and Janine. They were all high academic achievers that challenged me to be the best version of myself and to always stay on task and overachieve. As the years passed, my relationship with these very successful ladies has grown very deep roots that have gone beyond friendship. We are family!
Sadly, Janine passed away four years ago of pancreatic cancer. I was so broken-hearted to the point of almost missing her funeral because I was not prepared to face her death. I would have missed out on the biggest surprise of my life had my husband and my son, David, not continued to coax me to fly down to Georgia to say my final goodbyes.
Prior to Janine’s passing, she had arranged her entire funeral service. Unbeknownst to me, she had planned for me to offer words of comfort during the service. I was shocked, honored, and extremely grateful that I was present to fulfill her last wish.
Sleep well until we meet again at the pearly gates, my friend.
In 1980, I started a new chapter of my life at Stony Brook University on Long Island. My parents were very hesitant about allowing me to attend because they wanted me to live at home, but they finally relented with a little coercing from my college counselor.
I guess they feared I would go wild and not come home; however, that was the furthest thing from my mind. I went to all my classes, got involved in the Hispanic club, and pretty much stuck to the books all the time. Every weekend I went home to see my family and to work a part-time job at my local Key Food supermarket.
All was pretty much quiet, until April of 1981 when Mr. Cool and Confident danced into my life at Annmarie’s birthday party. After that first dance with Jordache, I was smitten.
If the thought of seeing your family around the holidays makes you nervous, you’re not alone. As the political Black Sheep in my family, I understand what it’s like to spend time around people you love, but entirely disagree with. Mixing differing political beliefs with family love can be a very difficult crossroads to be stuck at. They’re your family and you love them and don’t want to fight, but political beliefs can have strong feelings behind them. So what do you do? How do you push past your differences and share in the joy of the holiday season?
After the 2016 election, my mother tried to incite a “no politics” rule for holiday dinner conversation. However, rules like that are easy to say but harder to follow. If your family is anything like mine, political conversation is basically inevitable. So how do you deal with it? When I was younger I would try to fight back. I would get angry and upset, which naturally only made things worse. It’s hard to bite your tongue when you hear things you disagree with so strongly, but after a while I learned that fighting back would only add fuel to the fire. I quickly realized I was outnumbered and no matter what I said or how I worded it, there was no winning for me.
If you find yourself in a similar situation, my best suggestion is to find someone else to talk to. Whether you find someone who agrees with you or even just someone who doesn’t want to talk politics, whoever you find will help you feel a little less alone. For me, this person is my brother. Although he has learned to stay quiet like I have, even just having someone to shoot a glance at when you hear something you don’t agree with goes a long way.
Another tactic you can employ is changing the subject when the conversation gets too heated. During the holidays my mother tries her best to cut off any political conversation as soon as it starts, that way it never even has the chance to escalate. Political conversations can easily turn into fights. If you can redirect the conversation before it even begins, then there’s no fight to have to diffuse later.
The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy and happiness surrounded by loved ones. Talking politics may make for an interesting debate, but the subject can be very touchy and can easily take a turn for the worst. The important thing to remember is that regardless of what you say, people are very unlikely to actually change their opinions. So why cause yourself the stress? Talking politics during the holidays is far more likely to lead to a fight rather than a productive conversation. Save everyone the hassle and leave the politics at the door so everyone can have an enjoyable holiday season.
This article was originally published on 12 December 2018.
The bell inside the front door of apartment A1 at 2525 Bedford Avenue would ring loudly when the door was slammed shut.
I know this because — in a very Pavlovian way — I can still hear that bell ringing in my darkest moments.
I’ll never forget the days when I was 6 years old. It was 1992 and there I stood on that dark red carpet in front of the front door. My mom, dad, brother, and I lived in a roach-infested, two-bedroom apartment in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.
My father had just sprayed cologne on his neck to leave the apartment. The way he carried himself, he had so much swagger and confidence.
“Dad, can I go with you, please?”
Often my mom would chime in to advocate on my behalf, “Jordache just take him with you for a little while, while I take care of Jeremy.”
“No, Madi. I’m just going up the road to come back,” he replied.
“Just let the record play and then switch off the power, when the record is finished,” he continued.
The heavy metal door would then slam shut behind him, causing the bell inside the door to ring loudly for a few seconds. Although he was leaving, the sound of the reggae music that was still pouring out from the industrial-size speakers in our living room was not leaving with him.
I remember going to my room to be alone and deal with my sadness. This pattern went on for many more years and the continued rejection gradually became too much to bear. The sound of him leaving had happened so often that I no longer heard the bell. Instead, a question ringing in my mind.
Neville Louison Sr. is a quiet man; his movements however, are loud.
He steps around the apartment so quietly that I am always startled by the sound of his deep voice, but his impact on my life has and will continue to reverberate well into the remaining years of my life.
It has taken me three decades to heal from the emotional abandonment of him leaving me again and again. It has taken me just as much time to fully grasp the impact of the greatest gift that he has ever given me.
My father has this cool confidence. Cool like a pleasant breeze on a summer night. It’s this cool confidence that gave him the courage to leave his small island of Grand Roy, Grenada, one of the least populated islands in the Western hemisphere. In the 1970s, millions of people had immigrated from the Caribbean islands to NYC. My father was one of them, and like many, he made a home for himself in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.
It wasn’t long after that that my dad met my mom: a beautiful olive-skinned Puerto Rican woman named, Madeline Silva. It’s A classic Brooklyn love story — like something you might see in a Spike Lee film.
My mother had spent most of her formative years in Brooklyn and then a few more years on the island of Puerto Rico until my grandparents divorced when she was a teen.
By the early 1980s, my mother had made her way back to Brooklyn where she was attending Stony Brook University on Long Island.
His quiet confident cool draws my mothers gaze from across the room. Reggae music sizzles out of the stereo in a way that makes your hips sway, gyrate, and dip.
My mother leaned towards her best friend, Judy.
“Who is that cute guy with the black corduroy pants, moving his hips so nice in the corner by himself?”
“I call him Jordache because I always see him around the neighborhood wearing the Jordache Jeans brand,” Judy laughed. “Don’t worry Mads,” Judy continued. “I’ll introduce you to him if you behave yourself.”
Taking a swig of his beer, he asks her to dance.
Maybe it was the way his dark skin shone, the fluidity of his hips, the attraction of their African blood, or the rhythm of the music, but it was at that moment that their love story began.
After 3 years of dating, my father proposed to my mother in my grandmother’s living room.
He didn’t drop to one knee or make a grandiose proposal or anything like that. He just simply stated, “Madi, we must get married.”
My mother did not hesitate to commit to the guy she had gushed to Judy about all those years prior.
“Ok, Jordache.”
Every time they tell me that story, I can hear Beres Hammond begin to croon, “what one dance can do…” – that is one of their favorite reggae tunes.
If you have ever lived with or in the vicinity of my father, you’ve likely been jolted out of your sleep by the buzzing of the amplifier being switched on.
By the mid-90s, our family had expanded to four children: Andy, Jeremy, David, and Sarah. My parents and their four children lived on the first floor above the building’s garbage room. As a result of the trash below us, our apartment was terribly roach-infested, but the cheap rent enabled my parents to save money for a house. We were poor but we were rich in love.
Our block felt like the Carribean United Nations. There were folks from each of the thirteen sovereign island nations and twelve dependent territories. Each island having their own unique sound, flavor, and style.
My mom was the Puerto Rican ambassador. Since she was the only Borinqueña on the block, folks would call my mom, “the Puerto Rican lady with the four kids.” She kept us close to her at all times. We were inextricably bound together.
There was a strong sense of community on our block. Everyone called my father the mayor. Mainly because he was the unofficial disc jockey. DJ South as he is known locally built his own sound system in my bedroom — the one I shared with my two other brothers.
One closet had his DJ booth which included black turntables, grey amplifiers, black headphones, and a red extension cord. Everything connected to the two large speakers in the living room. Somehow he still found a way to neatly organize all of his clothes and belongings.
This was the stereo that woke my Black ass up. Every. Single. Weekend. At 7 am.
“Early to bed and early to rise, does make a Black man healthy, wealthy, and wise,” my father would say. My brothers and I would roll around, grumbling in our bunk bed. I’d be rubbing crust out my eyes, scorn stitched into my brow, while my dad fired up the speakers. It was surreal every time because I usually wouldn’t see him for the entire week. And yet, all of a sudden, there he appeared before us. Crouched down, calmly strumming through his records.
When did he even get home?
“I go play that record,” he’d say when he finally found the record. He was always rummaging for the same record anyway: Bob Marley & The Wailers’ 1979 record, Survival.
As the needle dropped on the record in the closet, the record begins to scratch as the sound blasts from the living room. The raspy soulfulness of Robert Nester Marley’s voice welcomes you to the album.
“Little more drums,” Bob says.
DJ South’s set usually began with the Bunny Wailers “one drop” drumbeat blaring from our living room windows.
Bob’s voice returned to the track to lament, “So much trouble in the world…”
“Remember son, life is about survival,” Dad chimed in as he increased the volume to an even more obscene level.
“Survival,” he said. “Survival.”
Boy, did I want him to shut up. But no matter how much I tried to drown out the sound, he just kept on doing his thing. Eventually, I just lay there silent and angry, staring at the ceiling.
As a thirtieth birthday gift to myself in 2015, I decided that it was time to learn more about my Grenadian roots. It was a season of healing for me and the island was calling me, so I booked my flight.
When I landed on Grenadian soil for the first time, it had been four decades since my grandfather’s untimely death and my father’s escape to survive.
Grandpa, as I would have called him, didn’t live long enough for me to meet him. Lewis Pierre was murdered at the age of 44 in St. George Grenada in September 1977. The body was never recovered.
My father was working on a cruise ship on the nearby island of Trinidad & Tobago on that day. He was nineteen.
He was selling oranges for five cents in Grenada and that hustle was no longer sufficiently providing for the family. As the eldest of his mother’s children, he had left his home two years prior in search for work.
My grandmother and grandfather were effectively neighbors in the late 1950s. He was a Fishermen and in his 44 years of life, he fathered at least six children. Four of them with his wife and the other two children with my grandmother. My father and his brother, Joseph Cadore.
My grandmother’s family was growing and she would move to the nearby village of Grand Roy, where she raised her children, a stone’s throw away from the sea. My grandmother and her three children lived in a small two-room abode.
My uncle Joseph, who we call Uncle Wayne, is one of my favorite human beings. Since I was a child, he would always drop by to infuse his fun, rebel energy into our apartment. The moments with him were short but we loved to roughhouse with our strapping uncle. What I love about him most is that he chose to be around.
Uncle Wayne is different from my father. He is broad-shouldered, gregarious, talkative, and bald. Despite their noticeable differences, I’ve always admired their close bond.
Always up for an adventure, Uncle Wayne had accepted my invite to accompany me to Grenada. He was beaming with pride to show me around his hometown.
Uncle Wayne picked me up in a beat-up grey 4×4 vehicle with a barely functioning CD-player. That was our mode of transportation for the week.
With a joint hanging from his lip, Uncle Wayne drove us to every corner of the island. A man of the people, he stops to talk to everyone, either greeting them with a boisterous “Hello/Hey/Something” or by the double toot of his horn. I am convinced he knows most of the 100,000 people that live on the island — if not all of them.
During one tour of the island, we stopped at the home that my grandfather, Lewis Pierre, had lived. The yellow two-story home that he built with his own two hands was still standing on the mountain roadside.
My aunt Jenny, who I had never met previously, was living in the home. As I was inquiring about the family history, Aunt Jenny brought out her father’s documentation in a blue tin cookie canister.
I slowly opened the blue canister of his life and pull out the contents.
I gave the documents a quick glance to begin to put together a timeline of his life.
I read the words, “Lewis Pierre born March 18, 1932, to Camilla and Joseph Pierre,” on his birth certificate.
My great-grandparents have names, I thought to myself.
My senses were alive. I was looking at my grandfather’s face for the first time in my life.
“Wow, I look just like him!”
The questions in my mind begin to swirl like water beneath a geyser. However, I remain focused on listening to Aunt Jenny’s every word.
After sitting with the documents for a time and asking a few more poignant questions, I returned the tin canister to Aunt Jenny. I almost don’t want to let the canister go. It held so much information about my life that I may never learn more about.
We said our goodbyes and I began walking back to the car with my mind continuing to swirl with questions.
As we pulled away from my grandfather’s home, Uncle Wayne turned up the volume on the music in the car. The questions in my mind are now rumbling even more loudly as Love African Style by The Mighty Sparrow plays in the background.
“I love to see when Black people make love,” Sparrow sings.
We slowly make our descent down the curvy mountain road. With the sun beating down on the gravel road beneath our tires.
“Now I’ll take you to where me and your father lived,” Uncle Wayne says.
“Wait, you didn’t live there with your father?” I asked. “I thought you guys were neighbors?”
“No. We’d have to walk for hours to get a piece of small change from him, every now and again.”
The geyser of questions in my mind have now erupted and are shooting into the sky. I can only imagine the jagged rocks pressing into their bare feet, the sun beating down on their little heads, and the sweat soaking into their clothing. I wondered what they were talking about. I wondered how they were feeling on their long journey to their father’s house.
Why didn’t he want to hang out with me?
Suddenly, I was transported back to 1992, grappling with my own brokenness behind slammed doors. Except now it feels as if there are two little boys on that dark red carpet. Me and my dad grappling together. I can hear that bell ringing again. I wanted to reach out to my inner child. He needed an explanation.
“Neville,” I said. “He didn’t know how to be a Dad and hang out with you because he never had a Dad himself to hang out with him.”
I was then reminded of this unfortunate truth: broken men tend to produce broken men in the absence of healing.
I see those two Black boys, my Dad and me, much differently now. I’m deeply overcome with sadness to understand we both have experienced this deep pain at the neglect of our fathers.
Immediately one of my Dad’s favorite records by Jimmy Cliff comes to mind, and the words begin to make more sense to me. It’s like I’m hearing them for the first time.
Many rivers to cross…
I felt more connected to my Dad and found my brokenness in his brokenness.
Many rivers to cross
And it’s only my will that keeps me alive
I’ve been licked, washed up for years
And I merely survive because of my pride
“No wonder he played this record so much,” I thought to myself.
The details of my grandfathers final moments in Grenada are limited to his official documents and hearsay accounts.
The death certificate issued ten months later in July 1978 mysteriously states, “Lewis Pierre came to his death by drowning in the parish of St. George and that no person or persons are liable for prosecution.” The hearsay version is that Lewis was thrown off a cliff by a man who was defending his step-daughter from him. Both the official documents and the hearsay accounts leave me with enough hesitation to no longer pursue any additional details of the life and times of Lewis Pierre.
In 1986, less than a decade after “no person or persons” were held to account for my grandfather’s murder, my father would have his first child.
Like many men of his time, my Dad was not overly engaged in my mom’s pregnancy. But he did request that his first-born son carry on his name, Neville. On a Wednesday morning in late January at 5:29 am, I was born — the first-generation American male of my ancestors lineage.
There were many rivers to cross in those early years for my mom and me. Dad didn’t know how to be a father, a husband, or an American – three roles that he had zero experience with. I guess we were all trying to find our way in those days.
Most nights after mom and I did homework together, I would wake up to her sniffles. She was crying. At some point, mom and I had learned that my father had fathered two children with another woman. He lived with his other family just a few blocks away. This tore my mother apart as she was dealing with her own responsibilities. While my dad was an outstanding financial provider, Mom was raising four children without help from her husband. She was a full-time NYC public school teacher and getting her Masters degree in English at Brooklyn College.
When my father did come around, they would argue constantly. I wished for years that he would leave for good so that I could no longer see my mom suffer through their relationship.
I now feel as if I suffered the consequences of my grandfather’s decisions. Neville was emulating Lewis’ behavior, leaving yet another Black boy yearning for time with a Dad who didn’t have the tools to deliver.
As I went through puberty and I grew into my adult years, my anger for my father also matured. I falsely believed that this anger had fueled my success, but in actuality, it was widening the gaping hole in me that my father’s absence had left behind.
The brokenness that had been birthed on that dark red carpet had hardened. I was no longer a boy. Instead, I was the “strong,” “resilient” man that had found his way in America without his father. I made a vow to myself when I was thirteen that this generational cycle of fatherlessness would end with me.
In my father’s absence, I developed my own criteria on what I believe it means to be a man. I would lose myself in books, magazines, mentors, coaches, and closely observed the good men my mom had placed in my life to help guide me. None of those books or people could replace my Dad’s quiet calm cool but they helped provide me with a solid foundation to build on.
At the age of 28, the same age that my father had me, we began to reconcile our relationship. On a quiet Sunday at my parents’ home, we both found ourselves at the dining table eating corn porridge. Mom had just left for church and there was no music playing yet. We both found ourselves quietly eating at the same time that morning. The table was silent except for the sound of our spoons clanging against the bowls. After years of silence on the topic, I muster up the courage.
“How are your sons?” I asked.
Not understating my question, he asked if I was asking about my siblings.
“No, your other two sons,” I sheepishly retorted back.
After taking a moment to gather himself, he stood up to take a walk to his liquor cabinet, and came back to crack open a bottle.
We sat at that dining room table for hours. Just two broken men named Neville exposing their hearts, wounds, and lack of understanding to the other. It was Sunday filled with words that had been previously unspoken and that I’ll cherish forever.
Later on that evening, my Dad asked me to help him fix a doorknob that was in slight disrepair. As he took a knee to unscrew the doorknob, he looked up at me with the glossy eyes of an aging man who had a few drinks.
“Son,” he said. “After today’s conversation… your daddy can now die a happy man.”
These were the words I thought I’d never hear as a little boy. Through his slurred speech, I could hear the sound of a Dad’s tender love for his son.
It’s a moment not many men get the opportunity to have with their fathers.
When I reflect on that moment, one of my Dad’s favorite records Tender Love by Beres Hammond comes to mind.
“First let me welcome you to my little world that was so torn apart. In case you don’t know, I’ve gotta tell you this. That all along I thought this world had no heart…” Beres sings softly.
The two little Nevilles together at last. This is our song now, in a musical language we both can understand.
You’ve been guiding me through the music all along, Dad.
With one of the bloodiest wars in human history as the backdrop, Édith Piaf penned one of the most romantic love songs of all time in 1945.
“La Vie En Rose” is a world-famous ode to two enamored lovers and a song that has been covered by some of the world’s most famous artists like Louis Armstrong, Grace Jones, and most recently Michael Bublé and Lady Gaga. This song touches me because Édith was a woman whose life was littered with various personal tragedies. You’d think most of her music would be downtrodden but somehow she was able to find some light within her to write this beautiful melody.
In English, the song title translates to “life in rosy hues,” and it is a song we should all reflect on this holiday season. It’s a song that invokes romantic feelings of lovers in a warm embrace. Which might seem rather mushy for some, but to my surprise, this song has been really meaningful to me this year.
Actually, the last two years have been rather difficult for me.
I lost friends I loved, I lost confidence in myself, and I lost hope in our nation. This mounting sense of loss led to some painful yet beautiful moments of self-reflection. Some of that pain had derived from much needed personal maturation around my romantic pursuits. Some of that pain had derived from a phase in my career where it felt like I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. And some of that pain derived from the anxiety of dealing with the onslaught of political drama coming out of the White House.
The other night, I was driving to Brooklyn on the FDR Drive when I got caught in some dead stop traffic. I felt like I was in LA. As I am sitting in the car looking at the Brooklyn Bridge on the horizon, “La Vie En Rose” began to play on my stereo. This time, Louis Armstrong was singing the song, and the moment I heard his voice, I began to reflect on the words Edith originally sang 73 years ago. I suddenly felt tears well up in my eyes.
“Hold me close…”
As I sang along I was overcome by this overwhelming sense that everything was going to be okay. Despite my fears, anxieties, and concerns the Universe was holding me close. Somehow things would work out in my favor. Maybe it was the soft strokes of the piano keys or the ringing clarity of Satchmo’s trumpet, but I knew at that moment that things were going to turn around.
“…And though I close my eyes I see la vie en rose…”
When I was younger and less jaded, I would close my eyes and see boundless possibilities — life ahead could only have been in rosy hues. Even as war raged on in my own personal life, I could still see happy hues. But as I became more conscious of the world around me, those hues began to darken. And sometimes when I close my eyes I don’t see la vie en rose anymore, I see a much darker place. But while I was in the car with my eyes closed, I found relief — if only for a moment.
“…When you press me to your heart and in a world apart…”
Some of us because of whatever circumstances may be weighing us down, may not be able to see life in a rosy hue anymore. To those dear friends, I’d encourage you to find someone you love, someone who loves you or even a lovely song and hide in their warm embrace. If you can’t find love then give love. And if you can’t find love or give love then message me! After all, love is one of the most powerful forces on the planet in binding us together.
We find ourselves at a precarious moment in the history of our species. When you remove your rosy spectacles, you may see that between our continued destruction of the planet and the manner in which our world leaders continue to lead through violence that we face a palpable existential crisis at every turn.
However, as I turn up the volume on this beautiful song, I am able to better understand President Obama’s recent comments in South Africa:
“And now an entire generation has grown up in a world that by most measures has gotten steadily freer and healthier and wealthier and less violent and more tolerant during the course of their lifetimes.”
To be clear, I’m not suggesting that we deny what is happening before our eyes. Not at all. However, we should consider how our constant attention to the media cycle could be impacting us. I know it’s caused me to think rather irrationally at times and has ushered me into a feeling of hopelessness. But I know I feel more hopeful when I turn my gaze to identify things I’m truly grateful for.
“…Give your heart and soul to me and life will always be la vie en rose.”
This Holiday season — as madness continues to swirl around us — I pray that you too see what Edith, Louis, Obama, and I have embraced in loving life at such a time as this. Let’s turn up the volume and celebrate la vie en rose.
Thank you, President Trump. Thank you for electrifying a nation that was politically flaccid. Thank you for jolting younger generations into political action. And, If I am being totally honest, thank for driving me to awaken the Silverback inside me.
Over the last six hundred and fifty four days of this Presidency, I’ve observed many things that have equally disturbed me and broken my heart. Unfortunately, at the top of that list are Conservatives of Faith who have continued to support this President. The more that I continued to see the bastardization of Faith, did it only drive me to recall my own Christian upbringing. While the net outcome of those conversations with myself will be shared at a later time, I did remember the following passage from 1 Kings 3: 16-27. Which is a story about King Solomon making a decision between amongst two disputing women:
16 Now two prostitutes came to the king and stood before him. 17 One of them said, “Pardon me, my lord. This woman and I live in the same house, and I had a baby while she was there with me. 18 The third day after my child was born, this woman also had a baby. We were alone; there was no one in the house but the two of us.
19 “During the night this woman’s son died because she lay on him. 20 So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I your servant was asleep. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast. 21 The next morning, I got up to nurse my son—and he was dead! But when I looked at him closely in the morning light, I saw that it wasn’t the son I had borne.”
22 The other woman said, “No! The living one is my son; the dead one is yours.”
But the first one insisted, “No! The dead one is yours; the living one is mine.” And so they argued before the king.
23 The king said, “This one says, ‘My son is alive and your son is dead,’ while that one says, ‘No! Your son is dead and mine is alive.’”
24 Then the king said, “Bring me a sword.” So they brought a sword for the king.25 He then gave an order: “Cut the living child in two and give half to one and half to the other.”
26 The woman whose son was alive was deeply moved out of love for her son and said to the king, “Please, my lord, give her the living baby! Don’t kill him!”
But the other said, “Neither I nor you shall have him. Cut him in two!”
27 Then the king gave his ruling: “Give the living baby to the first woman. Do not kill him; she is his mother.”
The interracial dating debate is alive and well. Can you be pro-Black and in an interracial relationship? I’ve seen so many pieces on the matter and to be honest, they all make me cringe a little. Some less than others, but there isn’t one post I’ve seen that I could get 100% on board with.
You see, I’m a Black woman who is married to a European White guy (I distinguish the difference because he makes it a point to do so, but that’s an article for another day). I was raised by a strong Black mother and father who supplied me with the same “you have to be twice as good as your White counterpart to be considered equal” speech that just about all Pro-Black parents give their kids. For college, I only considered going to an HBCU because after seeing my sister’s experience at Spelman, I knew I needed something similar to really understand who I am as a Black woman in America. I say all of that to say that I’ve been conscious my whole life.
Eventually, I met my husband. We were co-workers and friends. I always thought he was such a cool guy and we had so much in common. But never once did I consider the possibility of dating him simply because he wasn’t wrapped in the same brown skin that I have. After two years of knowing each other and him occasionally asking me out and getting turned down, I finally agreed to a date. I figured I’d go watch this movie with him to prove that there could be nothing beyond friendship between us. Now, it’s 10 years later and we’ve been happily married almost 5 years.
After that date, there really wasn’t a choice for me. I knew then that I loved him. I mean, we had already grown a really strong friendship to this point. Getting the opportunity to spend quality time with him alone really showed me that I was cheating myself out of an opportunity. And for what? Because this amazingly caring, funny, handsome, charming man wasn’t born a Black man?
So back to my issue with the think pieces on interracial dating. Of course, there are people who choose to date outside of their race because that’s just their preference. Or maybe they just don’t want to limit themselves to one race and prefer to keep their options open. But for most of us, just like same race couples, we didn’t have a choice about who we fell in love with and that’s what’s missing from so many of these articles I’ve seen. I’m glad so many people were able to contextualize the conversation so well; but honestly, it’s not that deep. The heart wants what the heart wants. When you meet someone and start falling in love with them, race doesn’t matter. I simply followed my heart to happiness and I highly recommend that everyone do the same!
