I had a great conversation with my BFF this weekend about being prepared. We’re wanting some things in 2010 and beyond. I’m pretty good at identifying what I want. But what we talked about was being prepared for that. I’m not even talking about mental and emotional preparation. I’m talking about the nuts and bolts. How can I seriously want to go on a date and not have a date dress and heels on deck? I could find something, but I’m not ready now. I wouldn’t be comfortable, because I’m not prepared. How can I keep trying to write a book, but keep losing my notes? I need to do more organizing so I can be ready to make that happen.
I’m beginning to think that I’m slowed in progress with some things because I’m literally unprepared. Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m not receiving the things I would like right now; I’d be all surprised and stalling. So I’m going to use this retrograde period to reflect on how I can be prepared, mentally, physically, realistically and logistically.
Tonight, I’m busy. I’ve been to the store. I’ve watered the lawn. I’ve washed my face. I watched the news; I knew better, but I did anyway. I’m working on a presentation. This is a Sunday, some people say a holy day. I’ve been trying not to think about the sickness of the world. But what do I say tomorrow?
Tomorrow, my students return with questions and this time the teacher will have no answers. No words I say will ease the discomfort of a missing face, a voice, a laugh. There is nothing even an eloquent speaker can say to bring back life. But I have to say something. So what will it be?
I don’t know. I won’t know until I get there. And maybe there won’t be much to say at first. But by afternoon, by the time of our class, there will be the raw ache of knowing that one of the many students I’m charged with teaching, will be tragically and finally absent. And those who remain will wonder, as I will, why?
If you are called to teach, to serve in that way, your students sort of become your children. I don’t presume to know the pain of a parent that has lost a child. I imagine that it is an unbearable weight find that the natural order has been pre-empted and my heart goes out to those who experience that pain. But for a little while, every day, my students are my children and if there were any way I could keep them from harm, I would do it with no hesitation. It is a helpless, hurting feeling when you can’t.
I pray I find the right words, the best words tomorrow. And if I’m not able to come up with words, I pray that my children understand my heart.
Everything isn’t meant to last forever and everyone isn’t supposed to be a part of our lives. I’m someone who feels bad when I have to cut off the foolishness because I feel like that’s a personal failure, that I failed in some sort of way. But that’s not the truth. Sometimes you have to just move on and it’s not anyone’s fault.
Long goodbyes. That’s not so good for me. I can always think of a lot of reasons to stick it out, so I usually talk myself into at least another few months. And then I do it again. And then it’s years later. In coming to know myself, I’m starting to realize that it’s better, for me at least, to rip the band-aid off. Stop the insanity, as Susan Powter (google that) would say. I need to go cold turkey.
I talk a good game. I’ve talked this game before. But this morning, I woke up with a puffy face and thought, “Ugh…we doing this again? This is ruining my sexy!” I won’t bore you with the details, but I will say that the bachelorette is going through a moment. Over and over again. Like Groundhog Day. And I need to give it up and turn it loose. Immediately.
But I’m hardheaded. I think I know what’s best for me, but I’m still learning who I am, so I don’t know half of what I think I do. I guess, I just need to trust my mind, because my heart is so backwards sometimes. It’s sad, but true. What you want is not always what you need and that’s a hard lesson to learn, but the sooner I do, the better off I’ll be.
I’m not going to look back. I can’t this time. Chile, look back at what? Some nice memories and a whole lot of lackluster ones? If I’d unstick my feet for just a moment, maybe I could just make some new memories. It’s time to at least give it a try. What have I got to lose?
I looked in the mirror recently and saw the years creeping onto my face, settling comfortably, unlike my soul. I still look like myself, but I also look older and smarter and more graceful. When, I wonder, will that gracefulness translate itself into the clumsy situation that I call my life. Up until recently, I felt I spent a lot of time stumbling through the days and weeks trying to connect invisible dots. Not knowing what you’re supposed to be doing makes it difficult to know when you’ve accomplished the goal. I spent quite a while looking for someone or something to tell me what I was supposed to be, who I was supposed to be and how I was supposed to get there. It feels ludicrous to type that. It seems like an absurd thought that I sought an answer for questions so personal anywhere but in myself. But I did.
I don’t have all the answers. You’re looking at the wrong blog for that. If anything, I have more questions than anything. The only difference is that I know the answers to my most burning questions aren’t anywhere but inside of me. Perhaps they lie dormant and my task is to learn how to activate the knowledge of self that’s encoded in my being, my mind and my spirit. Seriously. I’m of the mind that we come with all we need, if we just would learn how to access it. We are intuitive creatures, we can sense so many things if we let ourselves. We know when to be afraid or when to be excited. Most of the time, we know when things feel wrong or right, if we’re being honest. No one teaches you that, you just know it. I think that some of the deepest questions about ourselves, we know the answers to as well. Maybe we ignore a lot of what we know for the sake of getting along or making things go more smoothly, but we know, inside, what’s going on.
I wish I had more answers today. All I seem to have is questions I’m too afraid to answer for myself. On one hand, I want to know. On the other, I already know and I want to pretend I don’t.
Lately, a lot has been said about the single-ness of Black women. More specifically, young, educated, fairly successful Black women who, while it would seem they are the perfect catch, find themselves alone. Usually, I’m lucky and articles I read and things I see have little or nothing to do with me. Unfortunately, this time I wasn’t so lucky. The woman that was being described, that successful during the day and lonely at night woman, was me.
I talk sometimes about my resume: I’m degreed, I have a good job, a house, a car, I’m smart, I cook. I’m supportive and caring. Independent, unbiased sources have verified that I’m fairly attractive. Whatever. I can reel off about 20 other excellent reasons that I should be someone else’s significant other. I can even come up with some reasons that might disqualify me: I’m a little more round, if you will, than I used to be, living alone has made me a hermit, a lot of Texas guys can’t take natural hair seriously. I’m a realist; I’m not going to be everyone’s cup of tea.
But, damn, you’d think I’d be someone’s cup of tea.
Somewhere in the middle, there has to be an answer. And I’m kinda close to giving up on the game totally and accepting that some people are just meant to be alone and I’m just one of those people. But before I do, I promised myself I’d give it another chance in 2010. An honest, real, I’m really trying, chance.
(Let me preface this next part: I will never be against another sister. And I know times are hard. I want everyone to find that someone. But I’m sure I’ll be accused of hating anyway.)
Men do a lot of talking about what they want in a woman. And then they do a lot of contradicting themselves. You want Miss Independent, but you hook up with the most dependent woman you can find. You want someone who supports your dreams, but you stay with someone who stifles your creativity and makes you feel like a loser. You want someone with ambition, but you’ll take someone who’s real ambition is for you to make her situation better – the less she spends on rent, the more she can spend on clothes. I know those are gross generalizations, but when I look around, it just seems that women who aren’t trying to do a whole lot with themselves don’t have a problem getting a man. And women who are out there trying to do some things are spending their lives alone.
Now before you say “Maybe your standards are too high” you should know this: that might be the case if I were even meeting men. But I’m not. I’m not even meeting men to turn down anymore. So it’s not that. My standards aren’t a high hurdle, by the way. I have to be reasonable attracted to you and you have to live an honest life. Be able to take care of yourself and your responsibilities in an honest, lawful way. Don’t be a complete idiot. I would like a Black man. That’s about it, I’m flexible on the rest, within reason. No height or salary requirements. And as for me, like I said, I know there’s a little more of me to love lately, but I don’t think that’s it either. When I go to the mall or just out and about, I’m seeing lots of women with a whole, whole, whole lot more to love and they’re not alone.
So what I need to know is what men are really interested in. There are some things I’ll never be. I’ll never be a model. I’ll never be younger. I’ll never be more naïve. But, I imagine (ok, I hope), there are other things men are interested in. I’d like to know what they are, because I’d like to give myself a fighting chance. I want to know what I’m up against. I don’t need to hear about how I need to pray or be patient or anything like that. I need to know what men want. I need some ideas. I’m not promising I’ll be doing a complete rehaul, but I the fact is if I don’t change something, nothing is going to change.
I had a ticket to another show that night, so I called myself just passing through. But by then, I was lost (I didn’t see a block party of any sort) and about to leave. You’re never more than 20 minutes away from a mall, right? I figured I’d waste the rest of the day walking the recycled air of retailers. I’d almost called it an afternoon when I heard him call my name.
Seriously?
I figure this guy knows a billion people – that’s not an exaggeration – he can’t pick me out on the sidewalk. But he did. That tickled me, but I didn’t want to laugh too hard. I think laughing too hard makes me look like Mrs. Buttersworth, all jolly and shit. He was exactly as I expected him to be, including how we looked eye to eye. I liked that. Equal footing, I say. He was handsome with a bouncy walk and a friendly demeanor. He spoke to everyone. I liked that too. I’m not much of a talker sometimes, but I can appreciate it.
Up the street. Down the street. Back where we started. Short street, but it took awhile. We looked at stuff, talked to people. But there seemed to be no party. When we got inside, we talked. I remember telling a friend later, that I’d never had a man look me in the eye so intently as I spoke. It made me uncomfortable, but only because it never happened before. He was really paying attention. Or he was really faking it. I don’t know, but I was quite impressed. He was animated and warm. Genuinely friendly. Slightly goofy. Good sense of humor. Very nice. And because I was having such a good time, a few hours into the night, I almost hated to excuse myself to the restroom.
I stared in to the mirror. I wanted to get away and I did. It was a good trip too. Lots of time to think and do whatever I wanted. I’d have to call it a success. I dug in my purse and pulled out the ticket. The show was at 9. It was 8. I had a choice to make. Do I ask him for directions to the other spot? I knew he’d know, this was his town. I mean, I hadn’t actually planned to say more than “Hi”. And there we were, listening to bands and joking around. I hadn’t actually planned to stay. But, as the poem goes, “The best laid plans of mice and men, oft go awry.” I stared at the ticket. I’d seen Van several times. It was always a good show. So why was I hesitating?
I probably won’t ever know the answer to that, because I didn’t let myself get that far. I tore the ticket in two. I threw it away. When I got back to the table, he was there smiling. (Okay, maybe he was wincing in pain. That’s another story for another day.) Sometimes, better plans fall into your lap.
Last night, my homegirls and I were at our old High School’s football game. It was fun and I don’t even like football like that. While we were enjoying the game, we noticed a young sister, maybe 17 with a terrible foul mouth. And not foul like “I’m cursing in conversation with my friends”. She’s standing up, cursing at the wind in commentary about everything from how bad our team was (but she seemed to be for our side and we won by a whole lot) to how bad the cheerleaders and drill team were. Now everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, but there’s a time and place for everything. A crowded stadium full of families isn’t that time or that place. My friend checked her on it, which made her none too happy. We left soon after. I’m sure she thought she ran us off, but we were ready to go.
Once upon a time, I was a teenage girl. It’s a difficult period, whether we grown women want to admit it or not. You’re on the threshold of being a woman or at least you want to believe you are, but you’re not quite there. You’re jockeying for attention from the boys that you claim you’re not into, (Because you like older guys. That’s what’s cool.) You’re trying to define yourself in any way you can.
What do we do to help them figure it out? The girl from last night definitely defined herself. It was obvious to me that she needed some attention. If she was getting positive attention elsewhere, I doubt she’d have been verbally assaulting every extracurricular activity at the school. There’s also a little correction involved. Sometimes I can’t stand my job. Sorry, it’s true. I feel like I’m bogged down with paperwork and data and meetings – all things that I could care less about. But one gift is the chance to pull a young lady to the side and tell her “Look, mama, ladies don’t act like that,” and then help her figure some things out. I feel like that’s more important than any English lesson I’ll teach, because whether they’re fighting or cussing or being the schoolwide joke, it has to do with self worth. I don’t say that to pat myself on the back; I don’t need that at this point in my life. What I’m saying is that kids respond to interaction. Sometimes they’re just looking for someone to pay attention.
At the circus, people pay attention to the lady on the tightrope just like they do the clown. The only difference is that one garners respect and the other gets laughed at. We have to teach girls not to be the clowns. We have to teach boys that too, but in their teenage years, they boys follow the girls lead -to a certain degree. In my classroom experience, if the girls are about business, the boys are too. Why? They want the girls to take them seriously! It’s a cheap trickle down effect, but whatever works. More importantly, they way our children behave and how they feel like they ‘have’ to act is in direct correlation to how they perceive themselves. And perception is directly linked to how others perceive them.
I’ll be there. So will they. And I want you to know that all the motivational speeches I’ve gotten this past week didn’t make a difference. I was already ready already. This is what I do.
I’ll be there with my game face on, just about everyday. When my stomach is killing me (which was often last year) or my disposition isn’t sunny, I’ll still show up. When everything’s going wrong, I’ll be there faking the funk from 7:30 – 2:45. It’s not their problem that I’m having a problem. Sometimes I can’t be there, but when I’m not, I worry about them. I wish I didn’t, but usually I do. They’re my kids, you know.
I’ll be there listening to their stories, helping them make sense of the world the best I can, teaching them the things the state says they should know and a few other things I know they should know. That’s the best I can do and sometimes that doesn’t seem like enough, but it’s what I’m tasked with.
I’ll be there tapping my yardstick on the ground like a caricature of a teacher. My glasses will be at the tip of my nose. I’ll be scowling until Thanksgiving. They’ll love to hate me until I trip over something and bust my behind on the ground. They’ll look around nervously until I start to laugh. Then they’ll laugh. Now we’re friends. Well, not really. Kinda. They don’t need another friend. They need a teacher. That’s me.
I’ll be calling parents eventually, trying to explain to them what’s going on. Listening to the stories. Heartbreaking stories. Ridiculous stories. Stories that may never have a happy ending. Stories of people just trying to do the best they can by their children. I know that’s the case, most of the time. And usually I get all the support I need. But sometimes I don’t. And we soldier on anyway.
I’ll be ready to start this whole thing over again tomorrow. Each year I say I’m going to get a job fixing computers or being an adminstrative assistant. Last year I said I was going to work at Old Navy. Not part time. Full time. Idle threats. Duking it out with teenagers is what I love. For now.
I’ll be on the corner of the girls restroom and Room 120 tomorrow waiting for the future to come get what I’ve got to share. Holla at me. 7:30 AM. Don’t be tardy.
..are messy. That’s what I hear. But it’s only my desk. Okay, and sometimes my truck. Today’s the last day of school, hence the sleeping. They’re done with the exam, so it’s cool. Class of 2009!
