Didn't We Almost Have It All?

Not long ago, I saw this picture posted on social media of Madam Vice President Kamala Harris with her husband Doug Emhoff, captured in a light-hearted and loving pose. I don't know if this was a recent photo, but the caption was America fumbled so hard, an allusion to the reality that we could have elected someone decent to be our next President. Suddenly, as if there was a radio playing in the background, I began to hear the instrumental intro to Whitney Houston's song and got a little misty. A montage of scenes from the 107 days replayed in my head. I thought back to how upbeat and excited I was on Election Day and how I still believed we were going to win, despite the odds. 

Then like an old school record scratch...

I can't even wrap my mind around the Return of the DESPOTUS 2.0: Four More Years of Daily Fuckery. The White House now an unmistakable Big Top Circus Tent, soon to be occupied by P.T. Barnum reincarnated, who will launch a second season of the Worst Shitshow on Earth. 

When I knew I was finally ready to write about Kamala Harris' defeat, my intent was to compare her loss to the situation I describe here. Because I am clear that a major reason she lost was because she was so formidable--too much for people to feel comfortable with her, in spite of everything else that we knew about the Joker. But my thoughts got too bogged down and unfocused, so instead of wrestling with something unwieldy, thereby running the risk of succumbing to never making my point, I split the baby. 

We could have had it all, America. But y'all gave it away for $1 rebate per gallon of gas.

Twice now, we have elected the worst possible example of humanity to be the American President. He and every Alpha boy he chooses to serve in his harem, from James David the Manchurian understudy to Master Robert the Bear-Eater to the guy whose own mother used to be ashamed of him--these are the people whom America believed were the better choices. The world will tolerate a rapist, a racist, a grifter, a conman, an adulterer, a liar, a cheat, and even a fascist, but it just cannot abide a woman who is unafraid to be her unapologetic, fearless self. 

If you look back at various points throughout human history, women who refused to be minimized by what society deemed acceptable were denounced, rejected, ostracized, abused, called everything but a child of God, and sometimes killed. Centuries later and y'all still refer to Mary Magdeline a prostitute; yet, before his conversion and his name was still Saul how many Christians did he persecute and imprison as opposed to the number of men who allegedly paid her for sex? All manner of men are rewarded, revered, and redeemed in spite of a multitude of sins: feudal Lords, imperial plunderers and pirates, Founding Fathers, Confederate politicians, Gilded Age robber barons, Jim Crow philanderers, the tech bazillionaires, and now once again, Donald Effing Trump. As he infamously said, he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and get away with his crimes...and now 77 million voters have proven him right.

We could have had the country that we promote to the world as the beacon of light and hope. But in a democracy the voters get to make grave mistakes as well as inspired choices, so here we are, preparing for another dreary ride to the cemetery...

A month later, and I'm not much interested in the other post-election assessments of why we're here right now. Surely there were campaign mistakes and missteps (because she only had 107 days), but bottom line some voters were either ambivalent about the return of Trump or hellbent against seeing this Black woman just walk into the Oval Office without proving she deserved to be there. Never mind the fact that Kamala Harris had already earned that right when she was elected to be the Vice President in 2020, but apparently that wasn't enough. She should have gone through a bruising primary process at the 11th hour once the big money donors and political operatives lost faith in President Joe Biden. We should have repeated the very same mistake that was made in 1968 when President Lyndon Johnson decided not to seek the nomination.

Well, now we have a 1968 remix. Only this time, we have re-elected a person 10 times worse than Richard Nixon--a verifiable crook, all because some of you were determined to chasten women who have the temerity to declare that we can be anything, including Leaders of the Free World. 

If you still want to argue that sexism and racism don't make one helluva team, just wait until Calamuary 2025 (yep, that term is here to stay). Anyone who is urging calm or to wait and see is probably not worried because they know they will be fine either way. Offended, upset, and maybe even a little more than annoyed, but definitely not endangered or under threat of the retribution. I hope you enjoyed the long-awaited Thanksgiving reconciliation with your estranged brother and family. I'm sure his trad wife's pumpkin pie was delicious.

I believed with my entire heart and soul that Kamala Harris could have won this election, even as I suspected that Trump had become way too confident in the final stretch. It was quixotic for sure, and I allowed myself to get caught up in the rapture of possibility. My bad for forgetting that this country will break your heart. However, I refuse to feel anything but pride for what Kamala Harris tried to do, because dammit, what else was she supposed to do? Just let y'all act like she was invisible, throw away everything she and Biden accomplished in the past four years, and NOT stand up for the rule of law she vowed to protect and defend her entire career??? GTFOOHWTBS!

Right before Eli Pope infamously reminds his daughter Olivia (and all of us) that she has to be twice as good to attain half as much, he admonishes her for pinning her hopes on becoming First Lady. Because why work that hard just to be photographed wearing nice clothes? Of course, the irony is that Kamala Harris did exactly the opposite--she set her sights on the ultimate prize and got punished for not settling.

She made the case that she was ready, and she inspired millions of people to get out in these streets to try to salvage some semblance of what this country purports to represent to the world. That a bunch of billionaire good ole boys had the mean$ to thwart our hopes wasn't entirely unforeseeable, just profoundly disappointing. And typical. I will never concede that that they won this election fair and square, because they spent enough money and effort at re-writing every rule to ensure that they won. Their victory, celebrated in the form of taunts and trolls and every single Cabinet pick, has been intended remind us that they had every advantage and exploited every vulnerability, on their dime but at our expense. 

Exhibit A: Reneging at Spades

How was it even possible that a man whose documented history of racism and sexism was able to turn this election into a referendum on Blackness by using sexism??? From dredging up her past romantic entanglements to misrepresenting her record as a prosecutor to mispronouncing her name and even questioning whether she ever worked at McDonalds, he even had folks on Blue Ivy's internet arguing about how she cooks her collard greens...

Once he had folks fighting at the summer barbecue, his next great trick was to exude so much confidence that he could make inroads and gain the support of disaffected Black men, in spite of their historic loyalty to the Democratic Party. For the past several election cycles, Black women have been touted as the base of the party and rewarded as such with high profile and visible positions. The elevation of individual Black women in political discourse was then framed as yet another advance that has occurred at the expense of Black men overall, despite the fact that there are still more men in positions of influence and power such as James Clyburn, Hakeem Jeffries, Rev. Al Sharpton, Wes Moore, and Barack Obama. 

We have always been clear about the ideological diversity within the Black community, so the shock isn't that there were Black men who supported a return of the Chaos King. It's that some of the most vocal Trumplogytes, like Mark Robinson (R-NC) and Royce White (R-MN), crapped out and have nothing to show for their loyalty, not even a Black job. The others who didn't go quite as far will likely see some personal reward, but at what expense to the rest of us? How much of the Trump prosperity hustle will trickle down to our communities? Enough to buy some sneakers, a Cybertruck, or just a carton of eggs?

Exhibit B: Cat-Fights Over Public Bathrooms

Can you imagine the kind of mental gymnastics it takes to consider a public restroom as a "sacred" space? The same place where you can get a communicable disease from washing your hands. Those 55 percent women are so smart as to allow a man who shits on his own private gold toilet...better yet, the man who bought a beauty pageant so that he could leer at underage girls to convince them that he will be their Protector, whether they like it or not.

If it wasn't clear before that we didn't pledge the same sorority, we sure know that now. 

You've got to hand it to those smart Handmaidens of Patriarchy--the wives, mothers, and daughters who dutifully follow the roadmap of expectations and guidelines that allow some women (not all) to aspire just beyond the realm of what is acceptable. Women who may have jobs and careers, even as high as the rank of being a Governor or a Senator as long as they represent and articulate the values that men proscribe AND make sure dinner is on the table by 6pm every night. 

Contrast their success with that of those smart-assed women who decide on their own, without male permission or approval, to make choices for themselves. Women who did not get married to their high school sweethearts or first college boyfriends, who don't prioritize motherhood over careers, or who have the nerve to call themselves feminists--they represent the kind of moxie that is too disruptive to the Old World order of things. What kind of world would we have if women keep demanding access to previously exclusive male enclaves, like the Supreme Court, church pulpits, C-Suites, and the Oval Office? 

One with gender-neutral bathrooms.

Exhibit C: Knowing is Half the Battle

In spite of how much this loss still hurts, I want it to be known that I DO NOT have regrets. I have gripes and justified rage because we shouldn't be here licking our wounds and questioning who we are. I know who I am, what I believe, and why I voted the way I did. That shouldn't be in doubt--it's those other people whom we need to redefine and see more clearly. 

Thus, let's take the advice Mother Maya Angelou gave us to heart--when people show you who they are, believe them the first time. That applies to Trump, but more importantly to the people who voted for him again, some for the third time. They knew what he was and voted for him in the hopes that he will do EVERYTHING he promised them. Let's accept that the people who proudly wave Confederate flags, who were willing to violently overthrow an election, and who are giving millions to celebrate the return Emperor Conmani Grifticus--they have shown us who and what they are, so we need not waste time or energy expecting anything better from them. 

They will never be moved by the pain endured by others either because they profit from it or are shielded from its effects. What does it matter to them if police officers can harass Black and Latino men with impunity as long as their gated cul-de-sacs remain safe? We live in food deserts and have little to no economic investment in our communities, but they don't, never will and they are fine with that. If they don't want their children to go to school with ours, they can convene at the local coffee shop after morning drop-off to strategize about how to trick us into diverting our tax dollars into funding their private schools.

To that end, we need to stop lying to ourselves that all Americans want the same things. We don't. I don't want sundown towns, mass deportations, or laws that track our daughters' menstrual cycles. I wasn't looking for the annihilation of those with whom I disagree, just some compassion, empathy, justice, or a semblance of common decency. I wanted to dismantle the systems of oppression that have historically denied opportunities to the marginalized. I never expressed any desire that others should suffer, not even a fraction of what has been wished upon me...

Still reluctant to admit who and what we are facing? Still holding out hope that we can appeal to the better angels of people who claim that American greatness is best exhibited by cruelty? From the same people who heard the stories about dead mothers who were denied life-saving health care and didn't shed a single tear? By the fanatics who happily waved signs that read Mass Deportation Now and will cheer when people are rounded up and families ripped apart? Unity with the folks who felt more inconvenienced by a global COVID pandemic and ignored the AIDS epidemic because it wasn't their problem? Ditto for famine, climate change, lead water pipes, or the strategic placement of power lines near communities that result in childhood cancer clusters. Are you that blind to their depravity?

Before you launch into a self-righteous lecture on tolerance, don't. Take that nonsense to Twitter. These are not simple differences of opinion; they are irreconcilable--the kind that place people's lives in danger. Those people aren't looking to live together in perfect harmony. They want to make us feel demoralized, conquered...so any and every suggestion of appeasement or conciliation is bullshit. Some of these capitulators are the same folks who wanted a contested convention, so we need to be clear about them as well. 

This wasn't an American Idol finale. Some of us just can't get over the result and move on as if everything will be fine. Until and unless you accept that there are clear lines between good and evil, then we cannot reassemble this fractured coalition. Because right now, if you are advocating a strategy of if you can't beat them, you will join them, then you have told me where you stand at times of challenge and controversy...on the sidelines waiting to see who emerges victorious. 

Having spent a month in reflection and rest, I still lament what we could have had by electing Kamala Harris. But it's above me now. As another Whitney Houston song begins to play in my head, I have to focus on the future. I've spent nine months mourning my Mom. I don't plan to spend the rest of my life mourning this country. I can't guarantee that I won't get caught up in my feelings every now and then, but I've got shit to do. 

Stay tuned.

Still Not Aspiring to Be Humble

Last week, I went mean girl on someone, and instead of over-thinking whether I should have been more demure and mindful with my words, I leaned in. And in the most-Audrerific way (my new word for when I'm channeling my Mom), I essentially told him to cry harder. Not today, not tomorrow, and not ever again Satan!

If you light a match, you better be ready for this smoke! Now that I am a woman of a certain age, I am no longer measuring my words nor apologizing for being who and what I am, especially not when like Toyota, you asked for it.

Obviously, there is a backstory, and it starts with a Facebook post in a group. This is a mixed, intergenerational group of HBCU alumni, so there are posts that run the gamut from super serious to seriously stupid. And most folks know that, thus depending on the mood a post that is seriously stupid might be exactly what is needed to lighten the mood, while on other days it might cause someone to get their feelings hurt. The same is true for super serious posts--we may or may not be willing to engage in intellectual debates about why a grown man not getting his plate fixed at a family gathering is the reason why the Black family is in decline...so you gotta roll the dice and see what happens.

For whatever reason, there had been a series of sexist posts, including quite a few that IRL would result in somebody sleeping in his car or on his boy's couch. These seriously stupid posts started popping up right before Homecoming, which is usually when folks engage in all manner of tomfoolishness, and also why it didn't get called out and shut down sooner. Nevertheless, by late-November, weeks past Homecoming and with most of our group recuperating from the Election, the mood was definitely super serious.

The post at issue was a classic rate this woman, the same sort of foolywang that allegedly launched The Facebook in a Harvard dorm room (according to Aaron Sorkin's movie) or that was premise of Hot or Not--the grandfather of sexism on the Al Gore's internet. Some dude had the chutzpah to pose such a query, then logged off for the rest of the day--which only made the backlash in response to his post that more intense. His departure from the scene for hours led folks to question why this had slipped past our moderators and whether our group had been infiltrated. At some point, I happened upon his post, and as per the rules of engagement since the election have been that I am NOT in the mood for any fuckery, I pounced. I posted one sentence about how this post would have been more appropriate for a private group chat and then added this Audrerific: but you must not have any friends...and Lawd, it went viral!

Now, I know what I said was unkind. And I am not going to deny that I got a certain measure of satisfaction in seeing all of the likes and favorable comments from men and women alike. As a writer, I often hope that half of what I put into the universe has some impact on my readers. So yeah, my head got a little big.

Fast forward to the private message that the original poster sent me that evening, after he had ignored every other comment. Can you believe that man had the audacity to suggest that while his sexist bullshit post was bad, my response was worse!? And do you want to know what I did...

I rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, his message popped up on my computer, but it wouldn't load properly, so then I wondered if I had dreamt seeing his PM from the previous evening. Then I assumed that he had blocked me (like someone else did after a similar run-in last year), but after a quick reload, his message reappeared, and I decided that it warranted a reply. To ensure that I had accurately called him out for his cheekiness, I sought to refer back to the original post. Zounds, it had been deleted by the group moderators! Sadly, that means that there is no "official" record that I ever went viral other than my retelling of the events here.

Next time, I will be sure to get a screen shot! No worries though, since the point of this piece isn't to brag about landing an insult. Instead, I wanted to use that experience to proffer a few thoughts why dudes like him hate going toe-to-toe with out-spoken women like me. Furthermore, that is one of the reasons why I believe Kamala Harris isn't measuring the drapes in the Oval Office right now--because some of these mofos just can't stand a confident, undaunted, smart-ass woman!

Now before I open an entirely new can of worms, I will try to limit my post-election analysis to a few stray sentences here and there. I plan to fully unload in a separate piece. As you can imagine, I've got a LOT to say...

In response to the election results, I lashed out at a quite a few people, primarily folks like Brother Misogynoir because that is what happens when you can't meaningfully strike back at those who really got you twisted. I already posted a smart-ass mea culpa on my personal FB page after my initial round of friendly fire, but I guess I should have added a warning that I'm not done shooting from the hip. Therefore, I do NOT apologize for my annoyance at the assholery enabled by the very people who should have our backs; because in lieu of affirming and uplifting the spirits of the Black women in our shared, private space, that dude opted to engage in the same kind of SUPERFICIAL SEXISM that has made breaking the glass ceiling so elusive. Then he had the nerve to try to guilt ME into feeling some kind of way because no one co-signed on his nonsense? No sir!

As for the group moderators who chose to remove his post, in essence giving him a get out of jail free card, why the H-E-double hockey sticks did they let him off the hook? Why not mount his severed head on a wall as a caution to every future ashy mofo who might be inclined to forget that this ain't the boys' locker room at a private club or someone's wood-paneled mancave? If this reads like I'm taking it hard that my brilliant Audrerific clapback won't be preserved in cyber-posterity for future generations, trust I'm way more pissed that the decision to delete the entire thread only proves that some so-called safe spaces function to protect the wrong people.

I mentioned the fact that this wasn't the first time I've encountered a Cowardly Lion in that group or elsewhere on social media. Before the recent mass X-odus, I was down for a bird fight or two with friends and strangers. I had a friend on Facebook who was the kind of person whom I imagine would describe his interactions with people as part Michael Eric Dyson intellectual provocateur, part Chris Rock stand-up comic. Because I had known him in real life as well as online, I knew the best response to his pot-stirring was to add a grain of salt. So when he tagged me on a post to engage in a "debate" on a seriously stupid topic, I played along. That I happened to be sitting next to my Mom in the hospital was, at the time, part of the reason why I was willing to entertain this nonsense. I needed the distraction.

Then he made it personal, and I guess he resented that I didn't go high when he went low. After he pulled the mean girl card on me, he deleted the thread, then he took it up a few notches by blocking and de-friending me!

I kept a screenshot of the private message I attempted to send him, which had included an apology until shortly after my Mom passed. Call it a what would Audrey do impulse, but the fact that I ever acknowledged his hurt feelings or allowed him to take up any space in my life after what he did to me still pisses me off. He picked a fight, did a lot of trash-talking, got in the ring, danced around, then called the fight as soon as I landed a punch. He put me on blast, then tried to shame me because the tone of my response to his provocation was "mean". And in a moment of weakness, I actually thought that maybe I had gone too far.

Until I rewound the sequence of events as outlined above. He had engineered that entire fracas from start to finish, and as far as I know, he didn't stutter or think twice about anything he said that might have been insulting or hurtful to me. For me to even contemplate his feelings in the midst of what I was dealing with at my Mom's bedside is how I realized I was being played. It doesn't matter what he knew about my situation because he knew he was wrong. Why else would he delete the thread? 

We use the delete button to correct mistakes, to erase the things we don't want people to see or find. 

Which is why I did take a screen shot the private message Brother Misogynoir sent me last week, and I will save it for the next time he decides to forget he's in mixed company. I keeps receipts and I ain't scared of what these dudes think of me--I'm sure I've been called a bitch as much as any other woman. I said what I said, in true Audrerific fashion, without remorse. I won't be humble, ingratiating, soul-searching, or swallowing my pride. In the words of a few Chicks who know a little something about being gaslit by cruel intentions, carnival barkers, sociopaths, overcooked hams, and other people who engage in bad faith, I'm Not Ready to Make Nice.

Therefore, on this day when the good Lord saw fit to bring forth a daughter in Audrey's image, I hereby declare not today, nor ever again! I know who and what I am. Happy Birthday!

Life Goes On (and On)

Scrolling through the drafts and I noticed this one that I had attempted to write during the summer. This was started a week before Father's Day. A lot of this was covered in this piece that was already published in October, so there are redundancies and/or details that might have been more present for me in the short-term as opposed to several months later. I will explain more after the jump. --ADH

It has been a little more than three months. 

When I woke up on the morning of February 27, I'm sure that I had no idea that it would be her last day, even though I had been given ample advance warning that her time was coming. What I remember knowing for certain that morning when I dropped my daughter off at school and the Hub at work, was that I desperately needed to get a few uninterrupted hours of writing done. I had been struggling for weeks to publish anything, so my hope was to finish something (or make some progress on a few of the various pieces I had been writing), and then to see my Mom that later afternoon after my daughter's dance class. 

I mentioned having had advanced warning because my Mom had been in hospice since last September. So I knew...but I had also been lulled into a false sense that she would defy the odds, be de-certified from receiving hospice care, and continue to carry on living in the background of the lives we had built for ourselves. It was a selfish wish. So I knew, but I just didn't want to believe.

There were signs. During the month of January, which I now call Calamuary, everything began to unravel. My Mom's long-time home health aide went out on extended medical leave for a double hip replacement, a procedure she put off for months or possibly years. My parents' long-term care insurance, which had been slow-walking reimbursement payments since the summer, reminded me that they are in the business of making money not paying it out. The home health care agency that recently went conglomerate by acquiring smaller agencies and changing its name to reflect the fact that it was not a conglomerate, informed me that it intended to increase their rates. This is also while they sent us an ever-limited rotation of aides who were certified to work in our jurisdiction. The hospice nurse, who had been jovial and upbeat for most of her weekly visits in 2023, began to look worried mere weeks after the start of the New Year. Then the furnace fucking stopped working. 

We survived. I prayed that we could make it to her birthday, February 1, and then kept praying. On the night of her birthday when I finally made my way over to the house to see her, the indications that I had been warned would signal the end were more evident. She wasn't awake. If she ate, we had to be more careful to prevent aspiration. The pressure sore on her tailbone began to get worse. She looked frail and weak and was rapidly losing weight. I brought her a gourmet birthday cookie, which I think my daughter ended up eating a few days later.

For Valentine's Day, I bought candy and make little treat boxes for the home care aides, including her long-time aide. She had wanted to schedule a visit and a day of beauty for Mom, and had enlisted the services of her daughter, but I hesitated. Not on having her visit, but I was concerned that my Mom wasn't strong enough for anything taxing like getting her hair done. But I agreed in theory that something was needed to lift the heaviness that had begun to permeate the house since the furnace fiasco of the previous month. We still had Christmas decorations up which my brother hastily took down (but I have yet to put them away). So I bought a banner that I intended to hang in her room. We opted for the living room where the now empty Christmas stocking hooks were affixed to the fireplace mantle. My thinking was that she might see the banner along with the weekly bouquet of flowers I brought for her when she was seated in her wheelchair.

There had been signs. I would not say that I didn't notice, but that I was unwilling to fully acknowledge them. In other words, I definitely knew, but I had been operating under the childish wish that if I kept my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears and if I sang aloud, then I could pretend not to notice what was happening. I could fake ignore that my Mom was dying in some futile attempt to avoid it, as if that would have made a difference.

It didn't. At about 11am that morning, after I had settled into a groove of writing, I got the call from the hospice nurse. I took a shower and got dressed. I packed up my computer and my chargers. I called my brothers and then a few relatives. I honestly don't remember if that is the exact order of things, but I know that I was on the phone with my college roommate when I arrived at the house. My younger brother, who had been waiting for me, met me outside to let me know that he was leaving to pick up our kids from school. Inside, my Dad's priest was administering Last Rites and the home care aide (whose name I don't remember) was praying and crying. At some point, relatives began to arrive. One of my uncles sat in the living room with his head in his hands. Someone announced that there was food in the kitchen. Friends of mine arrived. At some point, I even received a phone call from Africa.

Then everyone left. My Mom was still breathing, but with difficultly it seemed, so we questioned whether the morphine would help. We decided that it would, and then we discussed what might happen the next morning...

The details of someone's last day mean more to the people who are able to remember them. Of this I am clear because I don't know what my Mom knew or felt. I can't ask her. I go into her empty room and while I feel her presence, it is not the same as it was when she was physically in that hospital bed, in my Dad's den that had been converted into an accessible first floor bedroom. 

I am not okay.

So if you ask, I will lie and say that I am, not because I want to be deceptive, but because I have made the calculation that answering honestly in that moment will likely require me to elaborate or listen to some nicely intentioned, but tone-deaf speech. I know that my Mom is with me and that she is proud of me (at least I think she is). Yes, I will miss her forever, as I try to figure out how I got through these months without crumbling.

Service Without the Smile

The hook here is that I decided to chop my hair off a whole year after I wrote the bulk of this, primarily for several of the reasons chronicled here, and another ill-fated faux loc misadventure. I'm not upset, nor was my decision to start over based on any ill-will, just needed a change. --ADH

Picture it, November 2023...

Initially, I was just planning to post a few pictures to the Facebook page and share a few thoughts about a recent ordeal. But once I got to remembering and realized that I had PARAGRAPHS of built-up frustration written out on the page, it made more sense to move this vent in this space where I could really expound. Because I have a lot to say...

This began when I wanted to write a quick note about alumni giving. HBCU Homecomings have finally received mainstream media attention, so I thought of that as an opportunity to preach my annual #HBCUJustGive sermonette to the masses. After a few paragraphs, I concluded with a shady reference to Atlanta restaurants (which people were talking about because of TikTok influencer Keith Lee, and we'll definitely address that here as well) and the complaints I've been seeing on social media about hair stylist pricing. I then thought, hmm, here's a chance for me to air out my gripes about my own experience of feeling price gouged at the hair salon, an experience that still has me feeling some kind of way weeks after the fact.

Because this isn't an anonymous business review posted to Yelp, no names are provided to protect identities. This is also not a stream of consciousness rant on X, nor a vengeful TikTok video because nobody has time for all of that. This is how I felt about an experience that is unique to me, and my goal here is not to destroy anyone's livelihood or tarnish their reputation. Of course, I could have opted not to say anything, but I came to the conclusion that I needed a catharsis after biting my tongue for so long. A wise person once told me some years ago that repression is bad for the soul (as a handy addendum to the adage that confession is good for the soul).

A little over a year ago, I decided to get my hair braided for the first time in a decade. I asked around, and by chance mentioned to my stylist (of many years) what I was looking to have done. She told me that she had braiders on staff at the salon, and that I just needed to make an appointment. Seemed easy enough, but then came the fine print disclaimers. I needed to decide if I was getting knotless braids or box braids, as if I knew what any of that meant since I hadn't gotten my hair braided in 10 years! She tried to explain it to me, and after we perused several pictures on Instagram, we determined that I was looking to get "old school" braids (a form of box braids). That would cost me $200.

Alright, bet, and I was all set to book an appointment. But more fine print--I would have to pay extra to have my hair washed and blow dried by one of these braid stylists. Mind you, this was a salon, not somebody's kitchen or garage. I don't even know if the blow dryer I've had for 20+ years even works, so I opted to schedule an appointment with my regular stylist so that she could prep my hair with a trim and deep condition as well. That ended up costing me $90, but I was optimistic that it was worth the expense. And the prospect of not having to go to a beauty supply store for hair did outweigh that initial cost. I came back two days later, the deed was done, I headed out of town a week later to protect democracy (October 2022), and all was right in my world for a few weeks. I took my braids out a few days after my birthday and thought ahead to my next hair adventure.

Fast forward to February (2023) when I decided to try faux locs. A good friend who gets them done regularly had me thinking I could be cute like her, and since we were heading to Puerto Rico for the Kid's Winter Break, I was looking forward to a boho-inspired look for the beach. In the lead-up to that appointment, I opted not to schedule a pre-wash and blow session with my stylist, thinking that I needed to save some money. However, I didn't learn until the day before my scheduled appointment that I needed to buy my own hair. So, as my Mom would have said, I stepped over a dime to pick up a quarter and didn't really save myself any money in the end. The braid stylist went with me to the beauty supply store to pick out the hair, which cost me $100, plus the actual service ($200+), and tip. When I asked how I would take the style down, she suggested that I could come back in and pay a take-down fee, or I could look it up on YouTube.

I didn't say anything, although I this exchange made me think of the various complaints I had seen over the years posted on social media. For years on Black Twitter, I had read increasingly absurd accounts of patrons being nickeled and dimed for every service, which must have inspired this hilarious skit on A Black Lady Sketch Show ("ABLSS")--which takes place in a nail salon, but the accuracy is uncanny. I mentioned my concerns to my regular stylist, who responded that she understood, but she was allowing these specialty stylists to establish their own practices because they offered services she did not.

Bet, I thought, but still resolved to "educate" myself to avoid any additional $urprise$ should I desire to get another specialty style. Having received a few videos worth of cosmetology training on YouTube Beauty U, I decided to go back to faux locs for the Beyonce show (August 2023) and to rock that look through to mid-Fall. To avoid the beauty supply store markup, I pre-ordered the hair on Amazon and scheduled an appointment in the early afternoon to give myself time to wash my own hair.

Let's skip ahead eight weeks to when it was time to take my hair down. We had family arriving in town, and because I didn't want to look crazy or schedule a hair appointment while they were here, I delayed the take down for a week. At nine weeks it was definitely time and I was uncomfortable with the weight of the added hair and the new growth, so I sat down with a movie and began the process that I had previously learned to take down the style. However, a different braid stylist had installed these locs and after 20 minutes of attempting to unravel one loc, I had no clear understanding of how it had been anchored to my hair. I sat there and fidgeted and uncoiled and then unbraided until one section of my hair was freed. It felt like I was drilling for oil. I repeated this process for over two hours and only got six more locs undone. The next day, attempt #2 yielded the same result, so with 4 hours gone and 12 locs undone, I sent an exasperated text to my regular stylist after 9pm on a Monday night.

I have never done that before, so when she called me back, I immediately felt ashamed for being so helpless. And reflecting back on that precise moment, instead of allowing Catholic guilt to temper my frustrations, I should have been prepared with a list of demands. This absolutely felt like a hostage situation, and I am convinced that I barely escaped with my dignity intact.

(I know, the hyperbole is thick, but stay with me.)

She asked me to come in that Wednesday, and I said that I would try, but I didn't make it because I had to take my Dad to an appointment. I texted her to say that I would try for the following day, but again, something else came up and I was unable to go by the salon. On Friday, I had a funeral to attend, so I had to wrap my head for a third day in order to venture out into the world and not scare any pets, men, or small children. I stopped by the salon on my way home, but none of the stylists familiar with my dilemma were on site. I ended up speaking to a fourth stylist who made it clear that I was on my own. My regular stylist was out of town, so his suggestion was for me to check back on Monday. By this point, I was miffed so I declared that I would figure it out on my own and left. Because in spite of everything else I had going on between my Kid, my parents, and my own isht, surely I had time to take another round of classes at YouTube Beauty U. Because no one else seemed to have any issues when taking their hair down, apparently, I was the problem...

Which was clearly the wrong way of looking at this because I was the one with the problem that dragged on through week 10 and threatened to linger on for another full week until I gave up and called my stylist back to schedule an appointment. Fuck the Catholic guilt; let go of the stigma of being the Black girl with no hair styling skills; get over having to go in for a service I shouldn't have needed; and just pay the damn ransom to get my life back. I was beyond pissed but had no interest in extending this fiasco into a 12th week, and I didn't want to cause any additional damage to my hair. I scheduled the appointment to get the locs taken down and to get my hair done. Of course, that process wasn't drama-free either, but at least the locs were gone. All of that peace of mind only cost me $185 (and tip), plus several unopened packages of hair from Amazon that I can no longer return because who knew this would be such an ordeal?!

What does any of this have to do with Keith Lee? Nothing. But if you've read this far, you might as well keep reading to see how I make the connection. Just indulge me for another paragraph or two...

Now that it has been three weeks since I was released from those faux locs (November 2023), I just happened to be scrolling Black Twitter the last week when I saw where a woman posted a complaint about her experience with a stylist in another state. I won't even link to her thread because I assure you, there are so many similar stories being told of the decline in providing what used to be basic service that I don't need to identify any particular person or locality. Just know that there are horror stories posted on Reddit and videos all over TikTok, as per the recommended route for receiving justice/vengeance due to one of these bad hair day experiences.

I'm not looking for either. And for now, I am sticking with my stylist because the alternative is to take my chances and roll the dice with one of these new school influencers who style hair. I don't know what passes for professional standards or licensure these days, and maybe that's the problem. If the assumption is that anybody who watches enough videos on YouTube can figure out how to style hair, then perhaps it no longer matters that the person who promotes themselves on social media as a professional actually has any credentials. Follower counts and likes are driving business these days, not quality of service, and that is no longer a factor to be shrugged off as regional.

Once upon a time, the Black beauty salon was a place of communal refuge, just like the barber shop for Black men. I won't take you on a nostalgia fantastical voyage because I don't want to give the false impression that a trip to the beauty salon was always a visit to Shangri-La. Some of us still bear the scars--physical, mental, and spiritual; however, most of us agree that the hair salon used to provide respite and service. Hence, another favorite skit from ABLSS Service offered a vision of what should be the norm...alas, it was just a dream.

I know that business owners have overhead and insurance and other assorted costs of doing business, so my complaint is not that I am paying more than I used to. It is that I am paying more and now having to pay extra for basic services that should already be included. Making me do half the work in advance, still charging full price, and expecting a tip is no different than having me shop, ring up and bag my purchases at the grocery store with the prices steadily increasing. What next, will I be charged for each squirt or spritz of product?

In effect, we are hostages, because the corporate mainstream hair care industrial complex still promotes the fallacy that products created for wash and go are suitable for all hair types. Most Black women can't just roll up to the mall Hair Cuttery or Dry Bar and expect to walk out before their lunch hour is over because nobody specializes in Black hair care other than Black people. Wash day is exactly that--a whole DAY, and nobody has time for that. Black women already pay a premium to look presentable to a world where legislation is needed to prevent discrimination against our natural hair texture in the workplace! It is beyond ironic that the BILLION-dollar Black beauty market that made Madame CJ Walker the first Black woman millionaire, precisely because there was a void in services and products provided to Black women, has come to this.

So here is where I pivot to Keith Lee and why his restaurant reviews ought to be regarded and received in a different spirit than the way y'all acted out this week. Because he's not out here destroying Black businesses if he's offering honest assessments of shitty treatment and/or bad food. He's demanding accountability, and to borrow an old-school phrase that seems appropriate, if you can't stand the heat stay out of the kitchen. If you are a musician who has entered the hospitality business to expand your brand, I get that but understand that folks aren't just coming to your establishment to take photos for the gram.

OJ, Trojan Horses, and Other Magical Negroes We Shan't Discuss

I began working on this piece in April 2024 in lieu of a long rant on the FB page. Well, since I'm going back in the drafts to see what can be revisited and published, albeit belatedly, there is no hook, but I did I finally see that really bad movie about Magical Negroes. --ADH

So let's not mince words here because you already know where this is going: not all skinfolks are kinfolks...

Let's not forget that as we contemplate whether to reinvite certain people back to the barbecue this summer. I don't care if those old ladies stayed up all night in the church kitchen, we not going anywhere near that funeral. We haven't forgotten. Some of y'all weren't even born yet, so don't allow any of these folks to rewrite history or act brand new. So yes, I am obviously referring to that Black lady at the Chick-fil-A in Georgia who went viral for fellating Trump after he bought her one of those homophobic milkshakes. And I am also referring to a certain sportswriter who got on Al Gore's internet with his version of small-b history--lacking not just the proper capitalization, but also any kernel of truth. There are a few other honorable mentions, such as those Podcast Bros who can't spell DEI, let alone define it, as well as a very specific and particular pick-me who is trying to act like she's always been down like the four flat tires on that LTD in her uncle's car port.

Yeah, okay Candy O. But first, let's start with a proper eulogy for the man we knew as 'The Juice'. 

Orenthal James: When You Just Don't Stay Black and Die

A consistent mistake made by some Black people who want to be seen as 'transcending race' is to believe that such a feat is possible. Well, the last time I checked, this skin pigmentation does not fade with time, and no matter how articulate, clean, bright, and good-looking a person might be, in some places, ALL of those accomplishments can be derided as unearned exceptions in the blink of an eye. Just another example of 'DEI hiring' the minute you let the mask slip and someone spots a characteristic that confirms whatever misgivings they had. It happens to all of us at some point, and in June 1994, it happened to OJ Simpson. 

Not only am I old enough to remember the trial, but I am old enough to remember when he was still playing professional football (although I am not old enough to remember which team he played for without consulting Al Gore's internet). But let the record show, I recall that he was prominently featured in a series of Hertz rental car commercials and that he was in the first episode of the original Roots miniseries. And because I was an avid and dedicated reader of JET Magazine, I remember that he, along with a few others were certified, bona fide Black football GODS (Jim Brown, Rosey Grier, Mean Joe Greene, and Tony Dorsett were his peers). 

Thus, when he was accused of killing his second ex-wife in 1994, it was THEE most earth-shattering didn't-see-that-coming and who-knew-he-was-an-abusive-asshole...very much in line with the revelation that Bill Cosby had been drugging and raping women for decades and no one said anything. Because WTF??? But I'm not going to revisit history by offering my opinion on what might have happened or why the verdict remains controversial and contested to this day. Nor am I going to say anything that can be misinterpreted as sympathy because what is the point? Folks are going to believe what they want, and to some, OJ did it or he didn't. He's still dead.

However, what OJ did, inadvertently due to the intergalactic interest in the outcome of that trial was: (1) begat 24/7 news coverage; (2) cultivated the audience for tabloid "news" shows like TMZ, Inside Edition, and even The View; (3) redefined the 21st Century notion of housewifery via the career of one Kristen Mary Houghton Kardashian Jenner; and (4) disproved any illusion that America was close to becoming post-racial. The first three points require no further analysis because the fact is there was no 24-hour cable news coverage of anything other than the most serious of news events until OJ led the police on that low-speed highway "chase" in Al Cowlings' white Ford Bronco. Media personalities Harvey Levin, Star Jones, and Leo Terrell are just a few of the "legal analysts" who made big names for themselves because of that trial. And yes, we need to blame OJ for the ubiquity of all things Kardashian.

I know...this is not OJ

As to the fourth point, to all of the delusional Gen X frat boys who want to misremember the 80s and 90s as being post-racial on social media, the OJ Simpson Trial of the Century remains Exhibit A that there is a list of lies y'all need to stop telling yourselves. There is NO such thing as being post-racial. While there are Black people who get to leave the 'hood, experience great success, amass enormous wealth, and even happily marry someone white, none of those elements combine into some magic elixir that causes race to disappear. Allegedly, OJ infamously quipped that he wasn't Black because he was OJ Simpson; and until that fateful night in June 1994, his legend transcended what it meant to be Black. Mind you, there were police reports and documented accusations of his domestic abuse, but he wasn't demonized as dangerous, unmarketable, or unheroic until his blond ex-wife was found slaughtered in her home. Suddenly he reverted into King Kong, a beastly Black brute that had to be destroyed. 

So yes, OJ was guilty of myriad sins and transgressions, and that may have probably included murder. The lingering dilemma these 30 years later isn't whether he killed his wife, but how his Blackness convinced people that he did it before any evidence was presented in court. How did he become the sole suspect, how did the police mishandle the investigation, or how might the world have reacted if the victim had been his first ex-wife? Do we pretend that none of those questions matter because it is more socially acceptable to insist that race was not a central reason why this case became such a BFD--that it was his celebrity and the gruesomeness of the crime?

Really? Because from where I sat and watched everything unfold, it was his race that allowed the LAPD to redirect attention from their misconduct (exposed and exploited by the defense team at trial), which ultimately that contributed to the acquittal. It matters that women still can't expect to receive any empathy when they are the victims of sexual violence, especially when their abuser is a famous man. It matters that there is and always has been a two-tiered system of justice that favors the affluent, in spite of the sanctimonious pronouncements that Justice is the great blind equalizer. It matters that some of y'all who are still mad about OJ Simpson being acquitted are going to boldly and unapologetically vote for another rich asshole who mistreats women to be President again...

Trojan Horses

If you studied any ancient folklore, computer science, or happened to see this Lunchables pretzel commercial, then you are probably familiar with the myth of the Trojan Horse. If not, then get thee to Google, and then come back here to read about these folks who think they we're too stupid to know who sent them and what manner of foolishness they plan to unleash if we let them into to the cookout. We see you, boo. 

Therefore, young lady from Trump's early April campaign stop at the Vine City Chick-fil-A, nice try, but there's a reason why your milkshake stunt didn't bring more folks from the Yard. We all knew that you were a GOP operative, and not some random customer because you were just a little too eager. Everybody knows that these kinds of campaign stops/photo opportunities are staged by both sides. Given that Trump isn't known for his ability to ignore hecklers or take a joke, of course, the "customers" needed to be his supporters or willing to appear as such on camera, lest it turn into a Biden church rally. However, you made a couple of unforced errors, starting with the choice to go to a fast-food place that serves fried chicken on Fried Chicken Wednesday! No wonder you couldn't entice more than a handful of students to leave their campuses. And whose bright idea was it to promote the fantasy of Trump as some kind of rich-man-of-the-people by ordering 10 milkshakes he didn't even pay for? 

Was that your entire paycheck for the month of April?

We can all see a blatant pander for votes coming from miles away, such as promising to cancel student loan debt or inviting the cast from A Different World to the White House. We aren't that naive, even though the Vice President happens to be an alum of Howard University, located a few subway stops uptown. And yeah, we'll concede that the announcement of President Biden giving the commencement address at Morehouse might be another stunt to secure the Black Mother of the Church vote. However, other than making a quick campaign drive by at a Chick-fil-A franchise near six HBCU campuses, what else has Trump done to cultivate Black voters? He touts his strong support of HBCU funding as an accomplishment of his Administration, yet his reluctance to actually visit one where he could have met with that same handful of College Republicans is...more authentic?

Presuming that someone who actually wants our votes (and not fighting tooth and nail to have them disqualified or suppressed) would make a more substantive or genuine effort that doesn't reinforce certain stereotypes, consider that the audience for this stunt was not undecided or ambivalent Black people. This Trojan Horse was sent to reassure Trump's base that he is still viable, especially if he was willing to go to the hood for a handful of votes. He just pulled off a similar visit to a bodega in Harlem, so expect more of these I'm-a-victim-like-just-like-you popups if they appear to help his poll numbers.

Candace Owens is another wolf in sheep's clothing, conveniently free to speak for herself now after being fired from The Daily Wire. She claims to have always been pro-black (lowercase b), and she might have gotten away with that lie if she had done her exit interview with Sherri Shepherd instead of Charlamayne tha Clown...

We see you too, gurl. And nobody is buying your belated Saul-to-Paul conversion on the road to Damascus act if you didn't know that God is good all the time and all the time God is good. 

The Year of Magical Negroes

No, I hadn't seen that movie (at least not when I began writing this in the Spring*), but I understand the trope (thank you, Roy Wood, Jr.). Although some of you still seem confused...

Geordi LaForge,
not Levar Burton,
is the Magical Negro 

So allow me to break it down like this: it might feel super special to be that all-knowing Negro translator/soothsayer that white folks turn to and trust, but your job is NOT to diminish and/or misrepresent the culture. For example, you don't go out of your way to agree that pumpkin pie is superior to sweet potato pie, because it ain't! Nor do you need to engage in that kind of debate--let them enjoy their overpriced pumpkin spice whatever and just carry on. We've got bigger issues.

Thus, when a certain sportswriter strayed way out of his lane to explain the history of Lift Ev'ry Voice and its designation as the Negro National Anthem to a bunch of trolls on El Muscato's internet platform even though Google is still free...

First of all, let me start by saying that I have been waiting for just the right moment to address Jason Whitlock's fuckery for quite a while. I was aware of him, but not being that rabid a sports fan, I never bothered to delve that deeply into his work. Then I happened upon this ridiculous movie review he gave for The Woman King (2022) and wondered what Black woman shanked him and left him for dead, because whet? Thereafter, I was further annoyed that by clicking on that foolywang, more of his nonsensical musings kept showing up in my TL (thanks to them allowing the elongated muskrat to play with the buttons at HQ unsupervised). I knew it was just a matter of time before Whitlock would resurface to make ashy grunts again (maga)--his way of being relevant so that I would have a legitimate reason to respond. And I've finally got some time...

Since we, the Blacks, don't get to vet these magical negroes, we're already suspicious of them and their motives. There is always something not quite right--like being goth or vegan, which might be part of their charm; nevertheless, it ain't none of our business unless that quirkiness ventures beyond its designated area of influence. Meaning, we don't mind that the weird Black dude speaks Klingon as long as he doesn't try to convince us to try potato salad tastes better with raisins. 

Nobody asked for that, so (I repeat) in a world where Google is free, why would anybody decide that Jason Whitlock's self-loathing ass is a more credible resource on Black culture and history? Especially when several other learned and credentialed Black people had already provided factual information on the topic...unless the point was to stoke more faux outrage, sow discord, and seek engagement. The very idea that Whitlock sent out that white power-washed history of Lift Ev'ry Voice that received 3000 likes, as if he stayed up all night binging old Boondocks episodes to get that Uncle Ruckus impression just right, is a level of tomfuckery that requires new words <-- see what I did there?

Such is the problem with magical negroes. Working for the Black community doesn't offer the same amenities or benefits, so it is understandable why the promotion from regular to magical is so alluring. As I have observed from my visits to the other side, they got nice stuff over there...but they have made it clear that there is a quota. No redundancies or aspirations, so once a magical realizes how lucky they are, the rest of us can go straight to hell. 

When the Words Don't Come

This is one of the pieces I started but never got even halfway through because life kept on lifing (and yes, I have adopted that as my default reason for everything). The main reason why I am returning to publish now is because it captures a unique turning point in my grief journey from this summer--right before the world turned inside out. After the page break, I am writing in real time again, so hopefully that will make this come together. --ADH

It has been a LONG time since I posted anything to this blog. I am still here, trying to sort everything out, but it is taking me longer than expected. I have so many unfinished drafts, so many stray thoughts, so much chaos and crazy going on inside my head. I don't know where to begin.

This is not an excuse. I am just not sure if I can focus long enough to complete anything right now. I am distracted, I am grieving, I am overwhelmed...I am lost. And I don't know how else to express any of what I am feeling, so I will just freestyle and hit publish even if this is the worst, most vulnerable piece of crap I've ever written. Here goes...

I am not as okay as I think I am on most days. I don't know if that makes much sense, but in essence, I put on my big girl panties every day to face the world, and then night comes, and I can't tell you if I seized it or if I squandered it. I haven't begun to deal with all of the final stuff I am supposed to handle with respect to my Mom. I haven't sent off half the Thank You notes. I didn't send half of the Father's Day cards with Thank You Notes because I got caught up in trying to make it to the end of the school year. I still have unsold Girl Scout cookies. I haven't gone back to my house for more than a few hours because I don't have the mental energy to combat unnecessary chaos. 

I cannot believe this is the first day of summer. 

I did do laundry. I did label most of the Kid's stuff for her first sleepaway camp starting in ten days. I did order the Hub a nice Father's Day gift that he seemed to appreciate. I do manage to take a shower every day.

On Sunday, I was in the kitchen chopping veggies and prepping for an impromptu family gathering, and it dawned on me that I am now the de facto matriarch of this band of feral cats. And in this most thankless role, it means that I need to think about everyone in this family, while they get to decide whether to completely ignore me. I mean that in the most complimentary way because the one person who does notice is my Dad. And he is part of the reason why I haven't completely given up.

Death Un-Becomes Me

I have been putting this off for the longest, although by now most of you already know. I just hadn't formally taken the time to share that my mother passed away at the end of February of this year.

I am unsure how this piece is going to unfold since it has taken me seven months to sit down to write about this new phase of my life on this blog. Call it my "Journey Through Grief" era (to borrow a popular overused refrain). I have written a few posts on social media about my Mom and my travels on this road so far, and I will link to those throughout in case anybody wants to know how I felt at any particular moment along the way. 

I can tell you that I have probably experienced all five stages of grief, with varying degrees of intensity. And something about this change in seasons has me more disconsolate, unfocused, and in a state of inertia. I consulted Dr. Google, and my self-diagnosis is either seasonal affective disorder, a nervous breakdown, or perimenopause. (Side note: I am not making the subject of my mental health into punchline, just pointing out how symptoms overlap.) 

Everything has become a contradiction--I feel like I have been avoiding life while also desiring to become more adventurous and daring. That isn't entirely uncharacteristic of me in normal times, but it does seem to be more pronounced. I thought that with this election coming fast and furious, I would jump right in, and I have to the point where I have probably over-extended myself. Somehow, immersing myself into the work of saving democracy seems to be a more worthwhile endeavor than cleaning out my Mom's closets.

A year ago, it was my prayer that my Mom would outlive the need for hospice care by continuing to defy the odds. At her last hospitalization in August, we were told to expect her not to live more than a year, but the early indications were that she might actually thrive instead of decline. So I didn't rush to make any of the final plans that were recommended because I figured that even if we were living on borrowed time, living was the operative understanding. Hell, we're all living on borrowed time for that matter...

However, at the end of September, I made mental notes that each of the pending holidays could be our last...I just never verbalized any of it to anyone. And while she didn't appear to visibly decline, she never really improved to the point of being de-certified from needing hospice; and in hindsight, I wasn't really seeing things as they were. That was until Calamuary January (my term for how every effing thing that could go wrong that month absolutely did). It began when her long-term home care aide went out for a double hip replacement. That same weekend, the furnace in the house went out. I had been fighting with the insurance company over their spending caps and the shortages for months, and that was draining her finances. In response to yet another rate increase (thanks to a corporate consolidation), I had begun to negotiate ways to reduce care hours and creatively fill in gaps. And in the midst of all of that, the hospice nurse alerted me to some ominous physical changes.

Thus, by my Mom's birthday, I had gotten used to receiving a daily update on the list of new catastrophes. A pressure sore that wouldn't heal. Only one partial meal. Weight loss. So when the hospice nurse gave us the definitive unwelcome assessment mid-month and then having my Dad task me with sharing that news with my brothers, the outcome was pretty unescapable. I made some of the necessary preparations on the financial end and went through a few of the motions of mental preparation. I prayed. I visited as often as I could to tell her the things one says when they aren't sure what else there is to say.

On that final Sunday before, it was by pure chance that I had a ticket to see a play at Arena Stage. It was about Anna Julia Cooper, a historical icon who had been a principal at the turn of the century at the high school my Mom attended in the 1960s. And pretty much as soon as I found my seat, I knew that this was all some kind of divine message to prepare myself--that I just happened to be at one of her favorite theatre venues to see a play about her high school alma mater to learn about the life of a celebrated educator (just like my her) on the same day that the alumni had chosen to attend? As soon as the play ended, I rushed to the house to tell her about it. I don't remember if she was awake or know if she heard any of what I said or if she even knew I had been there. 

That Tuesday morning, I planned to get a few hours of writing done before making my way over to the house. It was the routine to visit in between the end of the school day and the start of Kid's dance class. But an hour after I settled into my groove, the hospice nurse called, and let me just say how I wish the rest of the day was a total blur, but...

It wasn't. And honestly, I'm glad I remember every minute because I don't know how I would feel if I had to admit that on the very last day of my mother's life, I was operating in a daze or a fog. I'm glad that I remember every visitor (and there were a LOT), every person who prayed with us, and the fact that wherever three or more Black people are gathered, somebody is going to bring enough fried chicken to feed the multitude. When I tell you that I am grateful for every second of that day, even its agonizing and traumatic conclusion, I mean that. 

I was there, right up until just before the end. After all of the visitors had left, we were transitioning from the afternoon caregiver to the overnight person. My Mom's breathing had become more labored, so she was given morphine. We discussed the plan for the following day, and I sat in the room with her for a few minutes just holding her hand. Then my brother came into the room, so I gave him my seat and went into the living room. It happened in the blink of an eye--my brother noticed that her breathing had stopped and after a few seconds of uncertainty about detecting a heartbeat, my Dad instructed me to call the ambulance. Within minutes, there were red lights, EMTs, and then this enormous suspension of reality between life, death, and procedures...

Life. She was gone. We all knew it, but in the same stubborn refusal that had been her way of barreling through and fighting back, we went through all of the motions of doing everything humanly possible not to accept reality. When the EMT arrived, I told them that she was end-stage Alzheimer's and was about to mention hospice when my Dad interrupted me. Do all you can, he told them, so I deferred.

Death. After 15 minutes, one of the EMTs told me that they would continue, but not to expect a change. By this point, my younger brother had returned with his daughter and the afternoon caregiver. I had exiled my Dad to the living room because it was too much to expect for him to watch. The day had been excruciating enough, so I stood there in the doorway--equal parts sentinel/supervisor/witness to the futility of trying to resuscitate her. Not because I had lost faith in miracles; on the contrary, it was my hope was that her ordeal would finally be over.

Procedures. The EMTs made the call and respectfully left. Unbeknownst to us, the police were on the scene to determine if any foul play had been involved, but the officer conducted his investigation with the understanding that there was nothing untoward. The hospice nurse called, and then informed us to expect another nurse to certify the post-mortem. As that nurse went about her examination, disposing of and reclaiming the medications, completing paperwork, I asked if giving my Mom morphine was the right call. She told me what I needed to hear, because in that moment that must have been routine for her, I was in a state of reassessing every single decision and choice that had been made that day. Not to assign blame or liability, but for reassurance. Once she left, my Dad, our neighbor, and I sat in the room to wait for the funeral home. 

I remember wondering how we were supposed to fill the silence, with idle conversation or nervous housework? Depleted of energy, I nodded off in the chair at her bedside while my brothers waited in the living room. My Dad opted for idle conversation with our neighbor, who politely obliged. It was after 2am when the people from the funeral home finally arrived. I noticed that the gentleman who handled everything was dressed in a three-piece suit. I wondered if that's why it took them so long to arrive--was this dude getting dressed? How much time did he spend searching for a matching tie and pocket square? Why did that annoy me so much?

(Now that I've recollected and reflected on that particular detail, I realize my resentment was misdirected. I should have been mindful that this young man took the time to look presentable because he was coming to our home to remove our heart...so instead of looking like he rolled out of bed in pajamas or dirty sweats, he got dressed in a suit. I don't know how many of these transfers he's done from private homes in the middle of the night, and I can't imagine what it must be like to have that job to perform at the most vulnerable moment in a family's pain. So, my apologies and gratitude, sir.) 

My first real meltdown took place a day or so later at the Marshall's. I shed a few tears the morning after, in the still quiet of being the only person awake in the house. But that felt like a normal reaction, especially as I stood in the doorway of the empty room where my Mom had been alive hours earlier. There was no need to get emotional during the meeting with the funeral home nor during the flurry of phone calls and visits. However that night (or maybe the next), one of the deacons at my church called to offer condolences, and her words loosened the faucet. Immediately after that call ended, I left to get some gas from the Costco, where there was a Marshall's nearby that was still open. I decided to pop inside to purchase the undergarments the funeral home had requested--just another errand that made sense to get done.

Except this was not just another errand, and I barely made it through the purchase before I was overcome by a torrent of ugly tears and hyper-ventilating. I don't know if I audibly screamed or if it was the echo of the thoughts in my head, but all I kept thinking was Dear Jesus why is this happening? Something told me to find my phone and call for help. Whether it was in response to a text she may have sent me, or because of the alphabetical arrangement of my contacts, I called one of my cousins. And though at the time, it felt like it was some random out of the blue choice, she was the exact person I needed to listen, calm my hurt, and provide me with assistance.  

It would be weeks before I would cry again (though not at the funeral), and months before another uncontrollable gusher of grief hit. Typically, my emotional collapses coincide with the date--each successive month on the day of or in proximity to the date of my mother's transition. But it could accompany any sentimental memory trigger as well. In March, it was taking the girls to see The Wiz on Broadway for Easter. In April, it was walking up the hill on Howard's campus towards Crampton Auditorium...and then almost getting shot the following weekend by some chick in a parking lot over some bullshit. In May, it was being back on Spelman's campus. The June episode was over my frustration with ageism after that Presidential debate debacle. Mid-July hit me with the double whammy of losing my dance teacher and first professional boss in the same week, punctuated by Joe Biden's bombshell exit from the Presidential race. In August, I just decided to lean into the fact that it had been six months, but also a year since my Mom had entered hospice.

Which brings me up to date. And the confession that it hasn't always been depression or fury, but a complicated range of everything, everywhere, all at once. In April it was the irrationality of standing my ground against the unknown, and then having to admit the absurdity of my recklessness in endangering the lives of my family. In July, it was taking an unexpected detour into the cemetery to locate my Mom's grave (which I did, easily) compelled by the anxiety and dread that I don't feel safe to confide my emotions with anyone but her. Last week, it was this profound sense that I am a fraud, a self-declared "Busy" Black Woman in name only as opposed to everyone else who can seemingly rebound after the death of their loved ones by throwing themselves into some meaningful distraction. 

So what the jobu tupaki is wrong with me?

Let's revisit the meltdown at the Marshall's, the memory of which I failed to suppress (in spite of my best efforts). I stood in front of a display of discounted panties and bras and had a panic attack as I attempted to figure out sizing, color, and if you can believe this even crossed my mind, COMFORT! My brain pondered the quandary of my Mom being buried in comfortable underwear, and that dear readers, is what caused me to nearly pass out in the dang parking lot before I found my way to the car. Then there was a similar experience at Target the following month. While lollygagging through the aisles, I was dismayed to learn that Target sold full Jockey brand slips superior in quality to whatever store brand camisole I found at JC Penny's. If only I had walked to the opposite end of our ghetto mall...but now it was too late. The hysteria of being haunted by my mother for the rest of my life over hasty shopping choices was real.

Before the funeral, I was irritated that the morticians chose the dark purple designer suit instead of one of the white dresses I indicated were my preferred options. Since I didn't expect for her to be wearing the suit, I didn't think to bring a shell (and my Mom always wore her suits with a shell). There was a scarf, but that was to accent one of the dresses. And instead of wearing the necklace I gave them, it was placed in her hand like a rosary even though she wasn't Catholic. I had to insist that they reapply her lipstick because there was NO WAY that I would have been content with her wearing pale pink gloss! In the end, my Mom was buried in her good suit, a scarf in place of a shell, some crappy slip I bought on sale from Pennys, and discounted underwear that may or may not have been the most comfortable option. 

If you are questioning why any of this matters, it is because if I didn't obsess and overthink things, who else would? I inherited her tendency to notice e-v-e-r-y-thing, and as my mother's only daughter, attention to her final details became the last meaningful act of caregiving I could render. 

It dawned on me that as I considered the length of time since my grandparents passed, I hope to remain alive for some unknown amount of time. One day, this could be my daughter. She could be mulling decisions about what to do with me since I'm not organized or morbid enough to leave instructions. I will have to trust her judgment knowing that this is the same child who likes to wear mixed matched shoes and clothes. Hopefully she doesn't get bogged down in the existential crisis of my ghost outfit the same way I got all twisted about my Mom's purple suit...

The comedian Kevin Fredericks posted this video about his grief at the loss of his brother, and I felt every word. Every one. Because death undoes. It takes reality and turns everything inside out. It makes you question the point of life. Why does it matter if I drink too much if I'm going to die anyway? Why do I need to make healthy life choices if some random chronic illness can come along and it won't matter that I exercised daily to prevent that very illness? What does it mean to be a woman of great intelligence and many talents, only to lose it all? Why accumulate all of this stuff, only to have it all given or thrown away by people who don't appreciate what it meant to me? What does it mean to be gone, forever? How long is forever?

Death takes an entire life and reduces it to a pile of fucking paperwork. 

I am so over this. I am ready for this era to end. Mind you, I'm not wishing for a resurrection like The Monkey's Paw scenario; instead, I would like to wake up one day like Pamela Ewing to find my Mom in the kitchen. Or maybe in a different dream, I will wake up at my Grandmother W's house and she's in her kitchen or my Grandfather is driving his station wagon while my other Grandmother is pruning the bushes in her yard. The fact that I got used to not seeing them for all of these years makes it that much more painful to imagine what the next few years without my mother might feel like. I hope not as hard as watching dementia slowly chip away at her for the last 15 years.

This is supposed to be cathartic...and in a way, it is since I hadn't verbalized any of this until now. I don't know if I would have the courage to reveal these thoughts to a therapist and I don't dare breathe a word of this to anyone else (no worries, they won't read it). When asked, I've been evasive. I've deflected. I've focused my energy on everything else but my feelings. I go into the room where she died every day to open the blinds, and I replace the flowers on the dresser at regular intervals. I haven't donated any of her belongings yet, but I have worn some of her clothes (and I imagine her snarky oh so you can wear a size 8 now, in response). To the extent that I haven't gotten on with my life, I have re-positioned it around my grief. She isn't gone, she just isn't here. She's no longer rendered mute or physically incapacitated by that terrible disease. And so long as I remain open and receptive to the idea of her presence in this more ethereal existence, then we can have the kind of conversations and interactions that were impossible those last years of her life. Maybe that's how I keep on living.

I suspect that this won't be the last time I write about this topic. Just a few months ago, I wasn't sure if I could ever return to writing, but here I am rediscovering my voice (it wavers and cracks, but I still hear it). I have watched several of my friends navigate this same journey through the years, and we all take different paths in learning how to readjust or realign with life after the death of a loved one. A large part of this process will be to redefine myself in the aftermath of 15 years of caregiving. That's longer than I've held any job. I don't regret that I took on the responsibility of caring for my Mom, as I would do it again. It was integral to my identity, part of what made my life so busy. Now I have rewrite, revise, and reimagine what it means to be someone other than Audrey's only daughter.