My Daddy's Daughter

This year my Christmas was spent in a hospital room with my father.  He came there with what he thought was temporary blindness, caused by a fall, but it actually ended up being something much more serious. Colon cancer.

I remember standing in his room and watching him while he slept.  He had yet to learn I was there. My husband, children, and I stood around his bedside quietly so as not to disturb him.  Fear crept into my bones, because to me, he looked to be knocking on death's door. When he stirred I felt a temporary surge of relief, until he opened his eyes and I could see nothing but blankness behind his lids.  It was as if he'd already passed from this life to the next, yet with mobility still allowed in his body.  I prayed to myself that he would be alright. In truth, I needed him to be alright because no child is ever prepared to lose their parents.

To some in my family this may sound weird.  One would have to know the back story behind me and my father's journey in order to understand this.  You see, my father didn't raise me; nor was he apart of my life while I was growing up.  My mother constantly reminded me that he contributed all of $50 to the financial requirements it takes to support a child.  He and my mother divorced when I was only 4, and from what I knew of my father, he was nothing more than a monster who lived to control others.

This knowledge not only came from what my mother told me, it was also witnessed through personal experiences. In my young life I had seen my father raise a hand to my mother countless times. I spent many nights living in fear of what he may someday do to her. His habit of ruthlessness not only extended to my mother, but even lent itself, on many occasions, to his own mother.  She walked in consistent fear of her own son, yet she treated him as if he were a prince.

With all the knowledge I had of what my father was capable of, I was still his little girl, and up until the point where my mother and I were able to sneak out and escape, I was the only one he didn't hurt...

After my mother was finally able to break free from my father, he punished her by staying out of my life (at least from her perspective). But what my father failed to realize, until I became an adult, was that he was punishing me as well.  So many things happened to me as a result of his absence, and over time I grew bitter.  Gone was the little girl who wanted nothing more than to curl up inside her daddy's arms; she was replaced with an attention seeking woman who looked desperately for male approval.

I began to slander my father's very name.  Every thing about him embarrassed me, and when any one told me I looked like him, I vehemently denied it.  I did not want to be apart of anything associated with him outside of his family, who I dearly love.  My mother saw how this root of bitterness was taking hold of me, and in order to try and rectify it, she took to telling me stories about his time spent in war.  She described how he would wake up in night sweats, and move in bed as if he were in battle.  This was all due to his PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).  Yet he sought no professional help for it.  She explained that he was a fierce soldier who saw the death of many comrades, but was brave enough to continue to fight on the front line of the battle.  With these explanations her hope was to turn me from my sour feelings, and help me see the other side of his story, so I would have a better understanding of the person he chose to be.  None of this worked.  It was only when I was able to write a book about growing up fatherless, (Paper Walls on Amazon.com, or any online book seller) and vent all of my frustrations out with pen and paper, that I was able to be set free from the unforgiveness I harbored for him.

Fast forward to my twenties and thirties, where my father and I actually spent time building our relationship regardless of the past.  After the book purge, I was able to allow room in my heart for the man I didn't want to know.  I was open to listening to him, and hearing his reasons.  He told me many stories which helped to shape my view of why he was who he was.

One story in particular affected him so gravely, when he spoke of it, its as if he were reliving the memory every time.  I sat and listened, as if for the first time, to my father tell me of the nun who told him when he was only a nine year old Catholic school boy, that he would die old and alone, under a tree.  In response to this nun's words, my nine year old father pushed that nun down a flight of stairs. My father will never know that I have heard this story told before, from his sisters on several occasions.  When they tell it, they speak as if my father was designed to be mean from the beginning of his life.  And though I hesitate to admit it, I have to agree, but he is still MY daddy.  There was a reason God called me to be his daughter, so I feel he can't be all bad. My hope is that his current season of incapacity will help him review his life and make a change for the better. Yes, its true he's hurt a lot of people, and he would still prefer to "shoot" someone rather than make friends, but God has given him the blessing of more time, and I pray he uses it well.

My heart hopes that while he is down, but not out, he remembers who holds his future, and that it can still be a bright one.  I long for the day when Daddy doesn't need my husband to stand by while he takes fifteen minutes to struggle into a pair of pants and I wait discreetly outside of his hospital room.  I most definitely want not to be a helpless witness to his weak cries of, "why me," because he no longer has the strength to continue dressing after a taxing attempt at brushing his teeth. I hope that my husband and I will never have to carry his feeble body back to his bed because he is too dizzy to walk.

I wonder sometimes if God is calling him to wake up.  Is he showing my father that He is the one who hold's his whole life in His hands, but yet still waiting for daddy to rectify his choices?  Instead of spewing hateful words with his tongue, God has given him more time to share love with members of the family that he fights so hard to keep to himself.  Eight out of the eleven children my grandmother had are still alive, and my father only allows two of them inside his inner circle.  I wonder how much time The Father will give Daddy to forgive his brothers and sisters the way he expects God to forgive him?

I wonder these things because I want to meet my father in heaven one day.  Hate is a powerful emotion, but love can conquer it all.  I pray my Daddy, with the rest of his time on earth, will choose to love, because there is a great freedom in it; one like he's never known.

The doctors were able to perform the surgery on Daddy's colon, and successfully carve out all the cancer, but the road to recovery is still a long one ahead.  Though the guilt of not being there for me when I needed him eats away at my father, I'm still going to be there for him as much as he needs me to be. I just hope he will conquer all of his demons and be the hero in this life that I always dreamed him to be. I am my daddy's daughter, and that will never change.

A Night to Remember

Recently I attended a wedding fit for a queen.  It was straight out of every girl's fantasy, complete with a chateau built like a castle.  Though I was not the bride, who I must say looked every bit the part of royalty walking down that isle; she was stunning,  I still felt like a princess being escorted on the arm of my own Prince Charming.

The Marcion Wedding

We walked in to a room filled with violinist music.  I looked up, and there she stood on the balcony of the great room, greeting us with her beautiful tunes.  My heels clinked against freshly polished marble floors, which shined so brightly I could have checked my makeup in it.  For one night I was able to be a member of the "elite," at least this was how I felt when we walked over to the check-in table and our names appeared on the list along with the other specially invited guest.

My husband and I were escorted up the stairs where behind silk curtains we walked into the "chapel" with a stone hearth being the focal point of the alter.  This would be where the bride and groom would say their "I do's" and pledge to spend the rest of their lives together. I was in awe. We walked the candlelit center isle to our seats, and I folded the hem of my dress over the 5 inch heels I wore to accommodate its length.

The music selection through the whole ceremony seemed the most appropriately ordained sound to entertain a host of love and matrimonial connections. Afterward, we were led back downstairs to a waiting area where we were served delicious hors d'oeuvres from the tradition of the brides cultural family roots in Louisiana.  Then we entered the dining hall, which also served as the ballroom.  Elegant crystal chandeliers adorned the ceiling and matching centerpieces sparkled brightly in the glint of the dimmed lights.

The event was luxurious, and such a perfect date-night get-away for me and my honey. We danced the night away on the marble dance floor, and toasted one another with flutes of champagne.  I felt amazing because its not often my husband and I get to dress up and be "fancy," but this wedding served as the perfect occasion.

To top off all of the festivities, the bride and groom were airlifted away directly from the drive up in front of the chateau's doors.  One would think a horse drawn carriage would be the dream, but this couple took it one step further, and showed all other couples how a wedding should be done.  While I'm not one for all the glamour and glitz, I could truly appreciate all I was fortunate enough to experience.

Instead of being taken away to Wonderland inside of a private helicopter, my Prince Charming opened my door to his brand new sports vehicle and we drove off to our own type of dream spot; home.

To the bride and groom, Mr. & Mrs. Franklin Marcion, I say congratulations.  I pray the Lord blesses your union to see many years, and that through those years you will share beautiful experiences and make lovely memories.  God bless you.

Gloom and Doom

I thought I was waking up from a bad dream this morning.  Trump for president?  A man with no political background and a hefty lack of self control will run this country come 2017.

It seems as though my fellow Americans are filled with the Springfieldian's complex. You know, the residents of Springfield, Wherever from the television show The Simpson's.  Their minds also seem to change with the shift of the wind. It almost becomes humorous to watch citizens fall for self-absorbed propaganda which compromises their interest and values simply because its wrapped in a rage they wish to impose on others.

America, how ignorant have we become?  Are we so determined to lash out against those who don't look like us, don't earn the same income, or don't share the same nationality that we would vote in a man who so blatantly boast of his prejudices? Not only that, but I shake my head at the women who support such degradation of their own gender.  This man has grown up with enough entitlement to believe he can just grab a woman in her genital area and get away with it.  It was a joke to him! Yet we put him in office.  We want this man to lead us, but lead us where; to our own demise?

America's  solution to this country's problems has become like that of a humorous cartoon.  It leaves one to wonder what is next for us under the direction of a man who claims to love war.  I,for one, don't want my children being raised in a world set up like a battle zone.

The hardest thing to open is a closed mind, so I don't expect much in the direction of progress for the next four years.  Obama, you will be truly missed.  I will savor the time we have left until January when all hell breaks loose. Reality will hit when America has to face the consequences of their decision.

Vote

Yesterday I voted and just as I said I would do, I wrote in a candidate.  My husband told me that I wasted my vote, but I don't feel I did.  Change starts as small and simple as a whisper; or in my case, on e ballot.  If it had not been for those in our history bold enough to be willing to let their one voice be heard above the many, we would still be sitting still, steeped in the ashes of our faults.

Whether we move forward or backward in our society depends on the people we place in leadership.  It seems other countries get this, but the "world leader," America, seems to lack enough people with the courage to fight back against its governmental injustices.  For those who are willing, they are quickly shut down by advertisements and support groups who show how "fairly" they treat the people versus the truth in their crimes. Some how those get covered up under the blanket of making the persecuted look like the real villains.  This happens through mass media, and the not so subtle subliminal messages in television and theater.

I'll bet most citizens didn't even know there were candidates outside of Clinton and Trump running for the office of president. I myself never really paid much attention, because they aren't spotlighted in the news.  Gary Johnson represents the Libertarian Party and Jill Stein represents the Green Party.  They have accounts of what direction they think this country should go in as well.  They debate serious issues, one of which are in the headlines.  Why not?  I want to hear what they have to say as well.  This way I can have all the information I need in order to make an unbiased vote when I go to the polls.

That's the way its supposed to be right? I wish!  You'll find people, few and far between, who are are willing to vote unbiased, and most of the time those who say they are, are probably lying. Voting unbiased sounds cute, sweet, and politically correct, but even the best of us have a preference which clouds our ability to hear any part of what another candidate has to say as long as they are not members of our own party.    This is why you see so many former Republican presidential candidates, who staunchly spoke out against Donald Trump and his policies, suddenly advertising in his favor.  They've mysteriously had a change of heart over night and now support the man and his mess.

You see what I did right there?  I just showed you my own bias.  Because even though I don't consider myself either Republican or Democrat, I would still like to think that I'm considering a leader based on his principles and not his party.

Whatever happened to Ralph Nader?  Is he still alive?  As far as I know he is the only Independent Party candidate who never gave up running in each election no matter how bad the defeat.  I have to respect a man like that. He was willing to, despite the odds, keep moving forward so his voice will be heard.  Will anyone else be willing to do that come November 8th? You may not be running for president, but you still have a voice.  Change starts with one person, then snowballs into something big enough to make a difference.

The Forgotten Child

The other day my son and I were sitting down at the table. I watched him while he ate his breakfast because he likes company when he eats.  While we sat, I began to reminisce about my grandparents and some of the things they used to say and do when they were alive.  One of the expressions my maternal grandmother used to say about a relatively thin person who seemed to eat a lot, but yet not gain weight, was such a funny-sounding kind of oxymoron, that it took me a while to ponder on before I was able to understand the meaning.  Even though the expression may not make much sense to a young mind when first heard, on the day I sat across the table from my oldest son while he ate his breakfast, it made perfect sense to me.

My grandmother used to tell us all the time when we were young, "you eat so much it makes you po' to tote it."  Some Southerners will get this, while those in the North will write if off as just another one of those mindless sayings they say in the South, but simply put, it just means that no matter how much you eat, your weight goes nowhere.

Thinking back on those times we used to run around Grandma's house, I also remembered how Grandpa used to relate to me as opposed to the other grandchildren.  His feelings for me, or lack there of, were quite sour.  As a matter of fact, he was not fond of neither me nor my mother, and she was his child.  My mother and I used to put our heads together and wonder if it was due to the rumor that she was the daughter of the neighbor across the street.  This rumor carried around the neighborhood and among my grandmother's friends, and was seemingly confirmed when the very neighbor, who so happened to be one of my grandfather's friends, told my mother when she was eighteen that he was indeed her father.  Both my mother and I were inclined to believe this because she didn't look like her other brother and sisters, nor did she act like them.  She spent her childhood wondering why she was different, and singled out by her parents.

This is not to say that I believe my grandmother was some sort of worldly woman.  She was a woman strong in her faith; one who showed great love to her family the best way she knew how.  I honor her memory and feel privileged to be called her granddaughter.  She, along with my Aunt, was the one to rush in to my rescue the time my grandfather lifted a blunt object to strike me in the head with.  I was only about eight or nine and couldn't understand how the sheer sight of me angered him so much.  All I wanted was his love.

Sitting there across the table from my sixteen year old, I began to remember all of these things.  I sat there engrossed in my thoughts while confessing to him my experiences.  I told him of the time when I was nine and my maternal grandfather was handing out loose change he typically kept in his pocket to all the grandchildren.  I sat on the sofa watching at first, not thinking he would even consider giving me any because he usually shewed me away. But then something came over me, a sudden hope that this time would be different.  I longed for his acceptance more than I realized, and it was that hope and longing which propelled me from my place on the sofa to go and join the circle around him.

As he took his time counting out change and extending it to the little hands waiting to be filled, he got to me and stopped.  The glare in his eyes reflected sheer contempt and he told me to go away because he wasn't going to give any thing to my "Gerald-looking a#!."  Yes, typically when my grandfather spoke to me, his initial response would be followed by a series of expletives, and for some reason, he never referred to me by my name.  I was always called by my father's name because everyone said I looked so much like him.

I pulled my hand back and returned to my spot on the sofa.  All the hope I had conjured was now gone as I sat back and watched as the rest of the kids get their portion of the change. There would be more times where I was left out from the gifts my grandfather shared with his grandchildren, but that one in particular has always stuck out in my mind.  It was a turning point for me, because it was then that I determined in my little mind  I would do everything I could to get him to love and accept me the way I did him.

I didn't really know much about my paternal grandmother at the time. My parents divorced when I was four years old, and both of them lived in two different states.  But, what I do remember is a night when my parents went out and left me, along with some of the other grandchildren on my father's side of the family, with his mother.  I called her Mama Lucy because she had sternly warned me to never call her grandmother.  She said that she wasn't anyone's grandmother, though she really was, but at the time she was still grasping for a fleeting youth.  Any way, on this night at bed time, I remember getting really excited because Mama Lucy was inviting all of the grandchildren she had to come and sleep with her in her bed. Everyone there was privileged to be around Mama Lucy all the time, I was the only one who lived out of state, and therefore; didn't get to see her as much.

I watched as all the little bodies scrabbled into her room.  Then I got up and proceeded to follow them, but before I could make it past my grandmother's bedroom door,  she stopped me.  I was told that I couldn't fit in the bed with the rest of the children, and that I would have to go and make a place to sleep on the living room floor.  My face fell, and I found it impossible to hide my heartbreak.  In my little mind, I had been rejected in favor of the other grandchildren even though I belonged to her as well.

When my parents came in later that night, on the floor is where they found me, curled up in a little ball, trying to stay warm.  Of course, my father blew a gasket and asked why his child was the only one on the floor.  My grandmother had told him that I wanted to sleep there.  I knew this not to be true, but I refused to speak up about it.  I figured if I told, it would just be a strike against me, and if I was ever going to earn Mama Lucy's love, tattling would not be a good choice.

When I was done reminiscing, I looked over at the face of my son.  He looked just like I had on the night my paternal grandmother made me sleep on the floor, and the day  my maternal grandfather denied me his gift of coins.  I was suddenly struck by the sadness he was feeling, not because of what happened to me, those things no longer bother me, but because my story had such a profound effect on him.  As his mother I would never want him to feel left out the way I did when I was growing up.  It would make me feel an indescribable devastation.  I live my life so that he doesn't have to know the pains of not knowing how special he truly is.  Every child deserves that.

I thank God  I am no longer affected by the hurts in my past; hurts suffered from my own family.  Sometimes the very ones you think are there to protect and care for you, can be the ones who make you feel the most insecure.  Growing up, I tried my best to please those I loved in hopes that it would make me more acceptable.  I am just learning now, as an adult, that there is no way I am able to please everyone all the time.  The most important thing is to be secure in who God made me to be, and try my best to live peaceable with people.  If who I am is not acceptable to some, even those within my family, I have come to know that it is okay, I am still called good by Him who made me.

Dinner for One?

No one wants to be alone.  Connecting with someone outside of ourselves is a natural human need.  We all know the fear of being left behind.  We have all felt that aching need not to be the last one picked for a team on the school yard.  Many of us also feel the flush of embarrassment when we are forced outside of our comfort zone and have to dine alone for lack of company to share in the experience.

I used to be among those who felt as if all eyes were on me from the moment I hit the restaurant door if I came in by myself. I had never experienced dining alone until I was fully grown.  Even then, the urge to run out before anyone I knew saw me, picked away at my resolve. Yet I was determined to "be a big girl," with confidence enough in who she was for it not to matter if I had a person sitting next to me just to eat.

There were many first to be experienced as I entered adulthood. Not only did I take on the fear of being seen out alone, I also went all the way out and took myself to a movie.   Mind you, these "alone" experiences happened during pregnancy when my husband was off at work, but the change in hormones provided me with an outlet of minimal self-consciousness.  I no longer cared if I was seen out by myself.  I was happy to be doing something I wanted to do without having to submit to the insertion of another's opinion on what else I could be doing. I was having fun too!

So why do we have this natural need to connect? The answer is simple... We were made that way. Everyone knows the story of The Garden of Eden.  Even if you're not a Christian, you are familiar with it.  In the garden, Adam was enjoying all the bountiful blessings God provided, but even with everything he could seemingly need, God made him a mate because he said, "it is not good for man to be alone"(Genesis 2:18). Adam needed a partner to commune with, because God did not see among the animals, or the trees something that was suitable to Adam for companionship.

You see, God built in us, from the beginning, the desire to gravitate to a connection to another human body.  We need these connections in our lives to grow, to endure, to support, and to help us. The list of reasons can go on and on. This is not to say we can't function in society alone, we just function better with company.

Studies have shown that those who live alone actually have a longer life expectancy when they have a pet (ie: dog or cat) to care for, and even communicate with in some shape or form. Though pets may not supply the same type of connection as one human would to another, they do provide a listening ear and warm body which can help us to cope with the dread of being alone.

 I believe denying ourselves connections with others outside of ourselves is a deprivation of what is necessary. Some do it all for the sake of what they categorize as "independence." They become a type of hermit in a world full of people. But why do that when such richness can be found in bonding with others inside of a relationship?

Most people, when they hear the word relationship, typically think about the one between a man and woman, but relationships are so much more.  They are friendships, brotherhoods, sisterhoods, acquaintances, mother/daughter, father/son... All of these are important in the fulfillment of life.

Many will say that we can't make it in this world alone.  And though physically we may survive, mentally we won't be living.  The connections I have with my family and friends run deep.  My best friends also happen to be my sorority sisters.  I cannot imagine a life without their influence, their support, their listening ear, or their help.  If there are any out there who can vouch for the notion that they have made it in this world all alone, I would certainly like to see the list of names.  My belief is that it would be a taxing effort to find them.

*photo provided by: raykiwsp.wordpress.com/2014/10/21/i-wish-you-great-companionship/

Setting Our Children up to Fail

Its so amazing how I JUST wrote about the dangerous turn our society is taking when it comes to rearing our children, and within a few days I'm elbowed in the face by one of the students at my school.

This incident happened all out of the blue.  I was walking down the hall after my last class, looking forward to a peaceful lunch break, and time away from the hustle and bustle of the middle school educational system.  Walking down the hall, I remember joking around with a couple of young ladies I have in my classes.  I was smiling real big, and thinking about the sandwich I was about to order from one of my new favorite sandwich shops just across the street from my school. 

 When I turned the corner, I saw nothing but chaos playing out in front of me.  The PASS teacher was being dragged behind one of her students, calling for him to stop.  He was trying to run away, and she was struggling to hold on to him.  Being a fellow teacher, of course I stepped in to help her.  The student was twice her size in height and weight, and being that she and I are both 5'2", adding my extra body support was only going to be a questionable means of stopping him; yet it was worth a try. 

He was leaning almost completely forward, and I didn't want to take the chance at being tackled by standing in front of him, so I came to his right side and hooked my arm into his.  My effort was to try and slow down the velocity of his movements. It worked for a quick second, and I held on while asking him what was wrong. The PASS teacher had lost her grip by this time, and it was just me and him.  He was working even harder now, trying to get away, and I dragged behind until he pushed back with the arm I was holding him by, and clipped me on the right side of my face near the chin with his elbow..  This is when I chose to let him go. Though there was no pain from the impact, it  rattled my teeth, and I decided at that moment, it was better for me to let go than lose my temper just to keep this kid from running.  I only prayed that he would not attempt an escape, and run away from the campus.

The PASS teacher and I stood back and watched as he ran through the building, dodging other students as they made their way down the hall to the cafeteria.  We then made our way to the Counselor's office to report what had just happened. After we left, we went back into the hallway in search of the student.  By this time other teachers, and an assistant principal were running through the hallway as well trying to find him. I made sure the PASS teacher was okay before going to find the security guard and alerting him to what was going on. Then I pulled my purse up on the hook of my arm, slid on my sunglasses, and headed out of the nearest door.  It was past time for lunch, and I needed to get away from that place for a moment.

A day later I was approached by another student asking if I was okay.  I, of course said yes, and proceeded to ask her why. She tells me that the student who was running through the hallways the previous day had posted on Snap Chat that he had punched me and the PASS teacher in the face. She retold the story about the post as if he were bragging about what he had done. I was left to wonder, after hearing her story, how it was that he was still allowed phone privileges after the stunt he pulled at the school, and also how truly valid her version of the story was.

I spoke with the PASS teacher, and went to pay a visit to the Assistant Principal about what I heard. I was deeply concerned that my name was possibly being used on a social network site in a slanderous manner.  The Assistant Principal told me the previous day that I could press charges against this student for what he had done, but I declined to do so because I felt it was an accident, and again I didn't get hurt.  On the day I went in to report what I had been told about the Snap Chat post, she told me that she understood my concern, but didn't want to go and talk to him on his first day back in an effort not to upset him.

You see, though this student knows right from wrong, and is fully cognizant of what he did, he would not be receiving any real consequences from the school because he is in the PASS program and has a BIP. For those in education, you know what this means.  Apparently the Behavioral Intervention Plan allows for the enabling of the fantasy world in childhood in exchange for reality preparation. 

This student is being protected from the harsh consequences of reality in order that he may grow into the societal menace we are so readily preparing him to be; at least from my perspective. Yet we wonder how prisons are almost bursting at the seems, while the drop out rate for continuing education never seems to disappear. 

Where is the accountability?  When I was growing up, I remember learning it early on.  I was taught respect for my elders and self control.  Sometimes these lessons had to be learned in unpleasant ways, but I am better for it.  If discipline produces go character, then I see no reason to hold it back. There are many policies and procedures in place to protect the student, but what procedures are set up to protect the teacher? If one bad teacher ruined it for the many, and now all of us have to be subject to abusive behavior by students AND their parents, how many bad students will it take before they offer us safety?