Chicken Soup for the African American Soul

by Jack Canfield

  With a sudden force, the top half of my body sprang straight up in bed.

  I reached over to Charles, gasping for air. “God, please help me, I’m dying.”

  Charles pulled me down next to him, asking me what was wrong. After the wave of panic settled, I realized I was cold because I no longer had hair—not because I was dying. Although my head was covered with a scarf, my body heat was still escaping from the top.

  I had been preparing myself emotionally for the hair loss. Now, how I looked was less bothersome than how I felt. I could wear wraps, wigs or hats to cover my head. What I felt was an absence of protection and strength, my entire body exposed as if I had lost a layer of skin, a vital organ.

  As dawn approached, I awoke to a new day with a heightened sense of respect for black hair and its value to our physical existence.

  Now, instead of embracing the blessing of hair, I choose instead to embrace the blessing of love, and of life!

  Valerie M. McNeal

  You Go, Salt-and-Pepper!

  No one can figure out your worth but you.

  Pearl Bailey

  The bible says gray hair is a crown of glory, and I’ve been sporting that glory since my early twenties.

  In fact, my prematurely gray hair, inherited from my father, has always commanded attention and served as a conversation piece that reinforced my youthful appearance. “You look too young to have so much gray hair!” “How did you get your hair that way? Did you dye it?” “I love your hair! I hope my gray grows in like that.” “You’re wearing that gray hair, girl!”

  I received many comments from men who liked it, too, including my husband. He is one of the reasons I never felt compelled to dye my hair. I would respond with a delighted “Thank you!” to these compliments, armed, of course, with the knowledge that the gray hair didn’t match my age.

  My eighty-something aunt, who gets a rinse every time she goes to the beauty shop, would sometimes complain that my gray hair was making her look old! Nevertheless, I took a certain pride in my salt-and-pepper—until, that is, my age began to catch up with it.

  The compliments changed, too. Instead of reminding me of my youth, people began to say things to remind me of my age. “I hope my wife ages the way you do.” “I wish I had the courage to let my gray hair grow in.” Once, when walking with my two young children, I even got the dreaded, “Are these your grandchildren?” The comments I once delighted in were no longer so welcome.

  As I approached fifty, I considered dying my hair for the first time. If I was going to get rid of my beloved salt-and-pepper, I was going to make it an event. Since a big bash was being planned for my fiftieth birthday, I decided to do it before then. I was excited, but still a little shaky.

  I must have changed my mind a hundred times as I fantasized what it would be like. How would I look? What if I didn’t like it? Or what if I loved it and wanted to bolt to the shop every time the gray roots peeked through? Did I really want to spend that much energy on my hair?

  Finally, I imagined my grand entrance to the party. A hush would fall over the crowd as I, elegantly dressed, appeared in the doorway. There would be spontaneous applause, oohs, ahhs and admiring comments. But this time, the comments would not be about my gray hair, but about the lack of it! “Girl, you should have washed that gray out of your hair a long time ago! You look wonderful! And you look so much younger!”

  After a few weeks, I arrived at a final decision: I would take the plunge.

  When the day of my hair appointment arrived, butterflies swirled in my stomach, and I reminded myself that this would all be worth it. I concentrated on quieting my pounding heart as I explained to the young operator what I wanted.

  “Take away all the gray!” I said grandly.

  “Why do you want to do that?” she asked.

  I was speechless for a moment, and I looked up at her.

  “I think your gray hair is beautiful.” She looked around the large shop and began to ask the other operators and their customers. “What do you all think?”

  One by one they agreed and murmured or shouted their disapproval of a dye job. “No! You’ll ruin it!” “There’s no way I’d dye my hair if it looked like yours.” “Don’t do it!” they all said with one voice. The young operator looked at me and said, “See?”

  Confused, I pondered this unexpected turn of events. Was it possible that these ladies had some regrets for not making that choice themselves, or were they just being polite, not wanting to hurt my feelings?

  Yes, I had always thought my gray hair was beautiful, but how would I feel when the next person on the street said something I didn’t think was so flattering? Was I confident enough to walk out of the shop the same way I’d walked in?

  On the other hand, I was entitled to make a change if I wanted to. Women change their hair color all the time. It’s no big deal! Clarity finally came at the end of this internal dialogue. I realized that it was my decision and mine alone. I could feel myself sitting taller in the chair as I finally told the operator what I wanted her to do.

  After she finished with my hair, she spun me around to face the mirror. I realized then that I had made the right choice. I liked . . . no, I loved what I saw. I paid the operator and got up from the chair. I thought about my grand entrance later that evening and smiled. I would knock their socks off!

  In a nearby mirror, another customer studied her hair and lightly fingered her gray roots. As I headed for the door, she turned to look at me and said, “You go, Salt-and-Pepper!”

  Carol Ross-Burnett

  I Owe You an Apology

  If we don’t learn to manage pain by dissolving it or letting it go, it infects the future.

  Bishop T. D. Jakes

  As I sat with my sistah-friends relaxing, relating and releasing, we began to speak of all the men we had dated or “kinda-sorta” dated. As usual, we segued into an energetic comparison of our “R.D.—relationship drama.” We were sharing the woes brought on us by our black men, and I was leading the pack with my male-drama, historical reenactment of “Heartbreak Hotel.”

  I began with the fact that at age sixteen, I was afraid of their smooth-talking ways and their quick unrefined moves, but by the time I was eighteen they intrigued me; ultimately, they piqued my curiosity. When I was twenty-one they were using the word “love” to spend the night at my house, but I never could get them to stay for breakfast.

  We were on a male-bashing roll. “Yeah, girl, he ain’t worth a two-dollah bill . . . ain’t that right . . . gimme a high-five on that one!”

  I went on to add that by age twenty-five we were both in “the game”; they were out to get theirs, and I was out to get mine. “You betta believe, girl, we gotta teach ’em a lesson,” one of my diva sistah friends retorted.

  Feeling like I was putting it down and keeping it real, I then mentioned, “When I was thirty, they were saying that they were not looking for Mrs. Right, they were simply looking for Mrs. Right Now. Then they would mention that I was ‘too nice a person’ for them and that they didn’t deserve me. . . .Yeah, right!!! What the heck does that mean? That ole too-nice thing has gotta go!!”

  Then it happened, out of the blue something came all over me. I couldn’t see straight. I felt a churning in my stomach, a queasiness that was indescribable. I felt a strong distaste in my mouth, like I had been given a spoon of castor oil! I was becoming sickened by this conversation, for what we were saying about black men, our black men. My head was spinning, my mouth was dry, and for some unknown reason I could not continue the verbal judo and image-shattering of black men. In that moment, I was convicted with guilt and personal accountability. My head was screaming at me, What have you done to them, Lisa? What is your role in your miserable B-movie? What should you apologize for?

  This was not cool. I’d been leading the pack! I could have won the “pity party” award with all of the junk I’d thrown out about the black man. Now what? I sat with this internal struggle for what seemed like forever, b
ut was actually about five minutes. I was still, completely consumed with frustration, disgust, confusion and conviction. I began to ask this voice—or was it a feeling?—whatever it was, I asked it for direction, took a deep breath and held on.

  What happened next blew my mind. I expected the next words to come out of my mouth to be something like, “I’m strong without them,” “I don’t need a man anyway,” or “They’re just intimidated by our strength,” but to my extreme surprise and to the astonishment of my true-blue sistah-friends, I broke the “sistah code” and changed directions mid-pity party. I began to apologize to black men, to my black men.

  My mind was screaming, WHAT!!! Why are you apologizing to them? It’s them that should be apologizing to you!! Remember when that guy . . . ? Remember the time . . . ? But my mouth was on automatic pilot and could not be turned off.

  “Black man, I apologize for putting you down when I get around my girls and forgetting to lift you up as you deserve to be lifted up.

  “I apologize for allowing my insecurities about my shape, my hair or my skin tone to be projected onto you and blaming you for my lack of self-love.

  “I apologize for expecting you to teach me how to love myself.

  “I apologize, black man, for judging you when I should have been providing you with unconditional support.

  “I apologize for pressuring you to adapt to corporate America by my standards instead of allowing you to find your own way and encouraging you to keep going.

  “I apologize for not hearing you when you said you just wanted to be friends, assuming I could change your mind, then blaming you for misleading me.

  “Black man, I apologize for loud-talking you and making you feel disrespected and unappreciated.

  “I apologize for prioritizing my career and business over you, causing you to feel devalued, dismissed and hurt.

  “I apologize for talking and yelling at you more than listening to you and allowing you to fully express what’s on your mind.

  “I apologize for not being that one safe place where you can let down your guard, stop fighting the world and just be you—with me.

  “I apologize for forgetting that you are a king, a descendant of royalty. A survivor, a builder, a confidant, a creator, an entrepreneur, a friend. And that I am your queen—acknowledging you, supporting you, encouraging you and loving you.”

  I ended my apology by saying, “Black man, you are my partner in this journey and I owe you an apology for forgetting your importance to me. I am honored to be by your side. Any other message I give you is simply untrue.”

  When I finished I looked around the room into still-glossy eyes fighting to hold back tears. Without speaking a word, we began to embrace each other, one by one, as the tears flowed more freely. We were all ready to stop struggling with the men we loved, our black men, yet not knowing how. We sat, we rocked, we cried, we prayed, we laughed and then cried some more.

  Then, as if by magic, our cell phones began to ring one by one.

  “Hey, Baby.”

  “Hey, Honey.”

  “Whatz up, Boo?”

  “Hi, Sweetie.”

  As if in unison, we all said, “You know, I owe you an apology. . . .”

  From that day on, our pity parties changed to just parties and our “R.D.—relationship drama” changed to “R.D.—reminiscing and dancing.” And most of all, we began to bring our black men with us.

  Lisa Nichols

  Sister, I’m Sorry

  You really don’t know what your true potential is until you’ve pushed yourself beyond your limits. You have to fail a couple of times to really find out how far you can go.

  Debi Thomas

  In a crowded hotel lobby in Washington, D.C., with the din of a thousand voices ringing in my ears, the revelation was born. And it was inspired, as often is the case, by a provocateur.

  “So, what exactly are you sorry for, Mr. Huskisson?” the olive-skinned sister asked, referring to a video I’d helped produce called, “Sister, I’m Sorry: An Apology to Our African-American Queens.” Her whispery voice bore a playful and lyrical tone, teasing and prodding and probing all at once.

  I responded the way men frequently do in such situations: I froze. It was the kind of question we brothers hate for sisters to ask—the kind to which any reaction is furiously wrong. You know, questions of the “Does my butt look big in these pants?” variety. The wrong answer could be like emotional quicksand—no way to win, no way to survive.

  I hesitated, too, because I knew my answer would reveal more than I was comfortable sharing during a chance encounter with a colleague—and I didn’t care how fine she was, okay?

  “I’m sorry that a lack of sensitivity and understanding has caused our relationships to suffer so,” I responded vaguely, trying to sound casual and nonchalant.

  But my heart was thump-a-thump thumping double-time, and trickles of sweat were starting to form across the top of my forehead. Trying to maintain my cool—a must for any self-respecting brother—I turned to wave at a coworker and held my breath expectantly, steeling myself for uproarious laughter or neck-moving disbelief. For the first time in my life, I truly understood the sister sensation, Waiting to Exhale.

  “Yeah,” the brown-eyed provocateur said finally, flatly. “I feel you.”

  Freed from my anxiety and from the perils of self-disclosure, I wiped my brow, filled my lungs with air and launched a spurt of pseudo-intellectual drivel about the state of male-female relationships:

  “Besides the Mars-Venus phenomenon, men and women are socialized differently, so it only stands to reason that . . . blahblahblah . . . Accepting that reality, then, we need to empathize more, fully appreciating the social conditions that . . . blahblahblahblah . . . At the end of the day, heightened awareness and better communication will help us create a paradigm shift, so to say, that will blahblahblah. . . .”

  I felt pretty good about this avoidance-behavior response until late that night when, in the darkness of my hotel room, something heavy pressed against my heart: the strain of deceit. My sister had lobbied for a personal, visceral response, and I’d given her superficial psychobabble. Rather than be bold enough to speak my truth, I’d taken the cowardly route.

  So, what was the real truth—the unabashed, unvarnished, unveiled truth? What had inspired me—heck, what had possessed me—to quit a lucrative job after some fifteen years at a big-city newspaper to help produce and promote a video of black men apologizing to black women?

  Of course, I knew the answer. I’d renewed my commitment to black dignity, self-reliance, discipline and empowerment in 1995 after joining more than a million of my brothers in a spectacular march and rally outside the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. As I joined a chorus of strong, black voices reciting the Million Man March pledge, one line stood out for me: “I will never abuse my wife by striking her or disrespecting her, for she is the mother of my children and the producer of my future.”

  Months later, when I got a chance to help create a video designed to heal male-female relationships and rebuild black families, the idea fit neatly into my rediscovered focus.

  Still, that was only part of the story. I knew that my acknowledgement—my revelation—needed to come full circle. What was I sorry about—no, what was I personally sorry about? I struggled throughout the night, turning and tossing until a voice said: Answer with your heart, not with your head.

  That made it so much easier . . . Relax . . . Release . . . Speak . . .

  “I am sorry that my fear of intimacy made me close my heart to you, making it impossible for us to build a relationship based on unconditional trust, respect and love.

  “I’m sorry that my personal ambitions and selfish interests sidelined you when you should have been attended and revered, cherished and exalted.

  “I’m sorry that I was not more honest about who I was and what I wanted, forcing you to guess about how to best satisfy me, fulfill me and love me.

  “I’m sorry that I wa
s not more focused on your passions, more patient with your ways, and more gentle with your heart.

  “I am sorry, in the end, that I have not listened to you enough, kissed you enough, embraced you enough, nurtured you enough, or loved you enough.

  “And I’m sorry that I have not been on my J-O-B as a black man, allowing our families and communities to fall into such destructive chaos.”

  That’s what I should have said in that crowded hotel lobby in Washington, D.C.—not just to the sister who asked, but somehow to every black woman within earshot.

  Gregory Huskisson

  ©2003. Reprinted with permission of Jerry Craft.

  I Am

  Mix a conviction with a man and something happens.

  Adam Clayton Powell

  I am the brown clay God scooped from the sand.

  He molded me, then blessed me, with his own two hands.

  He breathed life into my lungs and sat me upon the land.

  I am God’s finest creation and he called me man.

  I am the beginning of humanity, intelligent and strong.

  My life will be full, and my days will be long.

  My mind is the birthplace of philosophy and mathematics,

  Position of stars, motions of planets, I know the schematics.

  I am creator of civilization and master of architectural design.

  Knowledge, understanding and wisdom flow from my mind.

  In my heart pumps the rich blood of kings and queens.

  I am the descendent of those who knew all things.

  Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses and Abraham,

  The blessed Mohammad, are just a part of who I am.

  Formed in the womb of God’s most perfect gift,

  The black woman, with her perfect skin, full lips and hips.

  The angels look down while doing protective duty,