by Tavis Smiley
The second crisis I experienced was a professional crisis—my struggle with President Larry Summers of Harvard University. Summers attacked my integrity and insulted my character. Because I felt so deeply disrespected and dishonored, it created a sense of rage within me. In many ways, the notion of rage has always been an integral part of Black existence. However, if rage is not channeled in such a way that it is influenced and shaped and molded by love, it can become self-destructive. I was able to deal with the rage I experienced in a way that allowed me to retain my sense of self-respect and integrity, as opposed to allowing the experience of being disrespected and dishonored to cause me to self-destruct. Here again, it was the power of Black love that lifted me and enabled me to maintain my self-respect and to keep things in perspective. Without the love shown to me by my mother, my two sisters, my brother, and my friends, I would not have pulled through.
The third crisis I experienced was a family crisis; I underwent a very painful divorce. This situation was again a crucial occasion in which the sustaining power of Black love was manifested in a mighty and powerful way. I had invested a tremendous amount of time and material resources in my relationship and partnership only to find myself one day having fallen flat on my face. Two things became very clear to me. The first was that I saw myself as I am—a cracked vessel. But the second and more significant thing revealed to me was that I could bounce back. In spite of my faults, foibles, shortcomings, and defects, I was still deeply loved by others. And so, Black love became the impetus that allowed me to bounce back, rather than remain down and out. In all three of the aforementioned crises, the power of Black love was the fundamental factor that allowed me to preserve my sanity and dignity.
pI believe there is a real challenge for Black people in general and for Black leaders in particular today. We are currently experiencing a crisis in Black leadership in America, in part because we simply do not have enough Black leaders who have a profound love for Black people. We need the kind of Black love that allows us to criticize as well as embrace, to empower as well as to correct, to listen as well as to speak, and in the end, to ennoble as well as be ennobled by the people. I also believe this to be true for many among our Black professional class. Many have become so isolated and so insulated and so intoxicated with the material toys of the world that they have lost sight of the love that made them who they are and that brought them to where they are. I also believe that we are losing the ability to pass that profound love on to our young people. The major crisis of our younger generation, in addition to the decrepit educational system, inadequate health care, unavailable child-care, and lack of jobs that provide a living wage, is that many young people have not been loved deeply enough. The major responsibility lies with the older generation. We must bequeath and transmit a genuine love to the younger generation in order to ensure that they will not feel rootless, isolated, unloved, untouched, and simply unattended to.
In the end, I believe that the power of Black love is one of the most precious themes and most significant issues in the history of Black people, past, present, and future. It is Black love, like Black history, that unites these three dimensions of time.
WEDNESDAYS AND SUNDAYS
Elwood L. Robinson
I am the only child of the union of Isaiah and Hannah Robinson. My father spent all his life working for meager wages in rural North Carolina. His highest annual salary was $8,500. We grew up in a small, dilapidated house with no bathroom or running water. It was not until I was a senior in high school that we got a telephone. (The first person I called was the woman who has now been my wife for twenty years.) I never felt ashamed of our living conditions; I always had the feeling of being loved, and the sense that my parents were doing the best they could. I never knew I was poor. The fact is, I was not poor; I was very rich in love. The riches that I accumulated during my childhood are the foundation for my adult perspective on life.
Today I am a professor of psychology at North Carolina Central University in Durham, North Carolina. I was the first person in my family to graduate from college and the first person from my community to receive a Ph.D. My beautiful wife, Denise, and I have two children, Chanita, seventeen, and Devin, eight. My life has been so full of love and kindness that sometimes I get overwhelmed with emotion just thinking about it. I have been blessed to have two parents who loved me unconditionally and would do anything for me. They denied themselves many things and sacrificed so that I would have opportunities that they didn’t—and in many ways, were not allowed to have.
My mother had a severe and incapacitating stroke in 1993. Early one Sunday morning, two years later, I received a call that my father was lying motionless in the den of my parents’ home; the rescue workers there were trying to revive him. By the time I arrived, the emergency folks were transporting him to the ambulance.
I waited by my father’s side as he struggled to regain consciousness. The stroke had caused bleeding in the lower brain structures, and in a short period he would be dead. The hospital staff had briefed me on his condition and told me that the chances of his survival were slim. The attending physician informed me that my father would be dead in a short while and asked me if I wanted to have him resuscitated if he expired. That night was the longest night of my life. His breathing was labored. With every breath he took, I was certain that it was his last.
As the afternoon turned to evening, all I could do was watch him and pray. I rubbed his face and looked in his eyes. I knew he recognized me, but he could not speak. This was the man who taught me the “love of the game.” He was a Celtic fan because of Bill Russell, the Jones boys, Sam, and KC. He was a Dodger fan because of Jackie Robinson and Sandy Koufax. And so I became a Celtic and Dodger fan too. He did not appreciate football, but when I became a Cowboy fan, he became one as well. When I was a child, he would come into my room each morning and tell me the baseball scores. I remember his 6 A.M. voice: “You know, the Dodgers beat the Giants last night.” And that’s all he would say before going to work. But those words gave me comfort, and I immediately felt safe and secure. Somehow, those words told me that everything was right with the world. He taught me about manhood, hard work, and faith by the simple eloquence of his example.
The evening shift at the hospital came on duty at 6:00 P.M. The attending physician came by to see my father at around 7:00 P.M. As he was reviewing my father’s chart, I noticed that he was wearing a class ring from North Carolina Central University. Since I had been a professor at NCCU since 1984, I thought it a possibility that I knew him. It turned out that he had been a Minority Access to Research Careers (MARC) scholar while attending NCCU. I was the current director of the MARC program. I had never imagined that a student trained in our program would one day be taking care of my dying father.
He asked me what I had been told about my father’s prognosis. I told him that the attending physician said that he would be dead soon. This wonderful Black physician would not be dissuaded by the diagnosis of his counterpart. He simply looked at the chart and said, “Let me try something.” I don’t know what he told the staff, but there was an immediate flurry of activity around my father. I later learned that this doctor, who would not give up on my father when everybody else had, had ordered that he be given some experimental medication designed to stop the bleeding in his brain. The blessings are overflowing.
My father survived, but he had a very long road to recovery. He spent a month in a rehabilitation center, and I was now faced with an unthinkable situation. Who would take care of my father? I could not take him home because my aunt was already there taking care of my mother, who required twenty-four-hour assistance. While I knew my aunt would never turn down the challenge of taking care of both her sister and her brother-in-law, it would be too much for one person. And I knew that I didn’t have the room or the facilities at my house for him to live with us. My only option was the unthinkable: a nursing home.
I had a referral from a trusted social worker who urged me to
consider putting my father in Mary Gran Nursing Center. It was where all the local doctors put their parents. Just the thought of having to put my father in a nursing center was horrifying, almost beyond understanding. Black folks didn’t put their parents in nursing homes. That was something that white people did. I drove slowly to the center to meet with the administrators to discuss my father’s becoming a resident. After I parked in the lot, I put my head on the steering wheel, unable to get out of the car. I prayed and cried out for God to give me the strength to move, and the courage to do what I knew in my heart was best for my father. I felt so guilty about signing the forms that would admit him to this nursing home.
In retrospect, this was one of the best decisions that I would make regarding my father’s health care. My father received care that exceeded my expectations tenfold. He became the darling of the nursing center. For the last six years, the nursing staff and other support staff have taken care of my father with the greatest love, support, and professionalism. I often asked myself, “Why have I been so blessed?”
Psalm 30 says, “Weeping endures during the night, but in the morning joy cometh.” Since he arrived at the nursing center, my father has developed insulin-dependent diabetes, survived prostate cancer, and experienced the death of six roommates. In spite of this, he approaches each day with a positive attitude. He has taught me more about love and life during his disability than I could have imagined. His attitude about his illness has been inspiring. He still believes that he will walk again unassisted. He still believes that he will work again. And he still believes that he is improving each day and will have a complete recovery. Words cannot express or capture his spirit and resiliency.
The nursing home is approximately ninety miles from my home in Durham, North Carolina. For the past six years, I have visited him every Sunday. He likes Sundays. I take him to see my mother, who has been bedridden for the past eight years. If you did not know him before the disability, it would be difficult to detect how the stroke has changed him. Order and consistency are important to him now. He calls me every Wednesday at approximately 7:30 P.M. We talk for a few minutes about sports or politics, but he always wants to know how I am doing. And he always encourages me, and asks me to be careful.
Today, my father and I are closer than ever before. His motivation and determination are inspiring. He lives life to its fullest in spite of his disability. He often talks of his life now by using the words of Apostle Paul, who wrote, “I have learned, in whatever state I am, therefore to be content.” I get up early on Sunday morning in anticipation of my weekly pilgrimage to Mary Gran Nursing Center. It is not a job, a chore, or an inconvenience; it is very simply an act of love. When I was a baby and could not walk, my parents carried me; when I could not eat, they fed me; when I could not put on my clothes, they put them on for me. The very least I can do for them during this time is to return their love.
THE WOMEN OF MINENDE
Erica Johnson
At age twenty-five I had it all together. I had bought a house with my mother at age twenty-one, and I had a good corporate job that I had been at for six years. The job was able to pay for my college education and my car, and help pay my mortgage as well. Then the unthinkable happened. My boyfriend of five and a half years ended our relationship. I felt like my life had fallen apart. Gone was all my confidence and self-esteem. I was a complete mess.
A friend suggested I visit her to get my mind off my troubles. While at her home, I picked up a book from her dresser: Value in the Valley, by Iyanla Vanzant. The book changed my life! I cried after every page. I immediately put myself on the Inner Visions mailing list, and received an invitation to attend a workshop. I jumped at the opportunity! That is where I met the nine women in my sister circle; they attended the workshop as well.
After the completion of the workshop, our coordinator suggested that we start a support group and keep in contact with each other, which we agreed to do. As with any group, we had some growing pains; however, over the last five years we have evolved into a committed family. In the year 2000 we decided to formalize our group by giving it some structure and a name, and thus Minende was born. Minende is an Aboriginal word that means “yolk.” We support each other as our lives unfold just as an egg yolk nourishes during the transformation from egg to hatchling. Our group of sisters range in age from thirty to fifty and come from a variety of social and economic backgrounds.
Being in the presence of these women has taught me self-acceptance. Now when I look in the mirror I see a divine daughter, no matter what my hair looks like or how my day is going. I still have insecurities, but now I know to trust the process of life.
The concept of a sister circle has changed my life for the better. I now know what it is to be accepted and loved unconditionally. The women of Minende opened their hearts to me at a time when it was critical for my growth and development, as well as my survival. They allowed me to learn the lessons that only living life could teach me, and they did it without being judgmental. I’ve learned what it means to trust my instincts and not doubt my abilities. Their support has given me the courage to experience all the joys in life.
I am proud to say I am a member of a sister circle. I truly love and respect the women of Minende. They have shown me that strong, proud Black women don’t talk about what they can do or are capable of doing—they just do it!
MY BABY BROTHER
Roslyn Perry
On January 23, 1970, my baby brother, George, was born. He had cocoa skin, full lips, beautiful brown eyes, and a head full of gorgeous silky Black hair.
George looked perfect on the outside, but he was born with a defective heart. My parents were crushed. But they were determined that they would get through this crisis.
The doctors informed my parents that George would need open-heart surgery to try to correct the defect in his heart. At this point, George was only weeks old. But it had to be done in order to prolong his life. So my parents agreed, and the battle began.
Through the course of his life, George would have several open-heart surgeries. To make things worse, when he turned two years old, George became ill with an extremely high fever. My parents took him to the emergency room at the local hospital only to be told by the attending resident physician that he had a minor illness. He was sent home. George’s fever spiked so high that he had a stroke, which left him paralyzed on his right side and developmentally disabled.
My parents, however, never wavered and never crumbled. The love that they had for George always outweighed any obstacle; as a family, we were determined that we would get through this.
Throughout his life, and through all of his adversities, George was the most positive, kind, and loving individual imaginable. Even when he was in the hospital having yet another surgery, he was always happy and laughing. When he was undergoing physical, occupational, and speech therapy to learn how to walk and talk, he was always positive. George went to special schools for the mentally challenged and was later main-streamed into regular schools. Even though at times children could be cruel and hurtful toward him, my baby brother remained positive, happy, and loving.
My family made sure that whatever we did, George did as well. We took summer vacations together; when we all went to camp, George went too! George even went to his prom, which was a major accomplishment. He taught everyone who came in contact with him to make the most out of life.
The doctors told my parents at the outset that George would not live past the age of five. My parents did not believe that, and their love and care, along with George’s zest for life and his will to live, proved them all wrong. George lived to be twenty-eight before he passed away in 1999. When he died, he died at home in his room, with his two favorite people with him. My mom was holding him, and my dad was sitting at the foot of his bed watching TV with him, something they loved to do together.
George taught us so many things before he left this earth. I thank God every day for the time I had with him. I believe that pe
ople are put into our lives for different reasons and purposes. George was put into my family’s life so that we could come to know a special kind of love and closeness, and to this day we do. I know I am a better person for having had him as a brother. A lot of families would have given up from day one, but not mine. Today we are so much stronger because of the love that my baby brother brought us.
MY PILLOW OF STRENGTH
Rayetta Johnson
The Valentine’s Day dance, the homecoming dance, the winter formal, and all the other dances at my junior high school always ended up the same for me. I was a chubby and neurotic girl, with a preteen body that appeared as though it would develop into a big, bloated human pimple! With my body in its already “fluffy” state, I would swallow every crumb and sip every high-calorie drink I could get my hands on prior to the dance. Consequently, whatever custom-made outfit that my mom had sewn, during the few free swatches of her busy time, would appear to magnify my chunkiness even more. My face would turn into an acne-filled mess, or so it seemed to me. To my mom, however, I was always a beautiful princess.
All of the dances would end the same. My dad would come to pick up the princess at the end of the dance. He would always ask me how everything had gone, and I would always say “fine.” I’d babble on and on about some unimportant details to avoid bursting into tears. As soon as we’d arrive home, I’d trudge to my room. Within a few minutes, a gentle knock could be heard, and in would walk my mom.
Without anything having been said, the tears would silently begin to stream down my chubby cheeks. At that point, my mother would take me in her arms and the saga would rush forth from my lips in between my sobs. The story I related was always the same. I’d recall all the girls who had been asked to dance and the boys who’d asked them, but I was always left out of the recollection.
