by Tavis Smiley
During the dance, I would talk and laugh with my friends, each of whom, throughout the evening, had been asked to dance by someone, whether it was the captain of one of the sports teams or the chess champion. The point was that someone had asked them! In between their invitations, dances, and refusals, we would huddle to swap experiences. Well, at least they could swap experiences; all I could do was listen! This back-and-forth carousel would last the duration of the dance. To my dismay, I was never able to take a turn in participating. Sadly enough, not even the president of the insect club had asked me to dance.
Whenever I returned home and shared my experiences with my mother, she was always my pillow of strength. Her warm arms, soft lap, and soothing but strong words chased my pubescent problems away. She would tell me how special and beautiful I was, and she’d make sure I knew how much she, my dad, and my sister loved me. Then she’d immediately launch into praise of my talents and highlights of my accomplishments. Finally, she would tell me that someday I would have to run from all the boys because they’d all be chasing me for a dance!
Others tried to convince me of the positive attributes I possessed, but they were unsuccessful. There was something special about the way in which my mother approached these things, however. I don’t know if it was the sparkle in her eye as she would talk to me or the dimple in her cheek as she smiled at me. Perhaps it was the stroke of her hand as she brushed back my hair; or maybe it was a combination of all of these things.
Whatever it was, I believed her when she said it. And there in the warm, soft lamplight in the quiet of our home, my “pillow of strength” would soak up my tears, kiss away my hurts, and infuse my soul with esteem, strength, and hope!
THE POWER OF BLACK LOVE
Tina Marshall-Bradley
I fell in love with the man that I am going to be with for the rest of my life when I was fifteen years old. Since that time we have married, reared two beautiful children, and been blessed to have loved and been loved by literally hundreds of people. There is nothing particularly special about us, except that by the grace of a power higher than any of us, we understood at an early age that happiness, strength, and prosperity all lie in the power of Black love, and together we consciously resolved to manifest that love in the decisions we made in our lives. As we grew and developed as young professionals, we made deliberate choices to live in African American communities, use the services of African American professionals, patronize Black businesses, work for Black organizations, and immerse ourselves in Black culture.
While in the middle of living the American dream (our first home, good jobs, two children, two cars, an active social life, and credit card debt), we decided to sell everything, pack up the children and our few remaining belongings, and enroll in graduate school in the Midwest. With no family and very few African Americans in the area, we clung feverishly to anything and anyone affiliated with Africa. We created programs so that our children could interact with African and African American children. We organized community forums at the Black Culture Center on campus so that we could be steeped in our culture while our formal studies were steeped in another culture. We went out of our way to create a sense of community for ourselves and our children as well as the young African Americans and Africans who came to this small midwestern town from cities such as Chicago, Detroit, and Minneapolis, and countries such as Nigeria, Sudan, and Mauritania, only to find themselves in a sea of white. Last weekend I saw one of the students who used to attend those forums at a mall in Virginia. We recalled those days as if they were yesterday. There is not a week that goes by that we don’t make some kind of contact from someone we met during that dynamic three-year period.
Through our advanced studies at this predominantly white institution, we met a number of African Americans who had gotten their start at historically Black colleges or universities (HBCUs). We wanted to contribute our skills to these institutions. After defending our dissertations within a week of each other, my husband and I took positions at an HBCU on the East Coast, where our careers took off. Through these positions we were both afforded opportunities to work with movers and shakers in education, government, and social organizations and have been doing so ever since. Our careers have been meaningful and fulfilling, and we are constantly challenged to manifest the greatness that has gone before us and continues to surround us.
After completing our formal studies, we were also determined that our children would live in a community and attend schools with African Americans. We purposely identified a Black realtor and told him we wanted to live in a Black neighborhood. He took us to a dilapidated house in the ’hood and asked us if that was “Black enough” for us. We chose not to use his services and identified another Black realtor who found us a home in a wonderful community where our children attended the small Black community school and made friends that they still communicate with to this day. When we moved out of the house, our realtor managed our property for six years. We were able to move out of the state to advance our careers without worrying about our investment. The only trouble that occurred was when most of the plumbing in the house had to be replaced. Thankfully, my husband’s former college roommate owns a plumbing company in Atlanta. The brother left his home on the weekend and picked my husband up in South Carolina, and they drove to Virginia to replace all of the pipes in the house for the cost of supplies. After eleven years, we sold the house last month. We stayed with our dear friends and former neighbors while we closed on the house. We will be attending the wedding of our realtor’s son in Charlotte, North Carolina, the first of May. People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. The brothers and sisters that we associate with are a part of our lives forever.
Our lives have been richly blessed; my husband, my children, and I have had opportunities to teach or study in different countries, where we have interacted with many people of African descent. Together we have studied or lectured in Bermuda, Egypt, Ghana, and Colombia. In fact, I will be lecturing with two of my dear colleagues in Nigeria this year. Currently, my husband and I both work for HBCUs in South Carolina. We are purchasing a house that one of the colleges is refurbishing as a part of a neighborhood revitalization program. We are committed to lending our energy to a community that has so much rich history but which in the recent past has had its resources depleted as African Americans move to suburban areas. Our son is attending a university on a full athletic scholarship, and he is majoring in urban planning and international development. Through our involvement in the Black community he has “uncles” who are judges, CEOs of companies, professional athletes, university presidents, electricians, and every other type of hardworking, upstanding brother one can imagine.
Our sixteen-year-old daughter is an exchange student in Brazil, an opportunity she won while attending the all-Black high school in the city where we live. People warned us not to send her to the school because it had a reputation for being dangerous. But there are fantastic things happening in urban schools, even though there is a lot of work to be done here (and in all other schools where the majority of students served are African American).
We are convinced that, as strong African Americans, we have a responsibility to stand up for those whose voices have not been traditionally heard. Our daughter e-mailed us last week and asked us if she should honor a request by a professional organization in Brazil to speak about American racism. We told her that it is her responsibility to provide information to those who request it, and reminded her to recall what she has learned through the literature she has been exposed to and lectures she has attended since she was a toddler.
Our children have been taught that “for unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required” (Luke 12:48). The sacrifices of Mary McLeod Bethune, Harriet Tubman, Marcus Garvey, and Paul Robeson were constant topics of discussion in our house and always will be a part of our children’s formal studies, even if they are not required by the schools.
Our conscious decision to
love ourselves and those who look like us is necessary because of the constant barrage of negative energy and information that is leveled at individuals of African descent, particularly in America. This decision has given us rewards beyond our imaginations. We are not wealthy in the traditional sense of the word. However, our friends, who are like family members, are so numerous that we have a hard time keeping up with them. Our children relish the knowledge that they have “aunts” and “uncles” literally all over the world who have their backs, support them with prayers and well wishes, and take pride in having had a hand in rearing them. Because of the love that we have for our collective selves and our community, we continue to patronize Black businesses and professionals, live in the Black community, and steep ourselves in the magnificent cultures of the African diaspora. The stories of how consciously loving our brothers and sisters has brought us fulfillment and spirited wealth are too numerous to mention. Suffice it to say that we are convinced that the power of Black love has brought us the kind of prosperity that the Creator wishes for all mankind.
TRIBUTE TO MY HUSBAND
Donna M. Johnson-Thomas
Black love, Black hope, and Black healing—my story involves all three. It’s a story that ends prematurely, some would say sadly; yet it gave me hope for the future and eventually healed me. As I watched the love of my life slowly slip away, his body ravaged by pancreatic cancer, I felt a part of me was dying with him, the part that was the best because of knowing and loving him.
Our story began in 1979, after a lot of cajoling on the part of my friend Grace to meet a friend of her and her husband, Ray. I had just gone through a divorce, and frankly, the last thing I was interested in was the prospect of a new relationship. Fortunately for me, fate stepped in. Grace was as tenacious as a bulldog, and I finally acquiesced to her suggestion of a small dinner party to meet this “nice guy.” I went to their house not expecting anything; in fact, I had made up my mind not to like him. To my surprise and complete amazement, he was all Grace had said: poised, amusing, a good conversationalist, and not hard on the eyes. Maybe it was the ambience of my friend’s home or the amount of wine that I had been drinking (to which I was not accustomed), but I was relaxed and very glad I came.
After the party he escorted me to my car, inquiring if I was all right to drive home. I was saying to myself, “N——, please, I didn’t drink that much,” but to my surprise he was sincerely concerned, and moreover a true gentleman. I was again impressed. But first impressions can be deceiving (been there and done that). We exchanged phone numbers; he said that he was going home for the holidays to Montgomery, Alabama, where his mother, brother, and sister-in-law reside, but he would call me when he got back.
Thanksgiving came and went; no call. You know what I was thinking: “Mr. Right was only Mr. Right Now.” Then one bright and sunny Saturday, as I was driving along, I noticed a familiar face. The Renaissance Lions Club members were out selling candy canes for their annual Christmas Cane Drive. For a moment I had forgotten his name—was it Herman? Harold? Oh yes, Hubert. I rolled down the window with my dollar in hand, and as he approached the car I wondered if he remembered me (it had been more than a month since we first met). At first he didn’t; then with that wide, infectious grin he said, “I’ve been meaning to call you.” I laughed, asked if he still had the number, paid him for the candy cane, and said I was looking forward to hearing from him. I have to admit I would have been very disappointed if he hadn’t called, but he did. Slowly, cautiously, we both let our walls down. We found out that even though there was a wide gap in our ages, seventeen years, we had a lot in common. Momma was right—the way to a man’s heart is still through his stomach. I baited my hook for that fish with collard greens, candied yams, homemade rolls, and all sorts of other delicacies.
After eight years of being together, the idea of marriage never crossed my mind. It wasn’t until the day that I accompanied Hubert to the emergency room that I was slapped with reality. He was taken into the examining room, and I was left to give his personal information to the triage nurse. She got to the question about next of kin and asked what my relationship to him was. I said I was his girlfriend. To my amazement, she gathered up her clipboard and walked away, without so much as a thank-you. It was then that I realized girlfriends and significant others meant zilch, nada, nothing, less than nothing. This was the turning point of our relationship.
Every woman, if she really knows her man, knows when to bring up the Question! Especially to a Lion (Hubert was born August 7). To make a long story short, after he accused me of giving him an ultimatum, a female friend asked him if he loved me. He answered affirmatively. She said, “Then you’ve answered your own question.” Shortly afterward he proposed. We were married on a Thursday evening in November 1987.
In June 1990 I lost my love to cancer, just five months short of our third wedding anniversary. At his bedside were Ray, Grace, and myself, just as we had begun that glorious journey eleven years earlier. I thank God for every moment spent with him. Our vows stated that we would love each other in good times and in bad, in sickness as in health. There were never any bad times. Even through his sickness Hubert showed me how to die in dignity, just as he had lived.
THE PERFECT WIFE
Dale S. Johnson
One day, I found myself unemployed. I had always considered it something that happened to other people. After all, I had done things the right way in my life. I had not taken drugs; I had graduated from a “name” college; I had played the corporate role as well as any young Black midlevel executive was allowed to play it. Nonetheless, I found myself unemployed, thanks to corporate politics and economic conditions. How would I be able to tell my wife?
We had been married for fourteen years. As in any marriage with its ups and downs, we had experienced a couple of bad years, but for the most part we had a strong marriage. Yet I wondered how she would deal with a newly unemployed primary breadwinner.
Less than six months prior, we had finalized the adoption of our little girl, Khristyn. We had moved into our new house (a house that both sets of parents bragged about) less than three years before. Although we had been relatively successful in eliminating most of our credit card bills, there was still the house note and two car notes, utilities to be paid, and groceries to be bought. I was scared!
When I told Judy, she just wrapped her arms around me and said those four magic words: “We’ll be all right!” At that moment, my worries fell away. As she released me from our embrace, she smiled and repeated those same words over and over again.
It would have been easy for Judy to go on the attack. Two weeks earlier, I had begged her to resign from her job to stay home with Khristyn. I was making over twice as much as she was and was convinced that we could survive on my income alone. After all, my parents had done it, and they raised four kids!
Judy, being her own person, refused. She said that she had a college degree just as I did; that she wanted her own identity, and her own money. She didn’t care how much money I made. She wanted to work, and she was going to work! Now her income was the only income that we had, yet she never mentioned any earlier conversation.
I’d always believed it was the man’s responsibility to provide for his family. I couldn’t help thinking, “What will my parents and Judy’s parents and our friends think?” I feared that we would have to sell the house and leave the state to relocate to an area where I could find another position in my profession. Finally, the voice of reason popped into my head; in reality, survival is the name of the game!
My wife continued to work as I began looking for a job. Over time, I was overcome with feelings of depression. One day, Judy brought home flowers for me. Judy handed me the flowers and gave me a big, toe-curling kiss! The card attached to the flowers read, “I love you, and don’t ever forget that!”
I’ve come to realize every man needs someone to whom he can expose his vulnerabilities without worrying about losing face in that person’s eyes. Judy taug
ht me that. She taught me what real love was all about.
LESSONS FROM A THREE-YEAR-OLD
Nikitta A. Foston
Watching the rear lights of the Saab fade into the sunlit afternoon, I waved good-bye to my six-month-old daughter, who was strapped securely in her infant seat. Even though she was out of sight, I could feel her presence as though her small body were still cradled in my arms. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I tried to remind myself of my daughter’s relationship with her father, and—more importantly—the effect on her life without it. For months, my daughter’s father and I had struggled to reach an agreement on how to provide her with the benefit and privileges of both parents, given our separation. Yet, despite our efforts and good intentions, we continued to disagree. As the mother, I automatically assumed that my daughter should be with me primarily. Certainly, I welcomed the involvement of her father, but I did not believe in separating a child from her mother at such a young age for any extended period of time.
My ex’s argument was that he was entitled to the same rights, the same access, and the same privileges that I enjoyed, and that his role should not be defined by my limited perceptions of fatherhood. Refusing to accept society’s notion of single fathers as passive at best, he advocated splitting our daughter’s time equally until she was of school age, when a primary location (not a primary parent) would be necessary.
While I respected his position, I did not understand the origins of his inexhaustible devotion to sharing so equally in the life of our child. Without question, he loved her and was committed to her well-being. But there was something more. Something, I believed, that stemmed from his childhood without his father. It was an absence that he seldom spoke of but which was evident in his every word and deed since learning he was to become a father.
