On bottling these moments

So often I want to bottle these tender moments with my son to put on a shelf to experience later. I want to take enumerable pictures and record each moment and write down every feeling.

Today, this two year old went upstairs on his own, climbed onto the adult, 16" toilet and made a bowel movement, and then persisted to wipe himself. I was so thrilled and he knew it. He said, "look boo boo" along with a great look of accomplishment.

This afternoon, we painted together, but then he kept messing up my artistic work. So, I decided I would read The Washington Post Mag and watch him paint. He wasn't having that; he handed me the paintbrush and said, "paint, paint." I was obedient because clearly he needed me to be fully present and clearly I needed to be fully present for myself as well.

This evening, I watched him "read" from a few books and I tiptoed away to let him entertain himself. He often seems to need attention and I desperately want to foster a sense of independence. He read a few books before coming to find me. I said go get me a book to read. He said, "c'mon" and motioned for me to come to him. He was not leaving my room without me.

He then got some lotion from my desk and I teased him and made him laugh so hard that he backed into the bed and hit the floor and continued to just laugh the happiest, purest laugh. He warms my heart.

His independence shone through as he refused two books and was happy to read the third suggestion. We followed with a few more and then sang, "He's got the whole world in his hands." He sang a few lines on his own. I kissed him and said, "good night, baby." He replied as clear as day, "good night mama." My heart melted again.

A good friend said we try to "collect" their childhoods and in so doing we fail to be fully present. I do genuinely wish I could save these moments for later. The tenderness and beauty is unmatched by anything I have ever experienced. I know that I can best honor these moments, by enjoying this little person daily.

On my birthday

There is a magnificent tree that I pass as I pull onto my street after entering my neighborhood. The sun, rain and air tiptoe on the edges of the leaves creeping towards each leaf's stem. Daily, the tree changes as I drive home. Until one day, it is clothed in full majesty snatching the breath of its witnesses.

Year after year, for the last six years, as my life has changed dramatically with comings and goings, as I have aged, changed and become more myself, the tree lets me know fall is coming, it is here, and then way too quickly, it has passed. Without fail, the tree does its dance routine before my eyes, inviting me to watch and enjoy.

I have spent a lot of time watching and enjoying my own children and on some days my students. I enjoy watching various children (friends, cousins, neighbors) in my life learn new words, speak more clearly, learn to ride a bike, sprout up and dance into themselves. I have watched friends and family conquer challenges and pursue their goals, choose sadness, anger, happiness or joy.

The tree has spoken to me this year in a sing-song voice: As the seasons cycle through as they do every year, change is occurring ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. If you choose to slow down as you hurry through, you can see the slightest difference within yourself as I mirror the passage of time, the change to vibrancy. If you choose to see yourself with the same awe and majesty in which you see me, this simple tree, you will see your own beauty and power. If you watch how people view and remember you, you can begin to treat yourself with loving kindness and compassion. Write out your life, stretch out your arms to the sky, embrace the divine within and watch yourself become amazing.

On holding onto binders

I found two binders that I had shoved under my bed. The maroon one held my college days with one of the best professors I ever had. I grew as a writer with him and through my column with the Xavier Herald. I had a confidence during those years, that I have never had since. Reading my work and specifically my professor's comments brought tears to my eyes.

A few brief passages from a paper I wrote and read in class from that spring of 1998, "Not Having Anything to Say:"

"Many famous writers explore and explain the reasons behind their artistry in their work. One such writer Joan Didion,("Why I Write,") explains that a writer spends his or her most important hours doing what he or she loves: writing. Most often, I write from my heart, I try to write what my heart is telling me. But just because arranging words strategically on paper is something I love does not mean that I'm good at it. Didion's essay is telling me I do not have to be good or an "intellectual," because writing in its truest form is not about anyone else but me.

...

I do not try to be the bully that Didion claims writers become. I have no desire to manipulate anyone's thinking, shed a little light, well yeah, but manipulate, no. I just use the Herald as a vehicle to do what I love: write. But I do not want to write for the sake of writing, I want to write something that will be read. If I am the only one who thinks that I am saying "something" and in turn am publishing "something" not being read, then in actuality I am saying nothing.

...

This past weekend I called my mother and asked her opinion on my column; it was due in two hours. She told me not to write the column. All I could think was not write my column, the last paper of the year and not write my column. My mother told me that it was better not to write anything than write something that said very little or nothing at all. Troubled, I turned off my computer and did not write. For the first time I didn't write because I didn't have anything to say. I did not write and I felt good about it."


Looking back at my words from thirteen years ago reminded me of me. I've kind of lost that girl in some ways. I wish I could talk to her and tell her to avoid the pitfalls and stay secure and confident. I like what I read. In class, my professor said he watched my classmates nod and sit with rapt attention as I read. He wrote on my written version, "Yvette, I enjoyed reading this essay. It has a wonderful voice. It reaches readers with a modest grace, thoughtfulness and wisdom. You write very well because you're sensitive, observant, self-critical, skillful with language and smart. Keep on!"

I teared up thinking this older white man thought this way about this 20 year old black girl's writing. I didn't know that all of these amazing adjectives could describe me and my writing. He persuaded me to go to graduate school and pursue a PhD. And I did for five years or so. But it wasn't me. I'm not an intellectual; I'm a writer with a big heart, who lost herself.

I wonder if I had listened to Didion and myself where I would be now. At the same time, I know that all those challenges and triumphs came from listening to other people for a good portion of my life. Listening to others has helped me and hindered me in many ways. Maybe, I didn't lose myself, but took a much needed detour on cobblestone roads with bare feet in order to keep building myself.

The second binder was blue and dusty. The papers, from grad school, contained memories of someone I couldn't recognize. I took a class on Transnationalism in African-American Literature in 2003 and read complex scholarly articles like "Essence and the Mulatto Traveler: Europe As Embodiment in Nella Larsen's Quicksand." I kept this binder with articles and presentation notes from two really great classes while at University of Maryland. I even kept the program from a conference I participated in on African American Identity Travels.

My memories of grad school include never quite belonging and never feeling smart enough to be there. I'm shocked that I could even stand in front of big name scholars and read my paper on expatriation and transnationalism. She (the girl reading that paper) wasn't me, which is why she/I didn't go on to write a dissertation. I'm surprised I held onto those papers for so long. I easily threw away most of the articles, though I kept a few. I'm not sure what I'm holding onto as I slide them into the binder full of good memories from Xavier and my publishing days.

I don't know why we hold fiercely to the negative moments of our lives and allow the images of amazing moments to fade. Why do the hurtful memories, harsh words, brutal pain tether us to insecurity, anxiety and fear? Why when we throw out the tangible representations of those moments can't all the intangible feelings be drained from our being as well. I don't understand why I've listened to others' opinions of me or why I've allowed negativity to overtake me in exchange for embracing the amazing parts of me.
One binder is leaving this house and I'm going to work at getting rid of what it represents as well.

On Envying Tatum (the short version)

I’m a little jealous of Tatum O’neal. She has this golden opportunity to try and get it right with her father. It’s impossible to tell how much is for the camera, her new book, their careers and how much is truly authentic. But the audience knows Ryan and Tatum have had a troubled past and now they are together talking. Maybe they are understanding one another, listening to each others' stories, hearing each others' pain. I sense that from them when I watch them dance a very complicated ungraceful father-daughter waltz.

My dad and I never really talked. So, I try to tell my students, my friends, whomever, to forgive and understand that their parents (loved ones) are doing the best they can. I try to tell my story as a way to get people to see that in an instance all those opportunities can morph into regret. Forgive. You may never understand.

I remember sitting at dinner or lunch with my dad, just sitting. Trying desperately to make conversation, yet few words would pass between us. It was challenging to come home from college and make a lunch date with him. We went to O’Charley’s or Ruby Tuesday and ate and said a few words and he took me back home. So much was left unsaid and unheard.

I think maybe he let himself leave this earth so early because he had reached an important apex in life. Much like that episode of Seinfeld, where George Costanza says, “I knew I had hit my high note so I thanked the crowd and I was gone.”

Yet, beautiful blond Tatum who is writing a book for the world to hear her story has this opportunity to understand her father, for him to see her and to build a relationship with him. Ryan hasn’t quite hit his high note. He’s sarcastic. He’s still here.

On forming your destiny

I just finished The Untelling by Tayari Jones. It wasn't literary genius like anything by Toni Morrison or Edwidge Danticat, my ultimate favorites. But it was a good read about a modern day black woman whose tragic past was a part of uncertain present. What struck me and stayed with me after reaching the end was that the main character Aria didn't want to tell her boyfriend, turned fiance', that what she believed to be a pregnancy was an illness that led her to learn that she was menopausal and incapable of bearing children at a very young 25 years old.

She didn't want to tell this boyfriend the truth, because in her words, "Dwayne is going to leave me." And he did leave her, not because she couldn't have children, but because she didn't tell him the truth. She told everyone else and he learned from a third party and couldn't understand why she couldn't be honest, thus he couldn't marry someone who could hide something so serious. He did leave her as she expected, though not for the reason she expected. She either spoke it into being or knew through her communion with her self what would become of this relationship.

The story ends on a rather forced moral: "There is balm in the telling, and in the hearing too. These words, these truths will ride on the air like a ragged scrap of song. ... Our past is never passed and there is no such thing as moving on. But there is this telling and there is such a thing as passing through."

I think our past forms, reforms, transforms us on many levels as often as we let it. And though I believe that telling the truth, telling our story can heal us and others, I believe we neglect the power in speaking what we want for ourselves.

I love Project Runway for that reason: these talented designers choose and speak what they want for their lives and they run after it with such passion.

Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club echoes the power of speaking for yourself and your future. One of my favorite lines, "And I think now that fate is shaped half by expectation, half by inattention. But somehow, when you lose something you love, faith takes over." Rose partly expected her marriage to fail and partly let it fall apart. In retrospect, her expectations contributed to the failure of the marriage. Like Aria, in The Untelling, Rose told herself this union will not or can not last. Speaking those words, even to herself, put what would be into motion. She helped to form her fate or destiny.

I firmly believe that when things fall apart, as they do, or you lose something you love, faith is powerful and takes over and helps to reform you. But, the more I read literature and people, I firmly believe, there is power in speaking what you want for yourself.

I love who he is.
He demands my attention when he needs it, pulling my arm or pulling my face to him. He finds an ooowie when he has been reprimanded, refusing the reprimand and seeking consolation.

He hurt himself, said ow, and then kissed his arm and went about playing. He sneezed and didn't wait for anyone to speak up, but said, "bless you" to himself.

He calls for his brother when his brother is not there. He likes to talk to his uncle and grandmother on the phone. He told another kid's grandmother, "bye grandma" one day, just cause she must be everyone's grandma. I asked him why do I have to yell at you in order for you to come here, he shrugged his shoulders and said "I dunno." He calls for Morgan, his two year old friend and he knows the names of the neighborhood kids and adults alike, going down the street, saying Jay, Lydia, Corey, Ms. Rain...

Once I asked, "what is that?" He said, "a lego," I said, "how did you know that?" He said, "I mart" leaving off the "s"

He pouts and his bottom lip is adorable. He likes to hug. And when I put him to sleep, he says, "read, sing, winkle, pray." I pat his back and sing, but he reaches to make sure I'm still there by touching my arm.

From the moment they pulled him from my belly and said it's a boy, I thought it's Ezra. I love when he exckaims, "I'm Ezra!" He is.

I love who he is.

On Laughing So Hard

I tried to be ladylike and stifle my laughter by covering my mouth. I didn't want to be too boisterous. But the laughter could not be contained. It wriggled out through a compulsory kick to the seat in front of me. The laughter squeezed out of my eyes in the form of tears. As I wiped tears away, more followed their cousins. At one point, I was sad for the main character. But somehow amazing writing and comics danced across the screen and this time as I covered my mouth, my body lurched forward. It is rare for laughter to run rampant through one's body seeking an exit. I welcome that type of hilarity back for more frequent visits.