When Parenting Feels Like a Fool’s Errand: On the Death of Michael Brown.


I don’t want to talk about the boy and the sneakers peeking out from the sheet crudely draped over his corpse in the street, because I have been happy this month and it is so rare that I’m happy and that you, at age 4, don’t have to touch my knee or shoulder or face and say, “What’s wrong, Mama? You sad?”

I don’t want to think of who will go out on her hands and knees to scrub what’s left of the boy’s blood from the concrete. It will probably be a loved one, her hands idle after hours of clenching them into fists, watching what used to be her breathing boy lie lifeless, as she waited and waited and waited for the police and the coroner and the county to get their stories straight and their shit together and their privilege, sitting crooked as a ten-dollar wig, readjusted till it was firmly intact. All that time they spent, just primping, just holding their whiteness and authority up as mirrors for one another, tuning out the cries of a mourning community — or garbling them, rather. Did they say, “Kill the police?!” As long as that’s the way you heard it, they did. And that is what AP will wire out to every mainstream news outlet who can be bothered to report the death of another unarmed black son on a Saturday night.

Their truth is not our truth.

Daughter, I said I didn’t have it in me to sit with the murder of Michael Brown last night and comb my social media accounts for first-hand anecdotes that would likely be more accurate than anything the news stations would report. I didn’t want to watch the Vines or read the Instagram messages under a photo collage of police presence at the crime scene, wailing friends and neighbors, the boy’s father holding up a scrap of cardboard scrawled with, “Ferguson Police just executed my unarmed son,” and the barely covered body of the boy himself.

But I stayed up anyway, because his neighbors had not gone home. They had held vigil and recorded and tweeted and planted their feet as a helicopter shone floodlight into their faces and a tank rolled into their apartment complex and barely restrained dogs bared their teeth and growled like they were hoping to be sicced.


They could not be intimidated into returning to their homes. They knew too well the coldness that would await them there, the absence of Michael’s laughter and light, the sounds and images of his final moments filling every too-quiet corner.

No. They would cling to each other instead, and I cannot blame them. I know the alternative. There is no honor in bearing death alone, no solace in silent suffering, nothing noble about walking away empty-handed. The community cried and crooked its arms, mobilized and marched. In the dark they headed to the murderers’ doorstep: the police department, demanding accountability for the alleged ten gunshots one of their cops had leveled at an unarmed teen in broad daylight.

They were told they could expect a press conference at ten the next morning. The department needs time, I suppose, to omit and tamper and vilify, time to label the shooting as anything but misconduct, as “manslaughter” and not “entirely preventable murder.”

I logged off when the community received that most minimal sense of closure: a cover-up conference at 10 AM. But I slept fitfully and woke with too many empty words. I always want to write the boys back, always want to revive the little girls. But writing feels like a fool’s errand at times like these.

And so does parenting.


The boys who live are so scarred. I have looked inside more than a few; they are hiding bullets in each quadrant of heart and brain. There are shells lodged in their arteries. Memory, not metal, ticks within them. When they laugh you can hear it rattling like real tin. One false move and their minds or their wills or their ability to feel at all will be gone.

And they will tell you: when I was five, a man nodded at me as he strolled past my house and by the time he reached the end of the block all I saw was his blood. And they will tell you: my brother, my cousin, my best friend, my little sister, my first crush was killed, and the cluster of stuffed bears and balloons we left at the scene was gone within the week. They will tell you: I am not sure how long I will live. 

The truth is: you are not sure, either, and there will be very little left to say in the face of that actuality. Besides, it is all the things they won’t say, all the numbness and fatalism and resignation they are too afraid to acknowledge — and the ulcerous pain underneath it — that are the real sites of worry.

I do not want to talk about this anymore because I was happy this month and you just turned four on the first and all I can think about is the promise I see in you. I think about how well you’re hearing these days with the tiny aids that screech when you hug me and hiss when the batteries are weak. I think about how much easier it’s become for you to simply say, “Help, please” instead of throwing a frustrated fit for the language you cannot find. I think about how often I keep you near me and how many people take umbrage with that. She has to learn, they say, how to live in this world.

But how can you learn at 4 to do what still makes me flail and falter at 34? And how can I let you go when a girl a year younger than you was gunned down in our city last week and a boy who would’ve headed off to college for the first time on Monday was executed within steps of his Ferguson, MO home on Saturday?

I’ve no more access to the language for this than you do.

What I have is you and the God who gave you and the God who just may take you away. And I have the resilience of a race who has survived every previous effort to exterminate it (and to compel it to exterminate itself). I have eyes and a watchful heart; they are both weary. I have hope that if the time comes, my community will be like Michael Brown’s, immovable and resolutely together. And what I also have are words that I’m meant to use when I least want to, in hopes that they will reach beyond my grasp and be a reckoning for those who, in the face of immense loss, would just rather we all returned to our homes and kept quiet.

The Quicksand Children.

The children are unwitting quicksand. Shells and shrapnel and glass sink into them as soon as it lands. They are tender-bodied, pure-eyed, bereft and confused. Every day, we are losing more of them. I am forcing myself to look. Many are around your age, just toddlers. They are across the world. I cannot claim any particular knowledge of their countries’ histories and politics. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not one that a few explainers or longform essays can clear up. I read them anyway. I know wrong when I see it. While I languish in a kind of suspended ignorance, over 1,300 children lie writhing and wounded in Gazan hospitals. Over 150 are dead. I am not sure what, if anything, there is for me to do. But I will try all that I can.

I have never been anywhere, really. A year before you were born, your father and I flew to Paris, using our tax refunds and some adjunct teaching money I should’ve been saving to move out of my relatives’ house and rent my own apartment. We could only afford a four-day stay, the first and last consisting mostly of travel. Neither of us had passports before that trip. That trip supplied what are still our only stamps.

At Charles de Gaulle, we couldn’t find each other for five hours. Neither of us spoke French. Our cell phones didn’t work and I was too afraid to walk up to any of the elegant elocutionists around me and speak English.

There is something mortifying about being without adequate language in another man’s country, something venomous about refusing to tread lightly within cultures that are not your own. I didn’t want to risk either insult or injury. After asking a few desk attendants who didn’t seem able to help me, I cried for a while and sat still, waiting to be found. Thousands of bodies whooshed by me, smelling of colognes and unfamiliar countries.

Your father was in another terminal, buildings away. He was speaking loud, clear English all over the place, his six-foot-five-frame, intense eyes and polite-but-focused smile commanding attention.

In the end, it was he who found me. And here is the lesson in this for you; here is the greatest comfort you can take, as a child whose language delays make so much of your tiny life like that of a French-less foreigner in Paris: one of us will always know how to find the other. All of us will observe and question and interpret each other’s odd communiques until we feel safe enough to keep moving.

In the hours before your father and I were reunited, no one in the world knew where I was. He had flown from California to Germany to Paris and I from Michigan to Kentucky to Paris. But our respective flights weren’t up on the arrivals board. Were we even there at all?

Are any of us here? And if so, given the horrors that so often befall us, why are we so stubbornly intent on staying? All those innocent hospitalized children, fighting so valiantly for what’s left of their ravaged lives, and Israel is bombing their energy plants, burning the homes and the parents to whom they might’ve returned after discharge. Israel is striking their hospitals.

In Paris, children on the subway smiled at us when they made eye contact. It was a smile that seemed to acknowledge that we were foreign, but welcome. We had braced ourselves for rudeness, and none ever came. Very few Parisians were unkind, but the children were especially unassuming. They were as grinning and guileless as most children are, whether faced with unspeakable horror or just an unfamiliar couple on the Metro.


It is best to clear your mind of expectation when you enter another country. Be awed or horrified by each place and its people on their own merits, on your experience of them. I would have you experience as many places and people as you can. Take what you know of their history with you but do not let it taint your time there. Their history is not quite your own. Go and do not allow any rhetoric, even your own country’s, to steer you away from the truth of things. Travel — more than media, more than reporting, more than the third-hand accounts of a friend — will help you know: there is no end of evil, no limit of good.

Sambos sat in Paris shop windows, subtle reminders that blackness and brownness can become an homage or affront wherever we are in the world. And there is no explaining to everyone (or anyone, really) that you do not represent what they think you do, that you do not deserve to be mocked or driven off your land or killed. There is no explaining to bullets or missiles or soldiers that your child is worthy of an undisrupted life.

Already, too many toxins are sinking into all of you.  All of you quicksand children — so impressionable, so vulnerable, so free — absorb everything. You may never now how gut-wrenching it is to realize that today, as parents, from Gaza to Sudan, Nigeria to North Carolina, we are feeling ever more powerless to stop it.

There is no corner of the world where I could run with you in my arms and, upon setting foot on its soil, sigh relief. Maybe this has never been the case. Maybe no generation has ever believed in an earthly safe haven. Perhaps this why some of us choose to believe in heaven. But I know that you are here because you’re with me. I know, because you’re here, that language and listening are the only real reasons to stay. We have to find ways to communicate to one another what weapons never will. It may be a futile fight, but it is the only one worth waging. Because you deserve what all the children of the world should have — upbringings entirely unmarred by carnage — I will stay. I will try harder to understand. For as long as I can, I will make my every word a tarp for your quicksand.

Whimsy, Faith, and the Thirty-Something Woman.



I don’t belong in Icing by Claire’s*. The other shoppers browsing beside me wouldn’t be able to sit legally at a restaurant’s bar. They wouldn’t be able to rent a car at the considerable discount adults over 25 are offered. Their faces are unlined, their hair devoid of even a single silvery strand. They are still girls, really; crow’s feet will not alight on their faces for several years to come.

This is my second trip. The cashier has natural hair. The first time she rang up my purchases, her afro was pushed away from her forehead with a plain black band. Now her hair is a garden of two-strand twists. It looks like the kind of work I don’t yet want. I smile at her and recommit to my TWA. The TWA, after all, is why I’m here. Cutting my hair was one thing; feeling elegant and feminine with this cut will, as it turns out, take quite a bit of accessorizing. I know nothing about accessorizing.

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We are closer in age than the customers around us. When I approach the counter this time, she doesn’t let on that she remembers me. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, I’m grateful as I empty the mesh shopping basket of its contents. She rings up the molehill of trinkets between us: earrings fashioned of plastic and tin, shaped like peonies and roses; cheap garlands of synthetic florals; gilded Grecian headbands, bound to tarnish if worn more than a few times this summer.

I took this about ten minutes after leaving Icing the first time. That little smile signifies a style breakthrough.

I am probably too old for this. I am mother to a girl who will be starting pre-K in the fall. In November, I will be closer to 40 than 30. For six years, I have taught college students, every semester widening the chasm between their sartorial sensibility and my own. As someone trying to make her living as a writer, being taken seriously has always felt like an Everest climb, a consumption by quicksand, a swim upstream. I am at an age where it is necessary to pinch the bridge of my nose while hunching over bills, at an age where my elders wonder aloud when the work that I do will afford me a lifestyle commensurate with grown-womanhood. (Whither the mortgage, the marriage, the retirement plan?)

And here I am buying flimsy floral baubles at the very accessory chain that interviewed (but didn’t hire) me for my first job at 17.

The cashier tells me the total.

“That’s almost, to the cent, what I spent here last time.”

She courtesy-smiles, waits silently for the debit system to approve my transaction, then hands me the bag. “Here’s a frequent shopper’s card.”

I accept it with thanks but hope I’ll never make enough purchases to redeem it. Two teen girls compare tubes of glittery fruit-flavored lip gloss as I walk out.


At revival, the visiting evangelist descended from the pulpit into the congregation. He was illustrating a point about the importance of vision by asking children what they wanted to be when they grew up. I was 8 and the third kid he asked.

Self-serious little person that I was, my answer was immediate. “I want to be an author.”

Mine was the first response he’d gotten that wasn’t, “I don’t know.” So he riffed on it for a while. “Will y’all excuse me for a minute,” he said, pulling up a chair near my aisle. “I gotta sit and talk to this young person.”

He began to tell me my future. “You’ll read a lot, write a lot of books. You won’t be like all the other children.” His voice took on a wistful, kindly tone. “You’ll never have a day of lack.”

This is all I remember, but he spoke to me for a good five minutes: a monologue amplified by microphone. In the end, we bowed our heads as he prayed that the things he’d just said would come to pass. I kept the cassette recording of the sermon and listened to it once every few years until college. That was when I lost it.

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My church calls this sort of thing a prophecy and the man delivering it a prophet — even when the foretelling is fairly straightforward (Voracious reading is a requisite for quality writing, for instance). Though mostly taken with a grain of salt, my faith still regards prophetic words as sacred.

We are no strangers to mysticism. We believe that the spirit of God might manifest itself during a church service as an indoor fog, the effect like a supernatural smoke machine. We believe that speaking in tongues communicates something to our God that English can’t. We believe that through mere touch — hand to forehead, hand-to-hand, hand-to-shoulder — a minister can confer the spirit of God upon us in ways that make us swoon, faint, convulse, or sprint. We call this being “slain in the spirit.”

For all this trust in experiences that would seem, to anyone who lives outside them, illogical, loopy, or unsound, it’s hard to believe that pursuing a life in the arts would not be accepted as a natural progression.

But being a writer — particularly of fiction — often felt like an unnatural desire. To write fiction was to lie. To lie was sin. Writing nonfiction, if not self-help or testimonial, also felt like the wrong kind of work, for honesty about one’s deepest flaws or exposure of the cracks in other folks’ facades, was regarded as a very real betrayal.

There is little left to write — and even less to write well — whenever these are the guardrails.

In my teens and early 20s, I sometimes came to church wearing a sarong as a skirt with a macrame brooch of a black, Afro-puffed angel holding it in place at the hip: a tiny reclamation of the fanciful. Sometimes I wanted to wear glittered wings and frolic like a fairy, to create a worship experience that felt like the Mamas and the Papas or Simon and Garfunkel or Angela Bofill music sounds. Otherworldly. But I always suppressed the real questions I wanted to ask in prayer. I wrote trite, implausible stories of Christian conversion. I kept my longing for purple hair and hennaed palms to myself.

What do you want from me? I should’ve asked at a much younger age.

I know now what God would’ve told me: Not this.


I have always had muses — none of whom were acceptable choices for teenage churchgoing me.

Lisa Bonet
Shannyn Sossamon
Angela Bofill
Vonetta McGee
Erykah Badu

Wear what you want. Love who you want. Give birth when you want. Find ways to live freely. I am drawn to an artsy woman whose look belies her life’s philosophy, because life philosophies — genuine, personal ones — are not easy to form.

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You cannot take stock of present-day Lisa Bonet and not know with all certainty, you’re beholding a woman who — to borrow from Langston Hughes — stands on top of the mountain free within herself. I don’t think that confidence came at low cost, but we purveyors of pop culture have always been drawn to Bonet because we sensed that she saw no trail ahead yet continued, somehow, to set one ablaze.

That kind of freedom can feel like it’s at odds with a few of my faith’s tenets. For us, submission to God’s word and will are the only real freedoms. As Christians, we do not live to please ourselves — and this runs counter to everything I know of myself as a writer. A writer must create to please herself; it is that very self-assurance that earns her reader’s confidence.


For a few months in college, I tried to grow out my perm. I lived alone and if my hair looked too unruly, I’d wrap fabric around it (usually an old t-shirt) and pretend that it meant something regal. I’d stand taller, jaw set against stares or uninvited comment and, for the first time in life, I felt in control of the image I was projecting to the world.

I still wonder what it should mean for our daily lives that we were made in the image of God with the intent that we should behave as though we are reflections of God.

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But for years, it meant treating my body and whatever adorned it as an afterthought. It meant treating my appearance as inconsequential rather than as a point of particular pride. I wore neutrals: denim, earth tones, cotton tees, department-store, factory-outlet dresses. I am still uncertain which colors best complement my skin. (Am I a winter or what?) And this belief that reflecting God meant being conservative in attire and carriage has also meant decades of long hair. Hair long enough to draw a curtain. Hair that doesn’t out the wildness underneath.

The wildness I wanted then seems more permissible now. Churches have factored arts and entertainment into their Sunday rituals. Spoken word, drama, pantomime, liturgical dance. It’s all there. But I am a different brand of feral these days.

My mother convinced me to perm my hair again in college by insisting I couldn’t attend church back home in a headwrap. “It’s Easter!” she’d said. “Easter!”

It took fourteen years to go natural again. Fourteen years and here I am leaving Icing, eager to embrace the sprightliness I denied myself so often as a teen. Here I am writing about my faith’s messy intersections with my chosen vocation. Here I am being as weird as I’ve always suspected I could be.

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But am I too old for it? At 34, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like an overgrown child whenever I place a crown of fake flowers on my head. It seems that, by now, I should have my personal aesthetic figured out. If nothing else, I should know what stores don’t make me feel like the old chick at the club.

(When did I become this self-conscious?)

We talk about reinvention as though it’s a very mature and high-brow process. But so much of it is playing dress-up and making yourself okay with prancing around in new personas till  you find the next one that’s a natural fit.


The Jesus who keeps me Christian roamed and ruminated and attended riotous parties. He heard disembodied voices, battled demons, drank good wine and was led by a calling higher than himself. That Jesus gets me. He gets why I don’t find nudity particularly offensive, since according to our own sacred text, nudity isn’t the sin; shame is. He preferred a complicated story and understood that not every tale worth telling ended with profession of faith in him. He didn’t recoil from the grotesque, and he was irrepressible. The Jesus who cursed fig trees wouldn’t care one wit if I ring my hair in fake foliage. He didn’t conform. And maybe, just maybe, he’d be disgusted with anyone who’d ask me to.

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How I long to be more like him.
*I found out Icing has a shop online option while writing this piece. Guess where I’ll be copping hair garlands instead of in-store now?

What Black Latchkey Families Stand to Lose.

As controversial a portrayal of black parenting as 'Beasts of the Southern Wild' presents, Hushpuppy's  limited supervision and sense of community were ultimately essential to her survival.
As controversial a portrayal of black parenting as ‘Beasts of the Southern Wild’ presents, Hushpuppy’s limited supervision and sense of community were ultimately essential to her survival.

The little boy who used to live on the second floor, the one with the cornrows grazing the back of his neck and the owlish glasses, never stayed indoors. He was always running, chasing the family cat or asking around, home to home, if a new child in the neighborhood could come out to play. He was nine or so, polite and precocious, always noticing things. You dropped this. You’re forgetting that. He held the lobby door open for my grandmother, my mother, and I whenever he saw us coming.

A boy like that catches the eye, out of doors as he so often is. It was easy, then, to notice that his mother hadn’t entrusted him with a key to his family’s apartment. We knew it because sometimes, he’d linger too long outside the locked, intercom-activated lobby door. We knew it because, while walking up to our own third floor residence, we too often noted that his family’s door was kept slightly ajar. He was either rushing in and slamming it or waiting downstairs for someone to open it when he’d locked himself out.

It was risky, his mom opting to leave their whole apartment vulnerable rather than giving him a key. It was risky, too, to reserve comment and to let them sort through that decision and its consequences alone.

But I remember being nine myself and in need of a key after school. I remember losing it too, on many occasions, and begging the rental office managers to let me borrow their spare. I asked so often they would finally have to inform my furious, frustrated mom.

The memory was what kept me quiet on the days when the neighbor boy sprinted confidently up to his cracked door and slipped inside — and it was also what made me ask if he needed to use our phone or wanted someone to wait with him when he was in the lobby alone.

Latchkey life is a series of covert missions, held precariously in place by a cardinal rule: don’t get caught.

Debra Harrell was charged with "unlawful conduct toward a child," after allowing her daughter to play in a local park during her work shifts.
Debra Harrell was charged with “unlawful conduct toward a child,” after allowing her daughter to play in a local park during her work shifts.

I thought about this code when I heard about Debra Harrell, the 46-year-old South Carolina mom who let her nine-year-old daughter play in a park for three days while she worked her shifts at McDonald’s.

If I’d driven by and spotted Debra’s daughter braiding tall grass at 1pm, then passed by again to find her eating fruit under a shady tree at 4, I would’ve thought little of it. Even if, as in this case, she was there for three days in a row. I may’ve asked, as the concerned observer did in this instance, where the girl’s mother had gone. But if she’d shown me the cell phone her mother had given her in case of emergency and if she seemed safe and unbothered, I would’ve moved along.

Just as all who wander are not lost, all who play outside alone — even all day — are not abandoned.

When I moved into my grandmother’s third floor apartment, my daughter was two and noisy. She was not sleep trained and sometimes she’d let out a squeal or leap across the carpet well after 8pm.

“If you don’t get that girl to be quieter, the neighbors downstairs might call the police,” my grandmother admonished one night.

I thought I’d misheard her but she went on, “They’ll say they heard her screaming or that you never have her in the bed at night. Child Protective Services will come up here and they’ll take her away from you. CPS loves to take black children.”

The warning winded me. My eyes stung. My chest heaved. I wanted to tell her how hurtful she was being and I did. “You’re saying that if CPS came and assessed my parenting, they’d still find cause to take my child. You’re implying I’m unfit.”

“I know you love your child,” she said in a voice that didn’t soften. “But I’m telling you the truth.”

It was a court stenographer’s truth, the truth of a woman who had spent over 20 years transcribing heinous crimes, tragic accidents and separations of children from parents, based on everything from hearsay to hard evidence. It was also the truth of an elder for whom the memory of being policed for playing while black — in the wrong park, on the wrong street, at the wrong hour — was still fresh.

I thought of the boy downstairs, his unlocked door, the infants in the basement apartments who wailed at all hours of night. My daughter wasn’t the only child in the building. Her noise didn’t exist in some disruptive vacuum and it didn’t seem constant enough to warrant complaint.

But I was never able to shake my grandmother’s warning. She was telling me that, as a black mother, loving my child wouldn’t necessarily stop a caseworker from recommending her removal from my custody. It would take months, but eventually, I understood that her conferral of worry was, in its way, her own expression of love.

Cases like Debra Harrell’s frighten me. They reify the idea that the rules are different for my black family. For us, noisy nighttime play or unsupervised daytime play don’t just draw annoyance or concern. They draw authorities. They draw teams of people with the power to determine whether or not our children can come home.

There are parts of parenting that are predicated on privacy, on intimate negotiations of what will and will not be able to work under our own roofs on a given day. Bedtime, dinner, and discipline choices differ from household to household. We have all had moments where we’ve considered ourselves fortunate no one witnessed us bribing our child with candy or snapping at him when a gentler word would’ve been best.

But there are other parts of parenting where privacy is as perilous as it is necessary, like determining when your child is “mature enough” to be left alone for hours at a time. It can be difficult for families with latchkey children — and the strangers who observe their decisions — to know the difference.

At what point does incurious observation become concern? At what point should concern involve intervention? And once authorities have intervened, which infractions should warrant the removal of children from their homes?


Sadly, parents without access to safe, affordable child care often depend on the silence of strangers. For them, that silence is kindness. But true kindness would actually be the opposite. True kindness would be conversation. It would be finding out the full story before it becomes a somber national headline, waiting with the child until her mother arrives, offering to keep an eye on the child at play or helping the family find better local resources.

And it would be educating oneself about the stakes for black low-income and single-parent families. They are higher. More than half of all children entering foster care in the U.S. are children of color. Twenty-six percent of those children are black, which is double to the total population of black children in this country. There is a real precedent for worry that taking a latchkey or unsupervised play situation directly to the authorities will result, not in help for a mother and child, but in a mother losing her child.

The idea that erring on the side of caution can make things worse may seem counter-intuitive until you hear enough stories like Debra Harrell’s, until you have a few latchkey kids as neighbors, until you’ve heard your own family warn you to keep your toddler from being so noisy, lest someone try to take her away.

When the little boy downstairs moved away, it seemed sudden. We hadn’t seen boxes. They’d done the heavy lifting after dark. By the time he said goodbye his family’s apartment was already empty. We both stood there a little longer than we needed to. I was hoping his new neighbors would view his family’s situation as I did: as a negotiation of need, as a case where a simple, “Are you okay?” was often enough to tide the child over until his mother came home.  I hoped his new neighbors would be watchful and supportive, the kind of people who considered alerting authorities to the presence of a latchkey kid playing unsupervised outside, as a last resort.

Carrying Jada: When ‘Standing With’ Isn’t Enough.


Two nights ago, I sat in our bedroom on the third floor with the window open. You were already asleep. The night breeze carried the voices of a cabal of teen boys walking beneath. There is a steep grassy hill behind our building. I never take you to play there. The earth is uneven and I don’t trust the improbability of a long hard tumble. But I’ve always found it a beautiful space, open and green among the brick, steel and concrete, tree-lined, flowering branches blushing white and pink each spring with the promise of growth. It is usually quiet there after nightfall, or it has been during most of the 27 years my grandmother has lived here. But things are changing. The boys were raucous but stealthy, their voices at once overloud and vanquished altogether.

“She got HIV or something. She might got HIV!” One called out.

“She probably got HIV, yo!” Another chimed in, chuckling. “I don’t trust that!” Their chorus of noises rose up to our window like a mist.

I have seen these boys or ones like them. There are no fewer than five when they’re walking through our complex during the day, sagging their skinny jeans, scratching their scalps under tall, untended fades. It’s their eyes I always remember, the furtive way they dart at my face when I’m driving by. The eyes say: do I know you or do you mean me harm?

But this isn’t a binary question. “Or” is the wrong conjunction here.

The boys under the window know the girl about whose sexual health they’re speculating. They know her, are negotiating her worth to them, are laughing. And then they are moving on.

But they’ve left blight in the air. With the casual cruelty of their cackles, they’ve colored each other’s opinions about her with innuendo. It isn’t clear to me if they even know that it is moot to denigrate a woman for contracting a disease she has likely gotten from a man. If it were right or useful or logical to measure morality by one’s illnesses, it seems whoever infected her should be the person yelled about in the town square. Do not have sex with that dude! they should be yelling. At least not without adequate multiple forms of contraception!

Even in 2014, only women are called “loose” in voices that carry. It need only be uttered about us once, in relative anonymity, and the way we negotiate the maze of our days must be altered. We take the stairs. We get to class early. We sit where the whispers are not hot and bearing down from behind. We defend ourselves when we shouldn’t and go it alone when there should be a hedge of homegirls rushing to our aid.

Changing course is no longer enough. Today, casting lots about a young girl’s sexual history, while walking in the summer night under the neighbors’ open windows, is practically innocuous by comparison. At least they are not bragging about having roofied her. At least she is not with them, unconscious and being dragged across the storm-dampened grass as one of them raises his cell phone and gets grainy night video of her. At least they are not pausing on the hill to upload the footage as she lay inert between them. At least I didn’t wake the next morning to a viral trend about the girl the boys behind my building made their punch line.

But there are other girls, other unchecked, overpowering boys, whole communities that reward them for viral shares and social pacts of silence. There are older people, parents and grandparents, aunties and uncles willing to whirl toward the girl when the boy’s name is well-known, willing to grit at those horrified girls, “You know boys act like this. All men want one thing. They are not above unspeakable acts to get it. Nothing is beneath them. What were you thinking?”

What were you thinking?

I do not often write about girls like Jada. I do not closely follow the criminal cases of boys like those who raped and recorded a girl in Steubenville. But I also do not know how not to carry these girls close. I don’t know how not to think about how profoundly both they — and the staggeringly bankrupt boys who laugh while trying their damnedest laying waste to them — have been failed by generation upon generation of rape-enabling. There is no court that can train it out of them, no verdict that translates to justice.

Toward the end of my first year teaching community college in Baltimore, I assigned my students two readings about Amber Cole, a local 14-year-old videotaped against her will while performing sex acts on boys that she knew. The six students present in my class that afternoon, all developmental English-level readers and writers, snickered, feigned offense at the subject matter, scoffed loudly at certain points. But eventually they struggled through the essays.

The time had come for us to discuss. Because we were all black and from Baltimore, because the girls were just three or four years older than Amber themselves, I expected them to empathize with her. I had this naive notion that we would rally in defense of her, if the boys in class did not.

In truth, no one defended her. In truth, one girl said, “I’d rather my daughter come home pregnant at 14 than be all over the Internet like that.” Her friend turned to her in disbelief. “A baby is for 18 years!” she said. “The Internet is forever,” the first girl retorted.

I didn’t know how to recover the conversation. Class ended, and they didn’t wait for me to verbally dismiss them before skittering off, onto a campus and into a world that would offer them no more love or support or absolution than they offered the girl we’d just discussed.

The next semester, in another class of students just as small, I brought up Trayvon Martin and one of my most promising young men said, “I don’t get what the big deal is about him. Boys die here every day and the world don’t rally for them.”

I looked to the other students, anticipating dissent. None came. I had no ready argument, either. But I know now that I should’ve said, “They should.”

They should.

We think it is rape culture or gun violence that will define us as a fallen civilization. But it’s the indifference that will do us in. It’s our fierce commitment to independence — emotional, cultural, financial, spiritual — as our most prized and noble value that dooms us.

We are nothing without each other, nothing if all we can manage is protecting our own children, nursing our individual grief, urging others to be more like someone else who was “independent” enough to “move on” and “dust herself off” and “get over it.”

We look at a little girl like Jada and we call her brave for speaking out against her own ongoing violation. She whose small body has withstood a behemoth of trauma is now expected to be publicly strong enough to fight an Internet meme proliferating faster than her own words can carry.

It is foolish to think that by devoting a few tweets or blog entries over a news cycle we are truly standing with her. It is foolish to think that standing with someone online or in a city hall or by a courtroom telecast on TV is affecting longterm change. I am often of the mind that girls who’ve gone through what Jada has don’t need us to stand with them. They need to be swept off their feet, hoisted onto our backs or shoulders, and carried. We carry the Jadas of the world by teaching their peers, that it is their own inability to empathize with her, their own voracious appetites for cell phone footage of active crime scenes, their own shrugging in the face of others’ tears that eggs their friends on. We carry her by emphasizing to young women and young men already embroiled in these dark, embittering battles that their is us and them when it comes to rape. You are not better if it has not happened to you. You will not be praised for never having done it or for leaving the scene as it’s about to occur and keeping silent about the terror you sensed there, afterward.

We carry her by resisting the urge to find the exact moment of the night in question that she could’ve had made a different choice, that she should’ve been back home, that she should’ve decided to sequester herself in her bedroom until the world stops producing boys who believe women are soulless slabs of sexual objectivity.

We carry her not with outrage, not by calling for blood, but by memorizing her face, memorizing the faces of the boys we pass every day, looking them all in the eye. Holding their gaze holds us accountable.

We carry her by understanding that not every rapist will be dissuaded. This means that, during our lifetime, we will not see a world entirely rid of messaging that enables or people who defend them. So we also carry her by focusing on those capable of change rather than those who willfully choose to label depravity as fraternal bonding or fun.

Even this feels lacking when I look at this girl’s crestfallen face. She is all but weightless on our shoulders; the opposite of burden. But lifting her is something. Dear Lord. It’s a stutter-step.

Why ‘Just’ is Jejune: On Cutting All But an Inch of My Hair.

The first photo I took yesterday that I loved. Probably the 12th attempt or so.

In the bathroom mirror, I tilted my head to the right, the index and middle fingers of my left hand clamping a dividing line between the tight, curly roots of my hair and the 11 or so inches of relaxed hair beyond them. I raised the scissors with my right hand, positioned the blades where my fingers were, like an ax at the foot of a tree, bit my lip, dropped both hands to my sides, scissors still clasped in the the right, and walked out of the bathroom.

I did this three times. Between each I went directly to my phone, toggling between encouraging text messages from my friend Joshunda and Google Images, where I’d searched the term “teeny weeny afro.”

It isn’t just hair. That, I knew before I impulsively decided around noon on the fourth of July to cut my own for the first time ever. Just is a sorcerer’s word; when used as an adjective, it’s meant to minimize impact. When we think someone is making too much of a thing, we say it’s “just” or “only” that thing. We say: you are making too big a deal of it.

My nana has probably had those scissors for all 27 or so years she’s lived in her current residence. Maybe even earlier. We use them for pretty much everything. Even cutting 11-12 inches of hair, apparently. I bought that brush and shea butter today.

No one should be allowed to measure the import of our actions or our response to those actions (or the actions of others) but us. No one knows how great or small the significance of anything is to us, unless we are able to tell them. And when we make the oft-colossal effort to convey that significance, we need to be met with a willingness to understand or at least to respect our outlook.

It isn’t just hair.

Still, I’ve never been fastidious about the upkeep of mine. And I knew I wouldn’t miss it much, were I to part with it on my own terms*.

On the third try, I made the first cut. The scissors may as well have been miked; that’s how pronounced each cut’s echo was in the bathroom. Handfuls of hair fell away in neat swaths. I dropped them into a plastic grocery bag. After the fourth fall of the scissors, the fourth pulling-away-and-plopping of the permed hair into the bag, I was immune both to the sound and sight of it. It would’ve been easy to read into that immunity, to make the moment reductive. Just hair-cutting.

Today’s selfies were fun.

But another sensation rushed into that blank space in the hours and the night to come. To cut your own hair is to make external what is constantly occurring within. Every day we are shearing something. We are clipping away at our anger or impatience or envy. Ideally, we are trimming the parts of ourselves that feel overgrown. And we are also losing something of ourselves every day: youth, naivety, impracticality, an acute desire — nay a near-physical need — to be right. But we are not always in such precise control of that work as we can be with cutting our own hair.

It was too easy, in fact, my whole head shorn in ten minutes. I kept trimming away too-straight ends throughout the afternoon and evening, but the dramatic work — the work that, potentially, would’ve been most traumatic, if I’d hated the outcome — was the quickest.

In this way, a haircut drastic enough to warrant notice or comment, a cut that moves the line between who finds you attractive and who does not, becomes an exercise in coping with the impermanence of all things. It is a way to accelerate the most private, deeply personal work we pursue lifelong. Knowing how simple it is to part with hair — upon which nearly everyone we know projects something: desire, frustration, envy, health, liveliness, a standard by which to judge beauty — makes possible the prospect of parting with harder things. Like people. Like money. Like life. Like jobs.

photo5 (1)
I took quite a few of them. I wasn’t happy with many, but then, I rarely am. That doesn’t seem to have changed with the length and texture of my hair. Also: I keep seeing more straight ends I should probably clip….

When we aren’t thrilled with a haircut — our own or someone else’s — we use the words, “It’ll grow back” as a reassurance.

Maybe it won’t, though — at least not in the form anyone remembers it. And maybe in its protracted absence, something better grows. Like confidence. Like creativity. Like laughter. Like self-reliance. Sometimes hair is a hedge that hides us. We rarely need to remain so obscured.

I probably won’t grow this out immediately. I’ve had length; I’m not wed to it. Besides, the longer it gets, the more dependent I’ll have to be on someone whose knowledge about hair extends beyond cutting it off. I’m looking forward to learning how to care for it at this length and with this texture. I want to see what else else this haircut has to teach me.

In the meantime, I will try not to talk about it much, even if it isn’t just hair.



I’ve come to comprehend, at last, why necessity is referred to as invention’s “mother.” There are few people on earth in as constant a state of need as those who’ve chosen to mother someone. Mothering forces the hand of creativity. Mothers* wrestle with angels and refuse to let go before they are blessed with something — either an actual resource or the means by which to create one themselves. We also wrestle with demons — not just our own but those that would presume to stalk our children. We feel responsible for everything and for distributing everything. When a thing fails, we stay up latest taking stock. When a thing succeeds, it is often because we have risen early to ensure that it would.

This is all to say: I create much more as a mother than I felt capable of creating before I became one. This is, in part, because I no longer have time to consider whether I’m capable of a thing before I undertake it. Often, I simply have to move and make that assessment later; now, too much depends on my movement.

As a writer, the only difference between my childless self and my mothering one is that now, I need what writing well can provide. It isn’t a lofty ideal, an untethered desire. I had endless time for crippling insecurity before I had another person to support. I could put off writing or set myself adrift on a sea of incomplete ideas because when I was alone, writing wasn’t anchored in need. It did it as I worked other jobs. I treated it like a side gig.

Now? I need the capital. I need the community. I need the insight. And I need the empathy. All of it, all of it, is necessary for me to be the best mother I can be. And that makes me fastidious.

Screenshot 2014-06-29 at 4.55.00 PM

Bellow is an invention that comes from this same chamber of need. Writing as a single mother may force greater productivity, but it also seems to insist on a greater sense of isolation.

“I love solitude but I prize it most when company is available.”  — Saul Bellow

I’ve written about this — and so have many others — but there are certain creative spaces that will be restricted to you with a baby or small child in tow. And they’re usually the spaces you need most: retreat spaces, residency sites, travel grant destinations, rooftop networking events, even bars (where readings are being held).

These, of course, are not problems specific to new parents. As a culture we are increasingly of how lack of access perpetuates inequality and works as a barrier to success. We are even beginning to parse what that means for writers, acknowledging the difficulty of becoming successful at it without access to the reservoirs of money and free or reduced-income housing that will allow new writers to work for pennies until they’re put on.

So few are put on — even as they burn through their meager savings and burn bridges with housemates, family and friends, doggedly insisting that a break is just around the corner. It must be. We’re good at what we do.

The more we say it, the reedier our voices feel and the more the sound echoes. Fewer supporters, fewer sound barriers.

Enter Bellow. It’s a very basic setup. All you need is a laptop with a webcam, a strong microphone, either internal or external, and wifi. You need relative privacy or a quiet background and earbuds. And you need your original work.

Each month, a small group of writers will meet on the third Wednesday at 8 PM Eastern and they’ll share their work — not just with each other — but with whomever in the world wants to watch them. We get to witness the facial expressions, nervous ticks and out-loud negotiations you’d make if you were in a dimly lit room in front of an intimate audience.

But you don’t need money, transportation, or even a lot of free time to connect with your crowd. It’s all about raising your voice and finding out who-all will hear you.

“I want to tell you, don’t marry suffering. Some people do. They get married to it, and sleep and eat together, just as husband and wife. If they go with joy they think it’s adultery.”  — Saul Bellow

So many writers, both emerging and established, know what it’s like to be invited to speak at a venue for free and to not have enough gas to get there. We know what it is to sit at home while friends text group-selfies from the pricey writing conference we couldn’t attend. We even know how to look like ethereal, like we’re above commerce and capitalism, when our ability to publish a certain number of freelance writing pieces a month is the only thing standing between us and eviction.

It isn’t much, Bellow. It may not help you make rent — at least not directly — but I’m hoping it becomes a place of understanding, encouragement and opportunity. These are the environs that even playing fields.

Come play with us. Bellow across the fields every third Wednesday of every month at 8 PM EST via Google Hangouts On Air. Connect with is there by adding our Google+ page to your circles and live-tweeting (@bellowseries) while you watch each webcast.

Bringing people into the here-and-now. The real universe. That’s the present moment. The past is no good to us. The future is full of anxiety. Only the present is real–the here-and-now.  — Saul Bellow

*I realize I made some generalizations about mothers in the opening paragraph. I’m usually good about not making blanket statements or applying caveats. But um. The best I can do here is: #NotAllMothers?

Blackgirl Songs for Summer Writing.

Me, when someone asks when I'm gonna write a novel.
Me, when someone asks when I’m gonna write a novel.

Summer is always when I sacrifice words to the genre-volcano of fiction. If you check the fiction tag here, you’ll find that two-thirds of the entries were posted during the summer months. One summer I even blogged half a novel draft. The only reason I can figure for that pattern is that during the traditional academic school year, I’m not often in “fiction headspace.” I typically spend those months talking about current events, creative nonfiction/personal essays, or field-specific research and citation.

I alluded to this recently here when I wrote about my writing process, but fiction is very difficult for me to write. I find it incredibly daunting. This was part of the reason I chose it as a concentration for graduate study. I wanted to get a firmer grasp on how to write it. But what I found was that my peers tended to be more structurally advanced than I was (many of them had either majored in creative writing in undergrad or participated in other formal writing instruction before attempting our degree). Because I’d never studied creative writing, aside from one poetry class in my first year of grad school. I found a lot of classroom discussion overwhelming. I remember actually crying in one craft class during my first year because I felt so underwater. Everyone sounded like they were speaking a language I not only hadn’t ever heard but didn’t know existed. I spent all of grad school being drawn out by instructors, hardly ever offering feedback without being prompted. And I always felt like I was guessing.

Wow. That entire last paragraph was a tangent I hadn’t intended to draw. But the point was: I find fiction elusive — and there always seem to be new impediments for me as I try to grasp it. The most recent has been motherhood. It requires me to be more practical in thought and economical with time and resources. For me, fiction requires a great deal of time for contemplation and invention. You may be drawing on personal truths and lived experience but you’re constructing it on untilled terrain, drawing on blood memory and pure imagination.

It is hard for me to do that. I always feel like I should be doing something else: working, trying to find work, actively parenting.

But recently, I found out that, as is the case with many of my summers, one of my work contracts is ending and it won’t be renewed, which means that, while I search for other work, I’m affording that long stretch of summer-waiting time I knew so well as an adjunct. And I’ve opted not to return to adjuncting this fall, so the world feels just terrifying and wide-open enough for me to be daring again. Truly daring. And right now, to be “truly daring” is to fit fiction into the current structure of my life the way I’ve managed to fit in blogging and essay-writing.

The groove I hope to get into while writing this summer.
The groove I hope to get into while writing this summer.

At this point, you’re probably looking for the playlist the title of this post promises. The wait’s over; I’m totally shutting up now, except to say: these are the songs I’m listening to and performances I’m watching as I try to be truly daring as a writer-of-fiction this summer. They aren’t new, and if you follow me on social media, you’ve probably already seen some of them. But enjoy:

1. Lianne La Havas – “Twice”

La Havas’ voice is without flaw on this cover, but I’m just as entranced by the barnyard motif. Generally, I love how intentional she is about creating synergy between her performance space and her performances.

2. Liv Warfield – “Why Do You Lie?”

Warfield is the definition of “truly daring” as a stage performer. She sings with her entire body the way I aspire to write with the whole of mine.

3. Emily King – “Distance”

I’ve a thing for rooftops. I always have. I’ve romanticized them, written them into stories as a girl, all that. But when I’ve actually been on them, it’s almost always been overwhelming. Watching King perform this gorgeous track on one reasserts the rooftop as a place of romance and creativity and possibility.

4.  Valerie June – “Workin’ Woman Blues”/”Rain Dance”/”Somebody To Love”

This NPR Tiny Desk Concert was my first introduction to Valerie June. She’ll be a summer staple, sounding as she does of wraparound porches with swings, stallions circling, swekerchiefs and sun tea.

5. Georgia Anne Muldrow – “More and More” (featuring Bilal)

So, so much love in this song, in all Georgia’s songs. Black love, black pride, black togetherness. “We, we are a tribe. Don’t go on thinkin’ no one’s on your side.” Word.

6. Lianne La Havas – “No Room for Doubt”

Another example of gorgeous scene and lovely singing.

7. Alice Smith – “So Bad”

Full disclosure: I’m only including Alice Smith here because of some very dear friends. It’s a highly coincidental, uncanny story.  On February 20, my girl @dopegirlfresh tweeted that she’d decided the day before that Alice Smith sings like I write. On February 19, my friend Alisa sent me a Facebook message with a link to this magazine spread and wrote, “Somewhat random, but Alice Smith did a spread for InStyle for her new album and she reminded me so much of you.” Those were completely unrelated musings. Then, my dear friend Joshunda saw Alice Smith perform at the Howard Theatre last weekend and when I asked her how it went, she said she loved it and Smith reminded her of me. So clearly, Alice Smith and I are soul sisters or something. I’m not in the regular practice of listening to her work, but I loved the performance above and this one at Grand Street Bakery is moving, too. There’s a lot of aching in her face when she sings. She can conjure the feeling of being lovelorn fairly easily. I can, too, whether I’m actually feeling it or not. That’s something I’ve recently learned and I suspect it’ll serve me well writing fiction.

That’s it for now, but I’ll check back in later this summer with a progress report. Hopefully, this project will stick and whatever words I offer to the volcano this year will finally appease it. For a while. :)

Feel free to add your own summer writing playlist below. I’m always interested in what artists serve as writers’ muses or background noise.


How We Reclaim What Alzheimer’s Robs.

You, lower left, taking one of many family pictures on the front porch. Clockwise from you: cousin Stephanie, your daughter, my Aunt Melita and Aunt Lorraine. You loved a good brooch and that particular shade of blue-green.

2128 Leahy Street, Muskegon, MI.

This is what I remember: a white house. Three levels, two bedrooms on the third floor where I was too afraid to sleep alone, your room on the first, where you let me sleep on a living room loveseat, twenty feet away from your door. Wallpaper. Yours was among the only houses I knew that had it. I grew up in brick buildings where family homes were referred to as “units” and leases dictated we keep the walls bare. One of your wallpaper patterns was pink. Maybe one had some green. The sun filled your kitchen. The some of the walls there were white. You had lots of cabinets and each one was full: more than one pattern of china, more sets than you’d ever need for one family gathering. Many dry goods.

Sometimes you had your milk delivered. In the ‘80s. (This is something I have to convince myself I didn’t imagine: the continued existence of professional milkmen in your neighborhood when I was little. But I am pretty sure it was true. I remember the bottles.)

A landing just off the kitchen led either down to the unfinished basement or into the lovely backyard. You gardened. I remember cornflowers. But I don’t know if they were in the grass or on the china or on the walls. You liked blue. I think of you often when I see gradients of blue. We sat in the yard and we counted the birds: cardinals and blue jays excited me most. But you knew more species by name than I would ever learn. We lured them with feeders and baths. We laughed as they pecked and preened and splashed. You were Mother Nature, as far as I was concerned. None of the black women in my life were more natural than you. But on many an occasion, my ears were scalded by the hot comb in your kitchen. I do not think you believed that a woman’s hair should look as wild or as free as her soul.

You loved water.
You loved water.

You let me plant watermelon seeds in the soil. I was never around to see the harvest; I had long returned to Baltimore for the school year by then. You were kind enough not to tell me what came of my little crop experiments. I’m guessing nothing.

Yours was the only home where I’ve ever hung laundry outdoors and waited for the wind to catch it, quicken it, ready it for folding. I remember the wooden clothespins, how I pretended they were people, peasants bowing to the queen standing with the laundry basket under the line.

The basement was unfinished. It had a sink where you washed my hair — a task neither of us relished — and a ping-pong table where you bested us all, match after match, like we weren’t your darling grandchildren, like you weren’t five or six decades older, like you were on a competition circuit. You laughed when you won. And you had the best winner’s laugh, low and crackling with an ageless mischief. It was the clearest indication I had that you had been raised the lone girl among older brothers.

me and gmom at nana's table

Until I was nearly four, I slept with you during my visits. I do not remember much, except what one never forgets about sharing a bed with her grandmother. Ideally, it is the safest place we can know, safer, in fact, than the beds of our parents, if for no other reason than that our grandparents once shared their beds with the children who would become our parents. They have shepherded a full generation before us to the harbor of adulthood. We’ve no reason to doubt they will guard us till we get there.

You and my grandfather in the '50s.
You and my grandfather in the ’50s.

We were only able to share a bed because the other half of yours was newly empty. My grandfather died one month after I was born. You had been married for over forty years and then your nest, long emptied of your four grown children, was entirely empty. There was only you. When I was born, I lived two hours away from you, in Lansing. You liked having me as company, though now that I have mothered an infant myself, I imagine it was the busy work you welcomed: the bathing and diapering, the feeding and bouncing to sleep. You kept me often in those first years. And when I was three, you remarried. Caring for a child is no substitute for the care exchanged in a marriage. You knew what you needed.

You and your new husband took us grandchildren to the fairgrounds. My favorite parts were the three-legged dogs and the flavored lip balm you’d buy me at the Avon tables: cola, cotton candy, mint chocolate chip. These were perks that eased the transition.

You and my bonus grandfather, Mr. A.
You and my bonus grandfather, Mr. A.

I will skip ahead, but I remember more: you sang hymns in soprano. The one wound tightest ‘round my memory of you is the Solid Rock* hymn. You sang it with a such sweet, earnest conviction that I can’t sing it myself without crying. I don’t sing it much anymore. And you taught me scriptures, all from the Pauline epistles. You believed in a different doctrine than the one I was learning at home, but our bibles were the same. The scriptures I link most closely to you is Ephesians 2:8-9: For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: [it is] the gift of God:not of works, lest any man should boast.

You in the early 1940s.
You in the early 1940s.

You could’ve opened a charm school. You were definitely mine. I learned elocution, how to cross my legs at the knee and fold my hands over them. But you enjoyed fishing and RV-ing and pugilism. Sometimes I think city girls are the last to truly comprehend just how many multitudes women can contain, how widely the definitions of “modern” and “traditional” vary. I understood it early, but only because of you. You believed women should be woodsy and refined in equal measure. I’m not sure if you’d approve of where I settled on those scales.

You drove a gray Cadillac. Fast. There were other cars. This is the one I recall.

You and your brothers in the '70s. From left: Uncles Sam, Leroy, Otis, Bill and Alex.
You and your brothers in the ’70s. From left: Uncles Sam, Leroy, Otis, Bill and Alex.

One of your brothers was named Bill. Uncle Bill had some form of dementia. I think it was Alzheimer’s. Not long after his arrival, I stopped spending the night at your house. There were many reasons — and I wasn’t sure about any of them at the time — but perhaps one of the most significant was that, if possible, when you are caring for someone with Alzheimer’s, it is important to keep the household residents he no longer recognizes to a minimum. It is simpler for everyone.

You cared for Uncle Bill until the day he died.

Seminole Shores Living Center, Muskegon, MI.

I don’t think much about the eight years you spent living with diagnosed Alzheimer’s. I visited you a handful of times while you lived at Seminole Shores, but with the exception of the first visit, these were moments long after you would’ve known who I was.

The family filled your room with photographs. You in much earlier times. You with all of us. You with your late husband and your living one. Every time I visited, there were greeting cards from whatever the last occasions may’ve been: Mother’s Day; your birthday; thinking of you. The staff dressed you mostly in sweat suits, because they were easier to don and to remove. You would not have found them flattering. But my aunts brought in a hairdresser to shampoo and style your hair each week and it was long and full and lovely for a while. In this, you would have reveled.

This is you and two girlfriends out on the town in Chicago. It's one of everyone's favorite photographs of you, circa 1940s.
This is you and two girlfriends out on the town in Chicago. It’s one of everyone’s favorite photographs of you, circa 1940s.

I do not think of you much during this time, because I have too few hooks on which to hang the limited memories. The room itself, aside from the mementos, was a unit, one in a hall of others just like it, visited by (thankfully) kind workers and the occasional wandering resident. But it is a not a part of your life I can connect to the rest.

There was no clothesline at Seminole Shores.

Last week, I watched a news segment on model and restaurateur B. Smith, whose early Alzheimer’s has fractured her life in premature and terrifying ways. (The excerpt above is a truncated version, edited by a full four minutes. The fuller, more honest transcript is here.) Her husband, Dan Gasby, is her caretaker. He reminds me very much of your son-in-laws; they too are steady and unwavering, but I would imagine that under Gasby circumstance, they would also feel very much out of their depth in suddenly having to care for a woman whose vibrancy and independence and ambition seemed to have been the very beacons guiding the course of their lives. Before she began to lash out at him and to ignore pointed questions, before she confessed to him what the doctors had told her about her condition, he and B. were business partners: she the visionary and public face, he the bulwark behind the scenes.

When I tell you that the segment staggered me, I am understating it. This woman, whose DC restaurant I visited often before it was shuttered, whose face I saw smiling up at me from packages of Betty Crocker cornbread mix for years, whose lifestyle series I’d watched on TV, struggled to answer questions about the date or found herself suddenly stifling a sob, and it disconcerted me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

I am heartbroken for her, irrevocably altered as her life has been and will be. And I marvel at her courage and candor, in willingly offering her story to the rest of us, as a call to reconsider how we think of Alzheimer’s and dementia. They are not diseases that only ravage the very old and the rapidly aging. And they are not illnesses from which we should avert our eyes. Loss of dignity isn’t in the involuntarily forgetting; it is in being discarded because of it.

I wish I had been more attentive. I would have more memory to write in the After and far less speculation. You had been gone for a long, long while in every sense but the bodily one. But I often wonder when the last of your memories retreated down whatever corridor where the rest of them were being held ransom. What were you able to hold onto longest?

I am fine not knowing. Consider that another mystery of our faith.


Here is what I know: you were deeply loved. You were frequently visited. And on the day that you died, I was there. You caregiver called in the morning. It was Saturday. We were speeding the 30-highway-minutes toward Seminole Shores when she called again to say that you were gone.

You looked like you were resting. We sat with your body for hours, waiting for the coroner. My father walked to the lake on the grounds and stared at it alone for a long while. All your children and some of your grandchildren arrived before you were taken to the mortician. We were alert and reverent, as you would’ve been, had it been any of us. The rest arrived later that night or by morning. We leaned on each other and spoke happily, vividly, accurately of you.

We still do. We have your letters, your photographs, an extensive chart of genealogy and most importantly, we have very different memories, distinct recollections and experiences of you. When we place them all together, when we shuffle and tilt and patch them, you reappear.

We still chase down that corridor, unearthing the many reams of your life that felt so irretrievable. We reclaim and recover you.

*You would not have loved this rendition of this hymn. Of that, I’m sure.