Grandmother Clock

There’s a point in life when a wheelchair begins to resemble a stroller, and the one that once cared for you needs caring for. I never thought that point would come so soon, and at 17 years old, I wasn’t ready to accept it. As I took a deep breath and walked into the hospital room, memories of a childhood long gone played like a broken music box, only opened to hear the mystic tune that once calmed you. I walked past the curtain that hid her bed, and then I saw her. Her appearance came to me as a surprise, as if I didn’t expect her to be laying there. But that wasn’t her, that wasn’t my grandma. That woman laying there had wrinkled hands layered together that looked like the roots of a tree. She had a fragile body that looked like a glass porcelain doll that had been kept in the attic for decades, ready to crack at any moment. She had eyes glued shut as if she would never see the joy of daylight ever again. I couldn’t take it. I ran out of the room, crying hysterically.

My grandmother , born Mamie Davis, was a woman who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was a hefty woman, with a presence that demanded attention. Her short and stout physical appearance challenged that of her loud and playful personality. She had perfect bronze skin, curly thick hair, and a smile that said, “I’m not going to let this world get me down.” She helped raised me shortly after I was born. I remember her soft hands always braiding my hair so that it would grow long and thick. I often cried and fought her, because a four year old had no patience for the process of beauty. She’d always win the battle, with me falling asleep in her arms as she braided in a rhythm that resembled a gentle melody. I remember her waiting to pick me up outside my school. She’d always be talking to the crossing guard, and I’d run up to her quietly, mindful that I was not to interrupt “grown folks’ business.” I remember her making my favorite meal, chicken and rice. At the dinner table, when I was able to get my favorite food by myself, she’d say, “Wow! Sharon is a big girl now!” Then one cold day in January, when I was seven, she left. My parents told me that she was ready to live on her own again in Connecticut. I’d figure she’d move back in within 3 or 4 months, but she never came back. An empty lull fell over the house, and in my heart.

Over the next few years, she’d come back for some Christmases, Thanksgivings, and birthdays. My sister and I would spend two weeks each summer with her, but it wasn’t the same. Then, one visit, she began to complain about how someone in her apartment building was stealing things from her; a figurine here, a pair of earrings there. She decided to move, but she found the same problem in her new apartment, so moved again. And again. And again. By the time she had moved in with my uncle, it was clear that something wasn’t right with my beloved grandmother.

Eventually, childhood toys faded into obsessions with boys and I hit the peak of my teenage years. With all the drama, heartache, and trivial activities going on in my life, I had no time to pick up a phone and call my grandmother. My sister would call her every week, and stay on the phone with her even if the conversation was about something as insignificant as the lottery. I could never pick up that phone, but I always heard my mother on it arguing with either my grandmother, or one of my aunts and uncles about her. I’d always ask, “ Mom, is grandma okay?” She’d reply, “ Your grandmother can just be really cruel sometimes. Because she took care of us, she thinks it’s only right that one of her children take care of her. She wants us to wait on he hand and foot.” I couldn’t believe it. My grandmother, loving and understanding, would never treat her own children that way. I grew angry with my mom, aunts, and uncles. I couldn’t understand how they could be so selfish, as to ignore the pleas of their own mother. Later on, I’d ask myself how could I be so selfish, as to ignore the pleas of my own grandmother, simply wanting to know what was going on in my life.

The arguing grew worse, and almost every night my mother had a yelling match with someone in the family over my grandmother. Then one night, senior year, the situation climaxed. It was November 1, 2011. I was sitting at home on my bed, finishing up my common app essay, fixating over my failing math grade, and arguing with my ex- boyfriend all at the same time. My stress level had reached its peak when my mom decided to call everyone down for dinner. I sat at the table quietly, pushing my rice and chicken around my plate. My mother decided to break the silence by announcing that she had bad news. I laughed, because my day couldn’t get any worse than it possibly was at that very moment.

“So you guys know that your grandmother hasn’t been well, and she has been behaving oddly. Well, today I got a call from your aunt, and she told me that your grandmother has a tumor.”

I froze.

“It’s benign, thank God. She should be okay. We’re going to go see her Thanksgiving- Sharon, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine mom. Um, may I be excused?”

I ran up the stairs to my room and bawled. The remainder of the pieces of my world that I could salvage came crashing down that day

.

It’s no surprise that on Black Friday, which was truly the darkest day of the year for me, I broke down and cried again when I saw her. My sister came to console me in the hospital hallway. “Sharon, you have to be strong. Please, be strong.” She gave me some tissues, and I slowly dragged myself back into the room. I came to find out that same day that my grandmother had dementia, a form of Alzheimer’s. She knew exactly who me and my sister were, but it was as if she was stuck in 1996. She kept pleading for us to sit with her on her lap, so she could rock us to sleep as if we were little children again. I wanted to cry, but I bit back the tears. I walked up to her slowly, and held her hand. Whether she was holding the hand of a two year old or a young adult doesn’t matter; all I knew was I there with her .

Sometimes I cry because I know I will never get to see my short and stout, Cheshire-cat smile grandmother ever again. I will never get to hear her voice without her thinking that I am a child. Sometimes I cry because she won’t get to see how well I’ve done. She won’t get to see me cross the finish line of education this June, even though she was with me at the starting point. I cry as I type this because my grandmother was my rock. I never thought I’d see the day she’d be anything less than a strong, independent black woman. However; although she has dementia, she is still living and breathing, and I know that parts of her soul are living and breathing inside of me.

She

African and American.
As if the ancestors blew the roots of sun kissed Africa into her eyes,
Resounded through her thighs,
So she would glimmer amongst the dark skies.
See, shes so special tbat the sun gave her its rays so she could share that joy with the world on the days that it is hiding in the clouds.
It seems as if mother nature created her own competition,
Because she has a body like waves against the ocean,
Breasts like the forbidden fruit of eve,
And eyes that have been hand picked from the spectrum of the rainbow.
Pretty, a word not worthy of her dignity,
Beautiful, that's what she is to me. 

The Dark Side of the Rainbow

Imagine two, middle aged African American women walking down the street. One is an English professor, and a philanthropist. The other is a self-publishing author and pediatrician. They may be the epitome of what it means to be successful in America; they may have contributed more than ay other woman in a fifteen mile radius, but for most people, the one attribute that they have that stands out against all the others, is that they are homosexual. Gay. Society has twisted and manipulated this orientation into something viewed as dreadful and ugly because of a deep unsettling fear of deviations from the mainstream, and sheer ignorance. For this reason, the women may be ostracized in their sororities, in their neighborhood, and even their own workplace. The wound is cut the deepest, however, when they are rejected by their own people: the black community.

Each person is left vulnerable to their family, friends, and community, in which they thrive off of their love, understanding, and acceptance. What happens, however, when a community fails to support their own? When they label their reflections as disgusting? When they reject their friends for being “different” or refuse to show up at a sibling’s wedding because they do not agree with who they are? Black homosexuals face these questions everyday because our community has turned them into lepers. Untouchable. Factors that are paralyzing the fibers of our community, such as gangs, drugs, and guns, are overlooked or seen as parts of life that people have become accustomed to. Yet, homosexuality is condemned on a daily basis. There may be reasons erroneous to homophobia in the black community, but the underlying causes are the importance of masculinity, the structure of family, and the black church.

For decades, the black male has acted as the strength and the backbone of a family. They have been looked upon to endure hardships and retain a facade of infinite resilience that masks ongoing emotional trials. Recently, this facade has evolved into an intensified, hypermascunline trademark that is a black male cultural reflection of the market materialism of American society. Somehow, homosexuality threatens this trademark. However, homosexuality is not the threat to the black male race when 60% of the jail population consists of African American men. It is not the threat when 47% of African American males drop out of high school. The hatred of homosexuals is only adding to the degradation of the stereotype of black males. It might be time to reverse that trend.

Homophobia is escalated when it comes to the structure of the black family. The family each person is born into and the environment they are raised in contributes to the type of person they will become. There is a contention that homosexuality is a detriment to a family. Perhaps it is assumed that because homosexuals cannot have their own children, they should not be having children at all, or that two males and two females cannot raise children as well as a family with one male and one female can because there is no role model of the opposite sex. With 66% of African American children in single parent homes, it is not appropriate to question the competency of homosexuals in raising children. Homosexuals have had to overcome obstacles on a universal level as well as challenge authority just to love one another; if a family is built off of love, caring, stability, and nurture, then they are more than competent in this task.

The greatest participant in homophobia is the black church. Based off of the values and teachings of our Lord, the black church is hardly a stranger to understand and steadfast love. With homosexuality, it is a different case. The same Bible that pro-slavery supporters distorted to condone the evils of slavery is being abused against homosexuality. Each person conveys the message of God differently, but one message is clear: God created humankind in his image. If we were all created in his image, we were then made to love and honor one another the way God loves us, despite sexual identity. In this way, the black community is called to support their own.

Remember that not so long ago, the black community was not acknowledged as citizens but rather as a destitute class incorrigible and incapable of having rights. Not so long ago we struggled to overcome the repressive nature of this country and battled to gain the privileges owed to every human being. Not so long ago we fought the injustices of a close-minded nation so that we could be recognized as more than just a skin color but inventors, innovators, and intellectuals. Members of our own community are going through a similar struggle, and calling out for the same recognition. As a race constantly growing, evolving, and thriving, only we can help free our own from the oppressive, dark side of the rainbow; thereby taking one more step towards unity.

Chasing Disney

As a little girl, the first types of movies I was exposed to were Disney princess movies. Each princess came off as glamorous and beautiful, and at the end of every movie they ended up with a handsome prince. It seemed as if the pursuit of the prince made up the story, and the prince himself defined who each princess was. Who was Cinderella without Prince Charming? Who was Belle without the Beast?

As I grew older, I unknowingly became a copy of these supposed heroines. Like the queen in Snow White, I needed a “mirror on the wall”, or the perspective of a male, to validate my beauty. Like Ariel, I sacrificed my voice for meaningless relationships. The plot of my own life became a search to find prince charming, and without this mystical man, I was unhappy.

While anticipating the coming of my prince, I stumbled upon something truly iniquitous. The women portrayed as evil in each princess movie were the only women who spoke their minds and made decisions based off of their “evil” conscience rather than a male. At this point, I concluded that I’d rather be my own, independent person , rather than a pawn . I know now that I control my happily ever after. My true joy will come from becoming a successful, respected woman.

This essay represents the transformation I am going through as I near the time to leave all that is known to me. I am experiencing a spiritual growth, and in that way I am cutting the ties that American pop culture had on me as a young girl. I now believe that the pop culture may represent America but it does not represent each young woman, and it does not paint a picture of who I am as an individual or who I will be. My struggle for self-discovery and self-acknowledgement will soon be fulfilled because I know the true definition of a woman is not the reflection of a man, but the strength and endurance found in our very own souls.