The World Against Me

I wonder how many feel the way I do. Unsafe in this world. It's a subtle paranoia that creeps on me every so often. When I go outside and see that patio chair has been broken, or my children's flower pots have been stolen (what's up with that) while my neighbors' things have been left undisturbed. When a neighbor moves in and parks on the street where we've been parking. Not because it's closer to their residence, but because they just want to take something from us. Their assigned parking is closer to them than the street parking.

Phone conversations with haughty, apathetic customer service representatives. The inability to get a check cashed in a bank that I have an account with. Businesses not returning messages. My son's doctor that refuses to answer the phone (or as I suspect, deliberately sends everything to voicemail when they don't feel like doing their jobs) so that I have to wait a week to get the same prescription refilled every month. My daughter's teacher who carelessly misinforms her and leaves her anxious because she trusts the teacher as an authority figure.

All these things make me feel insecure in this world. I'm surrounded by people whom I think would walk past my daughter if she were hurt on her way to and from school. My son's school has already proven that they don't care if they endanger his health because they don't want to administer the medication that he has in the nurse's office. My husband has been in a bind more than once where no one would help him when he's been stranded on the side of the road.

Me, I'm just thankful that no one has decided to shoot me dead. Would there even be an investigation? I think even my so-called friends would merely say, "Oh, that's tragic and move on pretty quickly."

I live in this world, but I'm not apart of this world. Every day that I step out in it is a reminder of that.

Spring Cleaning

So I'm cleaning out my house, from top to bottom. All very gross. I've hit the outside and now I just have...well, my bedroom left. Every time I have something that I don't know what to do with, I just dump it in my room. Now there's stacks of boxes everywhere in here, and I have no idea what I will do with them. I asked my husband to get me a shelf, but that probably won't help that much.

Honestly, my mind could use a little cleaning, too. I'm okay where I'm at--though I'm not satisfied. The question is: am I striving for complete satisfaction? Isn't that an impossibility?

I'm trying to fill my head with positives and truths so that there is less and less room for negativity and lies. I think this is a legitimate strategy...I'll know soon enough.

Having critical, judgmental, ugly, vulgar thoughts jump in my head at all hours is wearing me down. I hate not being in control of what's going on in my mind. No matter how much I try to control my thoughts, I can't get them in hand. Not even to decrease them.

Therefore, I will be trying out this new strategy (better than doing nothing about it, I'm thinking). Positive thinking with a sprinkling of reality for groundedness is just what I need to keep my inner self from being a wellspring of bitter anger that I've picked up from the world.

Families

The gradual shifting of who my family is has been completing for years now. I've left my childhood home and married my husband. We have our kids and we've moved away.

Now we head our own household. The bonds that tethered us to our parents and siblings were still strong in the beginnings of the founding of our new family. We wanted to rely on whom we've always had for decades out of habit and familiarity.

Negotiating new relationships and traditions seemed to a bother and a hassle for little return. Yet we slowly found reward in our perseverance.

I think now we're finding our own rhythms and pulses in our lives. I wonder how our children will reflect back on this time.

On the Cusp of Change?

I feel like the tide is turning in my life. That probably means a bad patch ahead, and there's nothing I can do to prepare for it. I definitely can't say that I'm ready for it.

However, I will face it with as much dignity as I can. And, hey, the future may hold something unexpected that may prove to be a joy.

Dear Enemy

I pray that you never get 

what you deserve.

Instead I hope that 

God blesses you

and keeps you,

opens your eyes and

your heart--

fills your life with

joy and truth.

I forgive the harm

and the hurt

that you've burdened on me.

For your sake, I pray

you accept the One

who can bring you

salvation.

I want for you

an eternity in happiness

by my side, laughing together,

dear enemy.

When Will I Feel I'm Home

I'm an alien in a strange land. This is not where I belong. I'm on a journey to my home; every day I make a step closer to that rest, that promise.

My extended family on my mother's side has been here for seven or so generations. Yet I don't feel this country is truly our home. If I saw on the news that a bill had been passed and that our family had to pack up and go because of whatever loophole the government or whoever made up, I wouldn't be surprised.

I bet we'd go, too. And without a fight. This doesn't feel like our home. We're tolerated here. Allowed. Not welcomed, not accepted. How can this be our home? When can we go home?

New Adventure

I've been wrestling with something lately (well, something new), and I think I've been worn down enough to accept what I need to do.

The only problem is this seems like a lead thing, rather than a follow thing. I don't do so good with leading. No one wants to follow me, for one. And I actually want this cause to be furthered, for two. I don't think I'd make much progress by myself. And the thing is I think I'll be by myself for much of this. That's a big part of why this is a problem I feel I've been led to tackle.

I'm so scared. Mostly that nothing will come of this, and I'll know that nothing can be done about the problem even though there are solutions. Easy ones.

An adventure...and a long road ahead.

My Heaven, Your Hell.

After the bright lights subside
there you stand, in the midst
of tall grasses and sweet air.

Humming reaches your ears
and you turn your head
in anticipation and eagerness.

Up there! What do you see?
Choirs of angels swaying in song...
But you frown at the noise.

They swing their shoulders
as they utter their praises
scats and beatboxing and rapping.

You cringe and pull your head
back in confusion and contempt.
Surely angels would sing hymns?

This isn't the reverent spirituals
befitting a great King. Would a Holy
God accept music such as this?

Before you can question further--
Over a hill women and men spill
to greet you with joyful smiles.

Your blood runs cold and your
own smile falls. Not very many
of them look very much like you.

Some have turbans. Others robes.
A few wear colored braids and
wild hairstyles you have never seen before.

Where are the familiar faces that you
expected? Surely this place would be
filled with the people you held dear.

In a sudden flash, you contemplate
the possibility that you have gotten
it all wrong; that this beautiful place

that you thought was full of angels
and saints was ridden with demons and
lost souls. Not Heaven, but Hell.

Dairy Update

Still not consuming the milks. Still bites the big one.

Made a 'cheesecake' with cashews (can't vegan stuff be cheaper?) from some random Internet recipe that was okay. Too much lemon juice. Really snappy flavor that hit the back of the throat. Real bright. I think I'll cut it with half fruit juice next time. I really liked the date and macadamia nut crust, though (as well I should---expensive!).

I'm going to try to figure out cheaper ghetto alternatives (are there ghetto vegans?). Too poor for this.

Why Peace Is So Stressful

Everyone wants more peace in their lives, right? Well, no. I don't think so. Peace is gained through struggle and sacrifice, not comfort and contentment. How can I be freed from worries and distractions and distress if I've never experienced them in the first place? Yet who wants more strife? Who wants to let go? Even when it's of something painful, we don't like to let go. That means losing--no one wants to be a loser.

So, we leave ourselves unchallenged. We settle, thinking we're satisfied. And we hold on to what we don't need and never empty our hands so that we have a chance to grab on to something of substance.

The hardest thing about peace is recognizing what it truly is.

Too Afraid to Hope for Rest

Isn't Sunday the day that I'm supposed to rest in the Lord? Yet I haven't really done that in a long time. And when I make the effort to plan that, those plans fall apart like one of my German chocolate cakes (but the cakes, at least, taste better when they crumble apart). Things come up, and I find myself running here and there and filling my day with this and that until it's time to sleep (or in my case, fall unconscious), and I've barely done the things that were piled on my plate.

Why is resting so much work?

Motivating Yourself When You're Behind

I feel like I can't ever catch up. There's a million things in front of me. It's not like I can just say, "Well, I'll just let them go." They are important things; that's why they are in front of me. I also have a billion things behind me that I've had to let go.

My days go by in a blur, and I have to cram, cram, cram it all in. I'm starting to learn to say, 'No' however. I guess that's a good thing? Doesn't feel so good.

Right now, I'm running in place. Might as well be running backwards. I have somewhere I need to get to, but for the life of me, I can't get there. I'm making no progress. I'm too weighed down to move.

Drastic Steps for His Well-being - Part the Second

When the school called me Tuesday, insisting that my son be sent home, I told them that he couldn't miss too many days. It wasn't right that the school send him home for so many days and then gave me a notice that he had missed a lot of days.

The girl I talked to told me to get his doctor to 1. fill out a form and send medications to school (which resulted in me sending him to school Thursday with a note telling them to use the medicines that he already has at school) 2. fill out a chronic illness form so that a certain number of absences will be automatically be excused.

So they send my son home with the illness form (and also a note explaining why they couldn't handle him at school--I insisted on it). I faxed it to the doctor. The doctor faxed it to the school. I call and confirm that with the doctor. I call the school.

"Did you receive a chronic illness form for --?"

"No, I did not."

"Oh, you didn't? I just called the doctor, and they said they just sent it?"

"Well, I'm sitting here looking right at the fax, and I don't see any form. Oh, you know what? I bet it's because the fax is broken."

Do you believe in God? Because I do. God has brought me through many a terrible situation in my life that I would have not otherwise have survived. Now back to your program currently in progress.

"When will it be fixed?"

"Probably by the end of the day. You know what you could do? Have your doctor scan it, and send me the scan in an email. Okay? Just do that."

"Okay?"
*she hangs up phone*

But I don't know her name or her email address. God's grace brings me through many a bad situation.

Not Himself

In the struggle to give my son an opportunity that he wouldn't otherwise have, I have shut the door on his potential.

When he was small, he was a typical boy with autism. He screamed and had tantrums and didn't smile so much and didn't like contact. I could barely keep him in school. None of the teachers wanted him in their classes.

I decided that I had to teach my son how to hide his symptoms so that he would be better accepted and so that he could survive in this life. I taught him how to make and keep eye contact. I taught him how to sit still for longer and longer periods of time. I taught him to seek out hugs. I taught him how to suppress his tantrums most of the time.

I taught him how to not be himself.

Only now am I realizing how stupid I've been. At school, when my son is feeling bad and doesn't want to deal with school, do you know what he does? He acts like himself. He screams and throws tantrums.

The teachers throw up their hands and give up on him and send him home. They supposedly specialize in children with autism, but they can't handle my son on the very few days out of the school term when he acts out. "He's not acting like the student I know." Well, you never knew him. Then they simply throw him away; they reject who he really is.

I can no longer abide by this. Why am I teaching my son to act like someone else to make them comfortable when they don't appreciate that? They think I'm lucky to have my son. They're ignorant of all the hard work my son, family, and I have put into his behavior. They think that he's a happy little mistake. They're blind to the truth.

He's not my mistake; he's my blessing.

In a Fuzzy Place

I'm definitely not in a 'good' place, but I can't discount my blessings. My health issues are slowly receding, and I think that I've been learning a lot about myself and where I stand.

I know without a doubt that I'm not in control--in any situation I'm allowing some force, good or bad, and I have to be very careful about my choices. Sometimes I make them carelessly, unaware.

Forgiving without Forgetting

I'm called to not only forgive, but to intercede for those who have wronged me. They are people, worthy of eternity. This is so easy to forget.

However, their past deeds do not fade from my mind. These things leave scars that never heal. I'm left with the seams that I trail my thoughts over, hating the feel but unable to help the obsession. How do I get past it? I'm stuck here in this circular pattern. I want out of this trap.

I am a network of ridges, dimples, and scabs. Infections lay underneath, waiting to boil up and fester. Is this the result of forgiveness or un-forgiveness? I think I'm asking the wrong questions. It's the outcome of unmended relationships that have trickled down to every arena of my life. I absolved my betrayers' responsibilities, while believing that I must take them over. No.

I must let them go. I cannot carry them for they are too heavy and too painful to hold. The scars are unsurprising.

Yet even as I move on from the hurts, the memory of them follows. Can I outrun them? No, that would be an unnecessary effort. I am to use them, empower myself. They are evidence of bestowed strength, and I would be foolish to escape that.

I must never forget that, although at times my focus skews inward and I wallow in my pain because I am thinking small. The meanness of my perceptions pushes out everyone who stands beside me until I convince myself that I am alone. My vision then grows smaller and smaller until I can no longer see. I've blinded myself.

Now when I try to open my eyes, I am still in the dark. Even if light comes near, I turn away. It hurts my eyes. But the deepness of my void scares me, and I begin searching for that light. It's a futile exercise with sightless eyes.

I want out so I finally decide to find help. By this point I'm broken and ashamed--all because someone wronged me. I'm led back into the world and startled to find people waiting for me. But I forget that I'm not helped yet. I'm still holding onto something, my hands spasming.

Somewhere down the road I get used to keeping my hands closed. But I slam against a wall and to protect myself I open my hands. I drop those debts that don't belong to me, still unpaid. Then, I ask for them to be taken away. The burden that lifts amazes me.

What do I do know? I move on and use those ghosts that don't quite recede to build myself up and to keep my eyes open for those who are in the same position I once was. But what about the betrayer in my life. I forgave, but do I have a right to demand change?

That I don't know.

Being Patient

Something's been bugging me about how I've been treated by doctors since I've become an adult (when I've noticed more how people interact with me). I feel as if I've been treated with an apathetic attitude, as if I don't matter all that much. I'll go to review sites and see that most of the other patients really like the doctor so that I feel that I've seen a completely different doctor.

I now have a doctor (actually a nurse practitioner) whom I trust and think would take steps to see that my problems or concerns are addressed. When I ask questions, I'm not dismissed or given monosyllabic answers. It's a refreshing change, and unfortunately, I'm quite unused to it.

The doctor I had before her 1. did not answer my questions 2. did not seem concerned that I felt ill 3. was overall kind of rude, as if I was keeping her from doing her job somehow, even though I was her job. Yet I see the reviews and no one else has a problem. There have been many occasions in which I have been misdiagnosed (ulcers, stomach infections, obesity!) because various doctors have not felt it necessary to give me simple tests that would have shown the cause. They treated me as if I'm lying about every symptom I have.

My son's doctor is getting better now that he's getting to know us, but why should how long he's known us affect how well he treats my son? The last doctor I took him to kind of held us at arm's length. He also did that annoying thing where he asked why we were there when he was the one who requested that we make the follow-up appointment. So while the current doctor needs to work on his bedside manner, he's an improvement. I hope he takes my concerns about my son's legs seriously on our next visit.

And my husband? His experiences are sickening. For instance, two years ago he had a simple problem, but when he went to see the clinic, the doctor stood at the door and wrote him a prescription after he gave her a short description of what was wrong. She also said something might be wrong with his liver and then left the room.

The ethnicity of the doctor doesn't matter, though gender does (my family and I have been treated horribly by female doctors). Black doctors (including an Nigerian one), white doctors, Asian doctors, etc. all have a record of poor service for me and my family.

I have no idea what this means.

Chicken & Watermelon

My husband told me something extraordinarily funny: he won't eat watermelon in public. He thinks that  doing so would perpetuate a stereotype. He likes watermelon as well as any other fruit, but that particular one has too much negative meaning.

"Yeah, and then I'll bury my face in a wedge and spit out the seeds like a machine gun." He'd then demonstrate the seed spitting--side to side in an ignorant way. It was a messy eating of a person who doesn't know much. What would always make me laugh was how vehement he would look while doing it. "I's sho duz like me some waddermelons!" he'd say, pumping a fist to the side. Sometimes he'd add an irrelevant "Massah!" for effect.

There's sadness mixed in his portrayal. He can't be who he really is. If he reaches for watermelon, there's all of this judgment and contempt attached to it. It becomes a spectacle. Even if no one else around him would think that and he knew that, he'd know that image was in the collective mind. He wouldn't even eat any at a church friend's home because he said he can't in front of white people. His main problem was that it was still on the rind. It being cubed and in a bowl would have let him keep some dignity, I guess.

The simple act of showing like for a certain piece of food becomes a dilemma. I remember from my high school days an incident that occurred during our lunch. They had cooked too much fried chicken (they usually ran out of food) and since they didn't want to throw it out, they offered more portions to the students. Well, the principal came to the "black tables" first. I don't remember any of us accepting the offer, although some white kids did. We never mentioned what had happened among ourselves either. Why talk about the mundane?

Racism isn't the problem here. It helped to cement those stereotypes we can't quite run from, but that's not what I'm feeling now. It doesn't seem as if we can ever escape the past; we wear it on our backs like dowager humps.

There's all kinds of things that I don't dare do or say around those who aren't my closest friends (some of my closest friends are different ethnicities) because I don't want to be laughed at. I don't want to put an image in someone's head who doesn't know better that they will carry around with them and spread. It's beyond making a fool of me; I'm worried about making a fool of us. I think that's a little of what my husband faces when someone sets a plate of watermelon or fried chicken in front of him.

The Problem with Rap

"As long as it's not rap."

Then there's the awkwardness of people trying to look at me or my husband from the sides of their eyes. Trying to gauge our reactions without us noticing. But of course we notice. We see the false preoccupation with lint on shirts or pants or hair. We feel every scrape and creak of the chairs we sit in. All around us bodies make to go places, but are confined, going nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

We are black and so we must like rap. Are we offended? Not in the way one would assume. Rap is not my favorite genre of music, for one. Yet when people sneer at the thought of it, I become a target of that disdain, whether or not that was the intention (and sometimes that is the intention). At that point, I wonder what else this person is intolerant of. What else is presumed of me that they'd rather not exist?

Easily Offended or Easily Offensive (Black People Can Dance)

How should we deal with those who say or do things that can be perceived as prejudiced? Do we let that person know? Do we let it go? What if it's an ongoing situation with someone whom you are forced to interact with almost every day?

Pictured: "Blue Congealed 

Wobbling Blob of Copyright",

Abi Paramaguru

I like to avoid issues that deal with racial prejudices. It's not that I'm in denial or anything like that. It's that I'd like to move on from the whole situation of being “oppressed.” I don't like being reminded that my ethnicity or race limits me because of what others think about it. I could waste my whole life wallowing in the injustice of it. I think if I can live the life that I'm striving for that that will send a stronger message than focusing on what's wrong, what could be better. I'm trying to live better, and I think that I should be living for God and me, not somebody who's trying to keep me down.

Then there are the situations where it's not that the person is actively trying to keep me down, but his or her ignorance is nevertheless doing that. This is very difficult to deal with, when a person's intentions are not lined up with the actions the person makes. In fact, these very people may be only trying to help, but their underlying beliefs and values are doing the opposite of what they meant.