Mother of the Dance

Last July, I received a phone call that quite literally took my breath away. It came amidst a period of upheaval and chaos, not personal but national--it was the Monday of that same week that would upend the Presidential election. Imagine me thinking that the worst thing that could possibly happen in a year was the death of my Mom. Sadly, one of the ironies of life is it's hold my beer or glass of sweet white wine¹ way of reminding us that things can always get worse. So, I instinctively dreaded that when I got a call from an old friend (her daughter-in-law) in the middle of the afternoon, the reason why she was calling was not just to check in. It was to inform me that my long-time dance teacher, Mrs. Rosetta A. Brooks (Mrs. B) had passed unexpectedly.

I had intended to publish this tribute back in September. I wrote a version of the second half (after the jump) in August and had hoped to have it read at her memorial service. But for a variety of reasons, things didn't work out, so Plan B was to post it here right before the implosion of the election. Then came the holidays, more distractions, and the realization that maybe it isn't my imagination that I'm finding it a lot harder to focus or finish anything lately.

Instead of lamenting that particular downside of aging, I figured that at the right time I would eventually make my way back to finishing what I started. Eight months later, we were driving back from New Jersey and while listening to a late afternoon gospel music program out of Baltimore, I heard a song² that I thought I knew but couldn't place how or why. Normally, that kind of disconnect would have caused me to fixate until solving the riddle; however, by the second verse I recognized it as part of a suite of familiar dance pieces. 

According to the calendar, it has been a year since the last time I saw Mrs. B at my daughter's dance recital, June 1, 2024. Each week, I sit in my car not far from the very spot where we had our last conversation. To think that interaction almost did not happen...but God. In a seemingly random series of ways, everything divinely aligned. Instead of leaving immediately after the show, I had my daughter pose for pictures in both of her costumes, which took time. I'm sure that I got to chatting with some folks whom I hadn't seen in a while as that is the nature of these kinds of event. When I made it outside, I saw my Dad's priest wandering past, so I stopped to talk with him. Then finally, on my way to my car, I saw Mrs. B slowly trudging her way across the courtyard to her car. Although I was used to seeing her walk with a cane, she seemed to be moving a lot more cautiously, almost dragging her body alongside a much taller walking stick that was twice her height. As always, she was toting more than one bag including one that held several bouquets of flowers she had received in honor of her being named director emerita of the studio.

My daughter had given her one of those bouquets, which turned out to be another one of those random impulses that God must have whispered into my spirit. I had dropped the Kid off to get ready for the show, and with a little time to fill before it began, I made a quick side trip to Trader Joe's to buy wine and flowers. I snapped up a few bouquets for my dancer, her teachers, and since I knew that Mrs. B was expected to attend, I grabbed one for her as well. Until the previous October, she had been one of the Kid's teachers too. 

Until that previous October, it would have been inconceivable to think of St. Mark's Dance Studio and not have a simultaneous thought or memory of the ubiquitous Rosie Brooks. The very suggestion of her retiring was taboo, even if she was the person floating that trial balloon. Thus, when she had to take medical leave unexpectedly, we all hoped it would be temporary. In 40 years, I had never known her to get sick or injured enough to miss teaching classes. Paradoxically, it should have occurred to me that if she needed to take a medical leave of absence, then whatever the cause was a lot more serious than we wanted to believe. Therefore, I never imagined that our catch-up in the parking lot that day would be our last. Or that as we chatted about my Mom and she reassured me that I should take all of the time I needed to grieve, I would need to apply that same advice to my feelings about losing her.

In life, we aren't always given opportunities to let our loved ones know how much they mean to us. Sure, we have special holidays, formal observances, greeting cards, etc., but transitions don't tend to coincide with those moments. We become aware in hindsight or once we've missed the moment and promised to do better the next time. What happens if there is no next time? How to cope with the reality that you didn't make good on that promise to stop by one afternoon while she was teaching? Nor get to drop in to take a class for the first time since the pandemic? Nor just come to sit and chat like we used to in that big gap of time she had midday before her afternoon classes? How do you accept that you really never told her how much she meant to you because you had all of these ideas about how that should be communicated in some grand fashion, but she died before you got to formalize the proposal, let alone implement any plans?

Maybe that's why the church folks always tell us that we have to give people their flowers when they are able to smell them. Because six weeks later, I got that phone call and that meant I would not get to make good on any of my promises to visit. Instead of the retirement celebration I had envisioned to include testimonials and revival performances of some of her classic pieces, there was a memorial service. 

That I had to watch online from the road because of a scheduling conflict...

Presuming that eight months of procrastination can indeed be blamed on brain fog and aging, it could also be that I felt a bit ashamed and a heap of guilt that this would be the only way I would ever get to express any appreciation for this relationship that spanned 40 years. Had I known that I wouldn't get another chance to do anything meaningful, what more could I possibly have said in that parking lot? Thank you? For not dismissing me as some gangly limbed freak when I showed up to start ballet classes at the ripe old age of 10? Thank you for seeing whatever it was you saw in me that kept me dancing all of those years. Thank you for being tough and honest and pushy because I needed to be challenged, disciplined, and encouraged. Thank you for loving my daughter. Thank you for being more than a dance teacher because you were also a confidant, a mentor, a life coach, and most of all, a friend.

It hasn't taken me all this time just to say thanks. It has taken me almost a year to confront my guilt and release my regrets for not being able to show up as I would have wanted. If writing this was the least I could do, then leaving it unfinished to languish in the drafts has been the worst. So it was not mere happenstance that something as subtle as a song inspired me to return to this piece. It was a nudge and a reminder that this was never supposed to be about me...but about her. 

A year ago, some of her former students, my daughter among them, got to dance for her. Instead of being worried about the behind-the-scenes technical stuff, Mrs. B got to sit and watch the show. For all I know, this might have been the first time in 40 years that she wasn't running everything. In that unscripted, serendipitous encounter in the parking lot, she praised how well everything had been managed in her absence. It must have filled Mrs. B with pride upon seeing what she had built, with confidence that we could carry on, and with reassurance that she had trained us so well. In essence, she had received something far more substantial than bunches of grocery store flowers--she got to bear witness to all she had done at and for SMDS all these years. Assurance that her legacy would endure and flourish is the kind of gratification that is priceless and beautiful beyond words. 

My daughter in costume from
Mrs. B's recital piece in 2023

The next part is what I wrote for the memorial service on behalf of the disbanded dance company/former students/current parents, but for the sake of expediency in the planning process, it got dropped from the program. Then because I couldn't be there in person, it seemed appropriate to convert my remembrance into a reflection to be read privately by her family. However, there was no way I could allow 800 words to suffice as my final farewell given the nature of our 40-year relationship. The version published after the jump is longer than what was submitted to the family...one of the perks/pitfalls of editing my own blog. 

 -- ADH

Daddy's Home

The DNC definitely feels like a lifetime ago in dog years, and this is one of those times when I wish I hadn't let myself get so caught up in my head. This piece was supposed to have been a homage to all of that Good Dad energy we saw back in August and as a September birthday tribute to my Dad. Welp...

Yesterday I saw a snippet of a Sunday news roundtable and one of the participants, Rep. Byron 'not Brian' Donalds exclaimed "Daddy's home" as part of his comments on the return of Trump. In addition to losing my appetite, his statement prompted me to revisit and post this piece. I will post the bulk of what I initially wrote with minimal edits, then provide my updated commentary after the jump. --ADH

I watched Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff's address to the Democratic National Convention and came away with all of the warm and fuzzies. I like him, a lot. I have had something of a soft spot for him ever since I saw a clip of a campaign event back in 2019 where someone tried to rush the stage at then-Sen.  Kamala Harris. And with the speed of Clark Kent changing into Superman, Emhoff was up on that stage and standing in between his wife and her would-be assailant in the kind of 'oh snap' moment that could only endear him to women everywhere as that dude.

A few weeks ago, right before Madam VP Harris announced her choice of running mate, I happened to see an interview with a burly white-haired guy who referred to the former DESPOTUS and his newly appointed running mate, James David Vance as weird. And I liked him, a lot. Because there was something about the way he tagged these men as uncool, in spite of their delusions, that definitely made sense. Later when the Hub and I discussed potential running mates, our mutual favorite was that same burly guy from Minnesota, so I was absolutely ecstatic he was her choice.

The week prior to the Convention, I received an email that invited me to attend a town hall with President Biden (and Madam VP), and I jumped at the chance. I tried to convince my Dad to attend with me because I thought, how many times does he get to go to political events? He initially agreed to tag along, then declined in order to attend Mass...and until the moment when I realized I would be close enough to take a picture of the President, Vice President, and the Governor of Maryland in a crowd where there were only four to six people between us, I figured Dad had made the right call. My insistence on staying at this event was pure obstinance; I imagine my Dad, who is a tolerant man, still would not have wagered on that kind of patience paying off. But I like Biden, a lot. And this was my way of counteracting the FOMO I felt by not being able to go to Chicago for the convention.

I waited up late to hear former President Barack Obama even though we've all heard him speak a thousand times (but we still miss him). I was in the car and happened upon former President Bill Clinton's speech, fully remembering that he has a tendency to just talk and talk (and talk). I still need to go back to listed to the entirety of President Biden's convention speech because that started and went on way past my bedtime. I really appreciate that Governor Tim Walz, the burly football Coach chosen to be her running mate, understood the assignment to give us the perfect win-one-for-the-Gipper keynote/pep talk in 15 minutes or less.

I don't know about you, but I liked LOVED all of the positive Dad energy that was being spread by these Democratic men. It's all very soothing, in a retro yet very modern kind of way. On the one hand, it seems contradictory to feel so reassured by their presence in a year when we are looking to elect a woman to be the Leader of the Free World; yet on the other hand, also radical to feel so elated that they are happily standing in-formation beside some formidable, badass women!

And they LOVE it too!

For half a second, I was ready to offer a similar complimentary nod to James David for his full-throated, you don't want none of this smoke response in defense of his wife, Usha. Almost...but, I can't because of every other toxic attack he has made against childless women or against the military service of the Coach in the past couple of weeks. The vibe I get from him is that of a guy who talks really big and tough, until forced into a corner. Thus, even in defense of his wife, if he had to actually stand up for her, I think he would make up some distraction to give him cover to cut and run. It's giving Ted Cruz blaming his wife for booking a vacation to Cancun during an ice storm. Or that clip of Josh Hawley running to hide under his desk that never gets old.

I am just learning about these new Greek-letter categories of men--alphas, betas, sigmas, etc., so I'm not quite clear on the distinctions but to be honest, I don't care. I know that the so-called alphas are on top of the food chain, but that's if your diet consists of Cheetos, protein bars, and energy drinks. Their patron saint is the former DESPOTUS, which is kinda yikes if we're supposed to look at him as some exemplar of virile masculinity and strength...

But that's not where I'm going with this. Because they're the ones who poke fun of those other men who are different, sensitive, married to women they actually like. They are the guys who enforce the high school caste system of jocks, nerds, goths, stoners, etc., and can't readjust to redefine themselves beyond adolescence. They are forever frozen in a world where Hulk Hogan is the still WWF Champion...

All of that positive Dad energy emanating from Emhoff, Walz, Obama, Clinton, and Biden contrasts with the retro projections of Father Knows Best the other side has been promoting for decades. For years they have attempted to paint the Democrats as the Mommy party of feelings and participation trophies while presenting themselves as the Daddy party of hunting and golfing. And for the life of me, I don't get why we're supposed to believe that a bunch of Dads dressed in company logo shirts and Dockers have a better handle on things than a bunch of Dads driving minivans to carpool their kids to soccer games. Because hello, the Moms were the ones holding it ALL down anyway. Who made sure Dad didn't forget the snacks and water? Who did his laundry because the last time he forgot to sort everything came out pink? 

(Before anybody hits back with a whatabout single Dads, don't worry, I am not forgetting about nor short-changing them.)

Consider the ways the Alphabots have attempted to define the manhood of their opponents in feminine terms: Tampon Tim (too attentive) and Sleepy Old Joe (too old and feeble), for example. Their attempts to make Obama look like a menacing urban thug never took hold, (and they didn't see the endless potential in calling him Urkel) so they attack his wife to imply that he's gay. And because the only thing worse than being happily married to a Black woman is being a gay man, they poke fun of Pete Buttigieg for taking paternity leave after the birth of his twins. 

Take a second to really think about that: they ridiculed a man for being the kind of Dad who wants to do more than just empty the diaper genie when he gets home from work. Imagine being so rigid in your idea of gender roles as to be intimidated by the sight of a baby's poop.

Their disdain for what they perceive as weakness in men is really a hard-wired hatred for women they cannot control. We've been telling you that for decades, but some of you remain unconvinced that the man who goes on the attack against every woman who stands up to him is a thin-skinned unrepentant misogynist. His current running mate, James David the Toady...let's just say that I have my theories, or that he's been doing all of this non-stop campaigning so that he doesn't have to keep sleeping on the couch in his Senate office.

Those man-babies saw all of that joy and fun at the DNC and responded with full tilt mantrums. They can't fathom a world where a man would take to the stage and speak glowingly about a woman he admires for qualities other than her looks. They can't believe that half this country looks upon Madam VP as a beacon of hope and light, and that her supporters aren't just a bunch of childless cat ladies, but also a bunch of happy warrior Dads in flannel shirts who aren't afraid of strong, independent women.

These people hate that our Dads love us for exactly who we are. Our Dads love our tattoos, un-plucked eyebrows, and general weirdness because we're their daughters. Our Dads don't try to shame our brothers when they get overcome with emotion because they have taught them that it's okay for real men to cry if they have to. Our Dads aren't ashamed to say that they love us and that they are proud of who we are. 

Mind you, all of this gushing over the Democratic Dads doesn't assume that these qualities are ideological. Because Real Dads come in every political flavor. Good fathers are the kind of men who teach values to their children. They teach their sons how to look a person straight in the eye, give a firm handshake, and reassure their daughters that their ambitions can be infinite and unlimited. Good fathers sometimes have to work multiple jobs in order to keep the lights on and the food on the table, but they do it because they see it as their responsibility. Good fathers don't make manhood a thing they put on display for Christmas greeting cards, but in daily acts of setting positive examples in their homes. Real Dads respect and honor the women they have children with, even if they aren't married to them. They don't get on social media to complain about child support ruining their credit rating or wealth building because they recognize that the money spent on raising their children is an investment.

For all of the talk about how feminists hate men, I bet some of y'all are surprised to read all of this praise from me...but you shouldn't be. Instead of finding fault with a movement that seeks to give women the same rights of self-determination and choice, you should find fault with a hierarchal mindset that teaches men that gender equality is an existential threat. Freedom for women doesn't displace men, it liberates us all. 

As I gush on about these other men, I can't help but to look at the men in my family. My Hub is totally that guy when it comes to our daughter. He's going to be that Dad in the feminine hygiene aisle asking some random woman if she can help him figure out wings and absorbencies because I'm going to be off Busy Black Womaning somewhere and our Niece won't be answering her phone. I can totally see my Brother K as the carpool Dad, easily alternating between sports and dance recitals. Brother O is the girl Dad MVP around here, so you already know that man is battle-tested and ain't scared.

My Dad, well...he's the reason why I'm not the kind of feminist who hates men. He has been and continues to be the best example of all the traits I admire and applaud--compassionate, considerate, respectful, responsible, and unapologetic in his love for his family. Not that I didn't see all of this in him throughout my life, but especially since my Mom's transition, I see my Dad with more clarity. He's the same age as Trump, so they were raised in the same era and witnessed the evolution of women's rights. 

Still Not Aspiring to Be Humble

Last week, I went mean girl on someone, and instead of over-thinking whether I should have been more demure and mindful with my words, I leaned in. And in the most-Audrerific way (my new word for when I'm channeling my Mom), I essentially told him to cry harder. Not today, not tomorrow, and not ever again Satan!

If you light a match, you better be ready for this smoke! Now that I am a woman of a certain age, I am no longer measuring my words nor apologizing for being who and what I am, especially not when like Toyota, you asked for it.

Obviously, there is a backstory, and it starts with a Facebook post in a group. This is a mixed, intergenerational group of HBCU alumni, so there are posts that run the gamut from super serious to seriously stupid. And most folks know that, thus depending on the mood a post that is seriously stupid might be exactly what is needed to lighten the mood, while on other days it might cause someone to get their feelings hurt. The same is true for super serious posts--we may or may not be willing to engage in intellectual debates about why a grown man not getting his plate fixed at a family gathering is the reason why the Black family is in decline...so you gotta roll the dice and see what happens.

For whatever reason, there had been a series of sexist posts, including quite a few that IRL would result in somebody sleeping in his car or on his boy's couch. These seriously stupid posts started popping up right before Homecoming, which is usually when folks engage in all manner of tomfoolishness, and also why it didn't get called out and shut down sooner. Nevertheless, by late-November, weeks past Homecoming and with most of our group recuperating from the Election, the mood was definitely super serious.

The post at issue was a classic rate this woman, the same sort of foolywang that allegedly launched The Facebook in a Harvard dorm room (according to Aaron Sorkin's movie) or that was premise of Hot or Not--the grandfather of sexism on the Al Gore's internet. Some dude had the chutzpah to pose such a query, then logged off for the rest of the day--which only made the backlash in response to his post that more intense. His departure from the scene for hours led folks to question why this had slipped past our moderators and whether our group had been infiltrated. At some point, I happened upon his post, and as per the rules of engagement since the election have been that I am NOT in the mood for any fuckery, I pounced. I posted one sentence about how this post would have been more appropriate for a private group chat and then added this Audrerific: but you must not have any friends...and Lawd, it went viral!

Now, I know what I said was unkind. And I am not going to deny that I got a certain measure of satisfaction in seeing all of the likes and favorable comments from men and women alike. As a writer, I often hope that half of what I put into the universe has some impact on my readers. So yeah, my head got a little big.

Fast forward to the private message that the original poster sent me that evening, after he had ignored every other comment. Can you believe that man had the audacity to suggest that while his sexist bullshit post was bad, my response was worse!? And do you want to know what I did...

I rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, his message popped up on my computer, but it wouldn't load properly, so then I wondered if I had dreamt seeing his PM from the previous evening. Then I assumed that he had blocked me (like someone else did after a similar run-in last year), but after a quick reload, his message reappeared, and I decided that it warranted a reply. To ensure that I had accurately called him out for his cheekiness, I sought to refer back to the original post. Zounds, it had been deleted by the group moderators! Sadly, that means that there is no "official" record that I ever went viral other than my retelling of the events here.

Next time, I will be sure to get a screen shot! No worries though, since the point of this piece isn't to brag about landing an insult. Instead, I wanted to use that experience to proffer a few thoughts why dudes like him hate going toe-to-toe with out-spoken women like me. Furthermore, that is one of the reasons why I believe Kamala Harris isn't measuring the drapes in the Oval Office right now--because some of these mofos just can't stand a confident, undaunted, smart-ass woman!

Now before I open an entirely new can of worms, I will try to limit my post-election analysis to a few stray sentences here and there. I plan to fully unload in a separate piece. As you can imagine, I've got a LOT to say...

In response to the election results, I lashed out at a quite a few people, primarily folks like Brother Misogynoir because that is what happens when you can't meaningfully strike back at those who really got you twisted. I already posted a smart-ass mea culpa on my personal FB page after my initial round of friendly fire, but I guess I should have added a warning that I'm not done shooting from the hip. Therefore, I do NOT apologize for my annoyance at the assholery enabled by the very people who should have our backs; because in lieu of affirming and uplifting the spirits of the Black women in our shared, private space, that dude opted to engage in the same kind of SUPERFICIAL SEXISM that has made breaking the glass ceiling so elusive. Then he had the nerve to try to guilt ME into feeling some kind of way because no one co-signed on his nonsense? No sir!

As for the group moderators who chose to remove his post, in essence giving him a get out of jail free card, why the H-E-double hockey sticks did they let him off the hook? Why not mount his severed head on a wall as a caution to every future ashy mofo who might be inclined to forget that this ain't the boys' locker room at a private club or someone's wood-paneled mancave? If this reads like I'm taking it hard that my brilliant Audrerific clapback won't be preserved in cyber-posterity for future generations, trust I'm way more pissed that the decision to delete the entire thread only proves that some so-called safe spaces function to protect the wrong people.

I mentioned the fact that this wasn't the first time I've encountered a Cowardly Lion in that group or elsewhere on social media. Before the recent mass X-odus, I was down for a bird fight or two with friends and strangers. I had a friend on Facebook who was the kind of person whom I imagine would describe his interactions with people as part Michael Eric Dyson intellectual provocateur, part Chris Rock stand-up comic. Because I had known him in real life as well as online, I knew the best response to his pot-stirring was to add a grain of salt. So when he tagged me on a post to engage in a "debate" on a seriously stupid topic, I played along. That I happened to be sitting next to my Mom in the hospital was, at the time, part of the reason why I was willing to entertain this nonsense. I needed the distraction.

Then he made it personal, and I guess he resented that I didn't go high when he went low. After he pulled the mean girl card on me, he deleted the thread, then he took it up a few notches by blocking and de-friending me!

I kept a screenshot of the private message I attempted to send him, which had included an apology until shortly after my Mom passed. Call it a what would Audrey do impulse, but the fact that I ever acknowledged his hurt feelings or allowed him to take up any space in my life after what he did to me still pisses me off. He picked a fight, did a lot of trash-talking, got in the ring, danced around, then called the fight as soon as I landed a punch. He put me on blast, then tried to shame me because the tone of my response to his provocation was "mean". And in a moment of weakness, I actually thought that maybe I had gone too far.

Until I rewound the sequence of events as outlined above. He had engineered that entire fracas from start to finish, and as far as I know, he didn't stutter or think twice about anything he said that might have been insulting or hurtful to me. For me to even contemplate his feelings in the midst of what I was dealing with at my Mom's bedside is how I realized I was being played. It doesn't matter what he knew about my situation because he knew he was wrong. Why else would he delete the thread? 

We use the delete button to correct mistakes, to erase the things we don't want people to see or find. 

Which is why I did take a screen shot the private message Brother Misogynoir sent me last week, and I will save it for the next time he decides to forget he's in mixed company. I keeps receipts and I ain't scared of what these dudes think of me--I'm sure I've been called a bitch as much as any other woman. I said what I said, in true Audrerific fashion, without remorse. I won't be humble, ingratiating, soul-searching, or swallowing my pride. In the words of a few Chicks who know a little something about being gaslit by cruel intentions, carnival barkers, sociopaths, overcooked hams, and other people who engage in bad faith, I'm Not Ready to Make Nice.

Therefore, on this day when the good Lord saw fit to bring forth a daughter in Audrey's image, I hereby declare not today, nor ever again! I know who and what I am. Happy Birthday!

You Win Some, You Lose Some

This is not another long-form think piece about Beyonce. Or the fact that Jay Z got up on stage and started another unnecessary skirmish between the Bey Hive and the Swifties over the one Grammy Award that a certain person has never received whilst the other person has four. I mean, I understand the complaint, but it feels rather on-brand (and not in a good way), to whine about having ALL the things except this one little thing, for which she was not nominated, she doesn't need, and probably doesn't have the shelf space to display...

Nevertheless, none of the Beekeepers are going to agree with me on that. And after a week of reading commentary posted by grown-ass people with jobs unrelated to defending the Carter Family empire, I am going to leave that alone. Furthermore, having just written about Swift and mindful that we have an extra day this year for Black History Month, I will let her sit this one out as well.

Instead, I am writing a general open letter of sorts to the world that maybe we need to do a better job of remembering the lessons we were taught as children about winning and losing. Seems everyone has forgotten how to be gracious at both, with folks complaining about not winning enough or folks insisting that they won victories when all evidence indicates otherwise. Into this fray comes the Busy Black Woman to offer some reminders. 

Dear Everybody:

One of the first sentences you were taught as a child was to say thank you. I distinctly recall that if I failed to utter those words, several scenarios might play out, such as having whatever was just offered to me taken back. And it was done in such a dramatic way to maximize the impact, usually by the loudest Auntie or Uncle who declared I didn't hear you say thank you, so I guess you don't really want this. Then as a follow up, you had to endure a public scolding. And because this always happened at some large family gathering, you got that look from one or both parents--the look that clearly communicated that this wasn't even the half of what to expect on the way home. Ah yes, even at 50 years old, the memory of that kind of embarrassment has never faded. (Mind you, the person responsible for this trauma did not hear me say thank you, because I did say it...it was no use arguing that point 40+ years ago any more than it is worth insisting on it now.) 

But you get my point. Thank you is the simplest, easiest, and most gracious sentence in every culture and language that can avoid most misunderstandings in life. It doesn't need to be an Emmy/Grammy/Oscar/Tony-worthy speech (unless you are accepting one of those awards and need to thank God; your parents; your significant other, children, and pets; as well as your team of lawyers, agents, glam squad, etc.), in which case, just make sure to wrap it up before the music plays. 

Some of us were raised to send thank you notes; some of you were not. It seems as if nowadays handwritten notes are a generational relic, with many folks opting to send a thank you email or text. To be honest, I am not going to be a stickler about the form because I get that there are times when a less formal communication of gratitude is appropriate. Therefore, I am happy to receive a phone call in place of whatever Emily Post etiquette rules once existed. We're all busy, kids don't learn how to read or write in cursive anymore, and ain't nobody got time to be worried about stamps or how to properly address an envelope. 

However, I will judge you if I go out of my way to do something nice and you shrug it off like you deserved it. While I won't call you out like that loud Auntie, you gonna learn real quick that I won't trouble you with any future acts of kindness. Yes, it is that serious, because a failure to acknowledge someone's benevolence or generosity is not just rude, but it reeks of entitlement. No one is that busy or important. Even bill collectors take the time to thank you for making a payment. And in the event that you had a human moment and forgot to express thanks, that's fine because there is no statute of limitations. Better late than never.

When you were in elementary school playing some game on the playground, invariably, somebody got mad about losing. And that kid had an epic tantrum that required intervention by a teacher or playground monitor. After being hauled off to the principal's office or the teacher's lounge, s/he returned to class to offer an apology, which was then reinforced by a lecture on the merits of sportsmanship. I can't speak for everyone reading this, but I remember hearing this lecture every year in some capacity from every teacher who needed to emphasize that not all of us were going to win the game, be awarded the first prize certificate, be cast in the starring role, or sing the solo. 

Some of y'all weren't listening. Or maybe you were the kid who always came out on top, so you never had to learn what it meant to be the runner up. You got all As, you were the team captain, or you maybe you played soccer during that era when folks stopped keeping score and gave everyone a participation trophy. Whatever excuse you have for being a sore loser as an adult, it's time for you to put on your big kid pants and grow the heck up!

Sometimes you don't win. Al Gore invented the internet, won a Nobel Peace Prize, and still looks pretty good for his age. But he didn't win the 2000 Presidential Election because he lost the state of Florida by 537 votes*. The Atlanta Falcons were winning the Superbowl against the New England Patriots in 2017 until the second half of the game, then they lost in overtime 34-28. How many times have you watched a game show and the contestant in the lead loses Final Jeopardy or overbids the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right? Imagine being from one of those small countries that goes to the Olympics every four years but never wins any medals. Or being Susan Lucci for 19 years.

I don't know how we got to this point. I don't know what changed in the course of my lifetime where the adage that winning isn't everything became an alternative fact from the multiverse of infinite options. Political candidates routinely refuse to concede elections, with the best example being the former President of the United States who continues to insist that he won an election that he lost by 7 million votes. Winning at all costs has been normalized in other aspects of life, with students now filing lawsuits to gain admission to their top choice college. Or cheating to stack the deck in their favor like the parents caught up in that Operation Varsity Blues scandal. Sports franchises spend the equivalent of the gross national product (GNP) of the world's poorest countries just to win trophies. All of this backlash we see against diversity, equity, and inclusion is just sour grapes and fear over possibly losing access to once-restricted opportunities.

It used to be that losing built character. It encouraged perseverance. It taught us that life is sometimes unfair, but to show up and try anyway. Even the Bible tells us that there is a time and a place for everything, and while it doesn't explicitly mention winning and losing, shouldn't that be implied?

Someone wrote a post to Facebook about what Jay Z was teaching his daughter in his speech the other night, and I certainly agree that it was admirable for him to defend his wife (we'll address that part at another time). At the same time, I can also believe that he imparted the wrong message to his daughter about winning--it isn't always based on objective criteria. And we don't always deserve to win just because we show up. There are a lot of people who worked hard who still finish last, which is what we see happen every four years at the Olympics. Some of those folks only won the preliminary opportunity to compete on the international stage, but that doesn't make those victories any less significant.

There is an arrogance to feeling so entitled to winning that often leads to backlash, resentment, and eventually to becoming what winners fear--a loser. We've seen the defeat of athletes who compete past their prime and refuse to retire. We've seen the hubris of leaders who think they are irreplaceable. We've seen some extremely talented people surround themselves with sycophants who never offer critical advice or counsel. We've seen how people who are so used to winning at everything can't handle when the tides shift. We've seen world records broken, statues and monuments toppled, and greatness surpassed. 

We've seen winners lose. And then true character is revealed. 

The true character of the two ladies who aren't supposed to be the reason why I'm writing this open letter was on display well before the Grammy telecast. Beyonce attended the premier of Taylor Swift's Eras concert film, and Swift graciously acknowledged the influence Beyonce had on younger artists like her. EVERYBODY seems to have missed that in the rush to take sides, which has been most disappointing. Because if you truly understood the diva-like aura that tends to surround artists on that level, you would know this photo was definitely not a PR stunt.

You win some and you say thank you. You lose some, you nod and smile, and then go back to work or practice with a mind towards winning the next time. You keep putting in the work. You keep showing up. And what you will win at some point in the process will be more meaningful and significant than a participation trophy.

* still disputed, but not by Gore

When Our Children Cry Wolf

All of us are familiar with the story of the boy who cried wolf. For those who aren't, it was about a boy who was tending sheep in the pasture, got bored, so he cried "wolf" to see what would happen. The villagers came running to save him but found him doubled over in laughter at his prank. He did this a second time, so later, when a wolf did appear and the boy called out a third time, the villagers did not come to his rescue and his flock was eaten. In some versions of the tale, the boy was also eaten by the wolf.

Therefore, I understand the various reactions to the story of what might have happened to Carlethia "Carlee" Russell--was she abducted as she claimed, or was this some elaborate cry for attention? Are we entitled to demand an explanation from her, or should we just move on with our lives like those villagers and not come running when the next woman of color goes missing?

I have a lot of conflicting thoughts, some that I shared on social media in response to a post by a classmate that this had been a hoax from the outset. I saw his posts and initially ignored them (because he tends to be provocative), but I also did wonder if there was more to this story than was being reported. What about the wandering toddler on the side of the highway, did no one else who was driving along at that same time see him? Was there any video surveillance that could assist? And once it was reported that she had returned home, when could we expect a statement issued or an interview with Gayle King to warn other young women who might similarly be vulnerable?

Because I was attending a conference, I could not follow the chatter, but I happened to be scrolling my Twitter feed when the news of her return was released. At the time, I just sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that she was found, but I must admit that the details provided regarding her return were suspicious. So I waited patiently for some kind of update that would quiet my skepticism. That didn't happen, because as I watched the briefing offered by the Hoover Police in real time, my heart sank without hearing much of what they had to say. The presser wasn't even finished when I saw the first wave of "I told you so" vindication posts and the inappropriate memes. 

Since quite a few comments referenced him, I thought back to a few years ago when the Jussie Smollett saga generated a lot of righteous outrage due to its perfectly scripted homophobia and violence fueled by Trumpism. While everyone was offering messages of support, I recall sitting on my Twitter fingers waiting for a new twist. As his story unraveled, I was actually relieved (not because of the resulting fallout that destroyed his acting career and threatened the career of Cook County State's Attorney), but because such a brazen attack in Chicago at 2AM that no one heard or saw was too ridiculous to be true.

Thus, as Russell's disappearance was initially shared on social media and calls were made to amplify details to ensure that her case would be treated with urgency, I will simply say that I was praying for her safe return. And I still am praying for her, even if she was not the victim of some predatory crime as we were led to believe. 

This story hit a lot of my buttons, especially as I prepared to take another solo road trip down South this past week (more details to share soon). It was upsetting to think that she could have been possibly lured into a trap that involved using a small child as bait. I fretted that I would have to add this to my ever-growing list of concerns about raising girl-children without the wisdom of my own village mothers. I mourned the potential devastation that would have overwhelmed this young woman's family and community if there had been an alternative unhappy ending. And I was frustrated that just weeks ago we sent the Coast Guard to search for five people on a private joy ride to see an underwater graveyard, whereas a minimal dispatch of resources deployed to find an adult runaway would most assuredly be deemed a waste.

While there has been no definitive pronouncement, public sympathy has decidedly shifted. The villagers have extinguished their torches, put away their weapons, called off the hounds, and are grumbling on social media. It upsets me that the loudest voices of condemnation are coming from within the Black community. And not just from men, so what should we call it when we are determined to disbelieve one of our children unless the outcome of her peril had turned tragic? Why are we so quick to dismiss this as merely the actions of an attention-seeking narcissist instead of as a very public plea for help?

Do we really need her to explain herself, or do we need to give Russell the space to heal herself? I'm not convinced that we need to know everything if the point of inquiry is to subject her to more ridicule. That doesn't mean I am against her facing consequences, but I believe that once it crosses the line to irredeemable public shame, no lessons will be taught or learned. A lot of people act out for attention, and we don't respond with this level of indignation, not even when their antics are fueled by mental illness, substance abuse, a toxic -ism or phobia, or just immaturity. In most cases, we accept that the matter will be addressed privately and move on.

For example, in my area Amber Alerts go out whenever a young person goes missing (Silver Alerts for senior citizens with dementia). In three cases where I have personal knowledge of the outcome of a local Amber Alert, there were no demands for public accountability because we were just relieved that each child was returned home. In one case, the girl who was a classmate of my Niece, was transferred to a new school. In another instance, the mother, whom I knew online through a FB group, updated us and then deactivated her social media account. And in the case where I actively took part in a search, the girl's family expressed their gratitude for our community efforts, but I haven't seen them since. 

Someone reading this might assume that by referring to Russell as an adult runaway and inferring from the title that she is a child, I am infantilizing her to absolve or excuse her behavior. I assure you that I am well aware that she is a grown ass woman who had a job, a car, a concerned boyfriend (ex?), and two loving parents who went on national television to elicit sympathy for what now appears to be a tall tale. Unlike the three young girls I described, Russell is not some impulsive child who ran away to escape some parental restriction or punishment. 

So what.

People from her community and across the nation were invested in finding her, including Angela Harris, who mobilized volunteers and dedicated resources from her nonprofit to search for Russell because she lost her own daughter under tragic circumstances. Instead of responding in anger, Ms. Harris modeled the kind of community response that we ought to emulate in this instance--determination and resolve. We ought to be ready to search under every rock and comb through every field for our missing loved ones, not just because they are well-connected or because their stories get media attention, but because it is the right thing to do. The wrong thing to do is to adopt the attitude of the villagers in the fable and let the wolves have their fill.

My fellow Gen Xers remember when almost every TV sitcom aired a runaway episode. The plot centered on the main character and/or a best friend who made a pact to do something crazy that a parent explicitly forbade, like Vanessa Huxtable (part one and two) sneaking off to have BIG Fun with the Wretched. Of course, the outcome of that episode was unforgettable hilarity, as were other light-hearted runaway storylines such as twins Tia and Tamera plotting to run away in order to stay together (Sister Sister); or baby sister Jennifer Keaton slipping away while big brother Alex isn't paying attention to her (Family Ties). 

There were also the kind of very special episodes that were intended to caution/scare us such as the runaway episode from The Facts of Life that seems most analogous to this situation. Tootie disobeys her parents and Mrs. Garrett by running away to visit New York City on her own. She gets robbed and retreats to a coffee shop where she meets a friendly girl named Kristi who chats her up and buys her lunch. Tootie doesn't realize that this is all part of a set up to recruit her into prostitution. Right before she gets duped into joining Kristi and her pimp, a waitress tips her off to the scam. Mrs. Garrett arrives just in time to whisk her home to safety.

That episode aired 40 years ago, and the message is as poignant today as it was when I was in the fourth grade. There are wolves in these woods, and we need to be vigilant and wary. It isn't a waste of effort or resources to protect our sheep. Furthermore, to mix in another metaphor from Peter and the Wolf (a different fable), we can't barricade our children in the house and expect that simply warning them against venturing out into the world will be sufficient. Due to their natural curiosity and inquisitiveness, some of them will stray, so they need to be equipped with the right tools to defend themselves when we aren't there to prevent disaster. And a good arsenal of tools should include discernment and common sense. Shame and ridicule are useless as they are intended to humiliate and break people, not correct and build them up.

Carlee is home. She has a family who can address her needs in private. There are others who have gone missing who still haven't been found. Still others languishing in foster care or who have just aged out of the system are vulnerable to being exploited in the very manner we feared Russell would be; hence, there are gaping holes in the safety net that don't catch everyone. Several nonprofits such as Angela Harris' nonprofit Aniah's Heart, the Black and Missing Foundation, and Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women could use more support and visibility. If it takes crying wolf to get us to come running, then we should ask ourselves why these children have everything else but our attention...

Be Mindful of the Falling Glass and Other Advice to My Daughter

On this beautiful weekend of her birthday and after the historic Supreme Court confirmation of Ketanji Brown Jackson, I am writing an open letter to my daughter, Zuri Elena. (I was still writing on Saturday morning, and though I had hoped to include a picture of her at the mural unveiling...well, I suspect she won't read this until years from now, so we're good :)

Dear Z:

There are so many thoughts going through my head, and in spite of all these fancy planning tools I have been accumulating, I am still all over the place. These past couple of weeks have been overwhelming, and you, my dear, have been a handful! One day when you read this, you will probably wonder what I meant, but suffice it to say, you are what you have always been from the day you were born: relentless, strong-willed, sweet, fiery, imaginative, and the most amazing reminder that God will answer prayers. 

This is the eve of your 7th birthday so allow me to repeat--the weeks leading up to this moment have been hectic. Last year, I was planning a Zoom dance party from an unwieldy guest list; this year we opted to settle for a smaller classroom party. But your temper...so if you are still a little salty with me about my decision to cancel that celebration, just know that it was harder for me to stand firm (and I still caved a little, so you'll be fine). Part of making these difficult choices is about imparting life lessons and preparing you for a world that won't always cater to you, especially not as a young Black woman.

It might seem ironic that I would make that statement, on this historic day after...but trust, it wasn't an easy road. Back in February, I wrote a looonnng piece about the challenges of being a Black woman in the legal profession, and while I can hope that this moment won't be marred in all of the typical ways, I know better. I remember how elated I was the day after Barack Obama was elected. I also remember the worst days of his Presidency and how the opposition did everything to ensure that he would ever be regarded as competent, or even legitimate. I remember what it was like to wake up in the middle of the night to the somber news that Donald Trump had been elected. And while I am thankful that we shielded you from the true horror of that experience, that is the backdrop of my cautious optimism. The pendulum will swing...

And when it does, I will have to remind you that what led to the backlash (always modest, superficial progress) was once thought to be improbable, so we will journey on.

On this birthday eve, I look at this picture I took of you in front of the Supreme Court a couple of weeks ago. Judge Jackson was down the street testifying in a Senate Committee hearing room and I got the crazy idea to take you over to the steps of the building. I told you where we were going, but you're six and it was a beautiful early Spring day. You were more interested in striking the right pose than in the cherry blossoms that were in peak bloom. We got several great pictures, unlike that overcast Fall day when we last visited the Court.

The contrast between those two days--one bright and hopeful, the other gloomy and foreboding, is definitely a metaphor for our times. In September 2020 I took you to the steps of the Court to pay respect to the late Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. We stood in a long line. We were still in the thick of the pandemic, so everyone was masked up (because a vaccine hadn't been released or approved). You were attending virtual school. The country was weeks away from the November election. I had begun researching plans to volunteer out of state as an election monitor. The DESPOTUS was teasing out his options for a successor Justice in the media. And because I need to you to understand this, none of the candidates that had been talked about in the press were women of color.

So don't let anyone try to convince you otherwise--at that bleak point in 2020, it was highly doubtful that a Black woman would have been considered for that Court vacancy. Every high-profile appointment in that Administration was emblematic for its overt lack of inclusivity and diversity. We were only just learning about the abysmal hiring rates for non-white clerks. Nobody even remembered that obscure Biden campaign promise, given that we were still in the heat of debating whether a Black woman could be elected to serve as the Vice President. Nothing was assured, except that the levers of power were being manipulated to remind us of how powerless and vulnerable we the people can be. The other side had already made it clear that if they could deny a duly elected Black President the right to exercise his constitutional power nine months before Election Day, surely they would enable a dubiously elected tyrant to install another Justice with all deliberate speed in six weeks. 

And they would do so with the added bonus of elevating a woman who could inspire their daughters, to replace the outspoken woman whom they felt had encouraged too much of the wrong kind of ambition. One of the statements made about Amy Coney Barrett, the jurist who was ultimately chosen was that she would be a positive role model. That description gnawed at me for some reason, not because it isn't true (and not because it is true, she has seven kids and isn't on a TLC reality show). Amys always are touted as role models for young girls. Ketanjis and Kamalas typically are not. Nor were Michelles or Sonias, which is why this moment is so important.

When women like Ketanji and Kamala and Michelle and Sonia embrace or acknowledge their historical significance, they are bombarded and diminished by those who would rather bask in the non-threatening light emitted from an Amy. That won't make sense to you yet, but I need to point this out because one day, some kid is going to prefer an Amy over you. And you are going to come home in tears and ask me to let you alter your appearance in some way to help you fit in with the Amys, and I am going to say no. Then you are going to insist, and knowing you the way I do, you will be relentless, yet I will be emphatic.

Because YOU are Zuri. And the world is so much better and brighter and interesting because of you.

There is nothing inferior or unattractive or too much about being a Black girl. And while your non-Black girlfriends great, they are not superior or more beautiful or practically perfect in every way. I mean that, so when you make us late for school because you are posing in the mirror, I just want to be confident that it isn't because you wish you could look like or become someone else.

Therefore, it is necessary for me to aim a few pointed jabs at Sen. Tim Scott (R-SC). You might be wondering, why him when there were 46 others who voted against this nomination, including five of the seven women on the GOP side of the aisle. There is a lot I could say about them too, but we need to address Mr. Scott so that you can better understand why those five aren't really worth the effort. To start, instead of name-calling, I will simply express my profound disappointment in his choice of an Amy over Ketanji. I get the ideological differences, but somehow his Colleague Sen. Mitt Romney (R-UT) didn't feel compelled to choose one woman over the other. Romney didn't conclude that there was no place for Ketanji because she had chosen a career path that didn't treat the law as a tool for amassing more power. Amazing how a man who was once ridiculed for referring to his binders full of women actually flipped through the pages and came across someone who was not an Amy and liked what he saw.

I wish Mr. Scott had thought more about you and all of the little girls who flip through magazines or scroll through social media and see pages and pages of Amys who are touted as role models. For years people resisted the notion that representation mattered, because any woman could be an inspiration they claimed. While that is true, the problem has been that "any" woman was typically one specific kind of FOX News spokesmodel Barbie. A homogenous every woman who had so-called universal appeal from that blue blooded sorority of genteel ladies who came from the right families. 

This is all kind of above your head at this age, but there are these unspoken rules of pedigree that serve as electrical fences around exclusive spaces. Mr. Scott is himself a rarity in one of those elite enclaves, along with a handful of others. Judge Jackson has now joined another august body with similar restricted access. Part of his Constitutional job was to provide advice and consent for Judge Jackson to be confirmed, and he declined to give his consent. Then he made quite the show of opposing her, including a thumbs down gesture for the cameras as a demonstration. Prior to that lovely Kodak moment, he had issued a statement that his opposition to her nomination had to do with his fundamental disagreements with her judicial methodology/philosophy. Interesting talking points regurgitated by someone without a law degree, to describe guaranteeing criminal defendants their Constitutional rights by providing counsel and representation as judicial activism. 

It is one thing for guys like Sens. Ted Cruz (R-TX) and Josh Hawley (R-MO) to attack a nominee for taking the side of the accused, because they were former prosecutors. And they are shameless grandstanders who are either running for President or begging to be picked by the former DESPOTUS as his privy council should he succeed in his next coup attempt. However, as the sole Black man serving in the highest elected office in the opposition party, the first one to represent the Old Secessionist South in modern time, someone who was appointed before he was elected, a man who claims to think for himself, for him to proudly vote against this nomination...well, at least he didn't vote from the closet like his mentor Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-SC).

But he voted against her because he could, so he did. And the warning I am sending here is for you to be wary of men like Tim Scott, who relish the power they've been given more than their moral obligation to exercise that power responsibly. Why did he choose to act like a bouncer at the exclusive club instead of a VIP in the roped off section like Sens. Cory Booker (D-NJ) and Rev. Raphael Warnock (D-GA) did? All I know is that he waived Amy right on in but stood in the doorway with a downturned thumb to block Ketanji. 

I almost forgot that I am writing this to my soon-to-be-seven-year-old daughter...who is currently having a tantrum in the bathroom, so let's move this along with this lesson: If someone is in a position to hold a door open for you, but they opt to let it close in your face, that person is trash. That's why we don't even need to discuss those other Senate women because they saw how Judge Jackson was mistreated and disrespected, and they chose to grab their purses and cross the street.

So let's go back to why I started this letter before I lose my momentum. Zuri, I want you to believe that ALL dreams are possible. I don't know if Ketanji Brown Jackson dreamt of becoming a Supreme Court Justice, but I can tell you how I used to dream about arguing cases in that marble building. I got to see Justices Thurgood Marshall and Sandra Day O'Connor seated behind that long bench when I was in high school, and later I got to lobby for the nomination of Ruth Bader Ginsburg when I was in college (I dropped off packets to each Senator in support of her nomination). I drafted an op-ed on the confirmation of Justice Samuel Alito, and I think Justice Sonia Sotomayor is beyond awesome (here is a retro post* about her). It isn't too late, but if I never get to argue a case there, this confirmation process has reminded me of why I wanted to become a lawyer in the first place. 

Not to be rich or famous. Not to lament not being invited to the GOP Senate Ladies Auxiliary Tea at the Margaret Mitchell House with the Amys. Not to have my life and motivations micro-analyzed by a bunch of twits on social media. Not to provide b-roll for some aspiring candidate's political ads. And certainly not to be deterred by some self-appointed gate-keeper on a misguided power trip. I became a lawyer to help people and to advocate for change.

I'm surprised that no one has referenced the very short-lived show, The Court (2002), that was intended as a West Wing-ish take on the Supreme Court. This is where my idiot savant abilities in recalling obscure pop culture is useful--the late great Diahann Carroll portrayed the other female jurist, senior to Sally Field, newly confirmed. Who knows how that plotline would have developed, but I recall thinking that might have been one of the many reasons why that show was quickly canceled, because of the improbability of a Black woman on the Court. But that which seems impossible is, until it isn't.

Which brings us back to today. 

Judge Jackson remarked on the incredible journey that brought her to this moment, and a lot of folks got emotional because these firsts are both personal and collective victories. I imagine that Constance Baker Motley felt the same when she was appointed to the federal bench. These two women share a birthday, and I hope, the same determination to dismantle the obstacles that racism and sexism still pose. No matter what, my daughter, do not be deterred.

I never aspired to be a Supreme Court Justice nor have I ever considered the path cleared by others as one that I needed to follow. I don't see myself breaking any glass ceilings, and that is just fine with me. I hope that by the time you read this, there won't be that much glass left above you, only that which you sweep away on the ground.

* I hereby renounce that I denounced Justice Sotomayor's statement. She had every right to be proud and so do you, as a fellow wise Latina woman. And don't you ever forget that!

Days Like This

One random day in September is designated as National Daughters Day and that means a lot of pictures of smiling parents with their little Princesses. A few days later, for National Sons Day there are lots of handsome young men brightening my timeline. Then, right at midnight as the clock barely strikes 12, some of y'all started posting status updates of you sucking on lemons...

Why do y'all insist on ruining EVERYTHING?

After I saw a status update written by a fifth disgruntled person complaining that there was no day to celebrate her because she had no children, I sent out a tweet thread to express my frustration. Yes, that was hella passive aggressive because it didn't respond directly to her, and perhaps writing this piece will be seen in much the same way since I won't be personally posting it on anyone's personal page. But if you happen to read this and begin to wonder if this is about you, then yes, it is, and yes, I am judging you.

What ever happened to just letting people share their good news, putting on a fake smile, and then talking about them later? When did everybody become so sensitive? I know that social media allows everyone to share every single feeling and opinion, but damn, some of y'all aren't happy unless you post something to make everyone else miserable.

I noticed this a few years ago around Mother's Day. I have written about my own issues with that particular holiday, but mostly on my blogs. And I am pretty clear that my issues were never tied up in feeling any kind of way about not being a mother at the time. It was mostly about my own mother and the issues I had with her. I don't think (and I am open to being corrected if this isn't true) I ever saw this as a reason to make other women feel bad about celebrating their mothers or feeling special about being mothers themselves. In fact, I was big on celebrating every woman in my life who had some kind of mothering influence on me, and to this day, I try to send cards to every Aunt, cousin, sister-in-law, friend, and whomever to celebrate them.

I did all of that before I joined the Mommy club in 2015. Since then, I have softened in my feelings, but again, mostly towards my own mother. I don't have any grand expectations for how I should be celebrated except to take a picture with my daughter every year. Anyone who follows me knows that I am generally happy to take a picture with her for just about any reason at any point in the year, as long as I look decent enough to be in the shot. So there's that. 

However, one year I saw a post that listed all of the reasons why some people might not be as joyous as others, and I took note of the various categories of grief and loss listed that may be triggering. I empathized, and it made me pause to think about how in focusing on my own issues, I had never noticed that others might actually be suffering through a day that I merely had to endure. When Father's Day rolled around, I took note of the gripes, mainly from those who felt the absence of their fathers (or co-parents).

Thus, it was no surprise to note that Valentine's Day had become yet another holiday where scrolling through Facebook felt like a day of navigating an emotional minefield. Mind you, I don't care for that one either...but I dare not say that aloud and expect not to annoy someone who would point to the Hub and slow blink. Therefore, as social media created other holidays for pets, lefties, coffee drinkers, tacos, etc., I actually felt relieved that people could find other reasons to express their pride.

WRONG. Apparently, some people who don't have children, significant others, or parents they like also don't have pets, are right-handed, drink tea, and don't eat tacos. So for them, any day that is specially designated to honor others is another day to complain. If only I could only empathize with feeling that left out...

Social media is a carefully curated form of social interaction. Which means, on any given day, it is probably someone's birthday or anniversary. Someone might be celebrating a new job, starting a business, achieving their fitness goals, or just happy to be alive. Sadly, others might also be experiencing the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, the end of a marriage, or barely making it through some horrific natural disaster. People choose to share all of these tragedies and triumphs, and most of their friends and acquaintances know how to express the appropriate sentiments.  

Therefore, for the life of me, I don't understand the need to be the cloud in other people's rainbow. Why is it necessary to point out that some people grew up without their father on Father's Day? We know that it isn't a day to celebrate deadbeats. Are you hoping to shame the guy who abandoned his family into finally reaching out to make amends, or is it intended to make everyone else whose father was present in their lives feel bad? You want an entire day to celebrate your awesome wonderfulness? It is called your birthday, or you can pick a day to dress up and toss confetti on your Instagram profile just to see who comments. I bet at least 20 folks will hit the 👍 or 💓 just because.

I get that some of these holidays aren't inclusive, but in an age when everyone gets participation trophies just for showing up, I don't see why you can't find a way to barge in with your own folding chair, if that's what you want. Someone suggested that a day designated for sons and daughters wasn't considerate of non-binary offspring and guess what, I won't question it if you decide to tack on a disclaimer so that your kids don't feel slighted. If there are missing letters in the LGBTQIA+ acronym that don't describe you on National Coming Out Day, just tell us how to acknowledge your truth. When someone schedules an event that conflicts with your religious observances, trust that it is not because they don't care, it is because they probably didn't know any better. And if there really is a holiday or celebration that is inapplicable to you, then just scroll by. It takes more energy to get offended by something that has nothing to do with you.

I joined in on the National Daughters Day posting a day or two after the fact and even joked that I thought it was all rather silly. But then it occurred to me that after 18 months of being shut in, disconnected, and stuck in a cycle of endless angst and grief, seeing all of those smiling children on my timeline was a good thing. I don't have a son, but that didn't stop me from liking those #BoyJoy pics a few days later. I don't have a lot of what some of y'all have, but life is too short to wallow in my feelings about not being able to join the fun of Boss's Day on October 16 (unless I can celebrate not having one). Given the state of the world these days, having anything to celebrate is worthy of acknowledgment. 

So back to Mother's Day, which is fraught with all kinds of complicated feelings. Does it have to be that way? Can you find some happiness for the new mother, some compassion for the mother who has lost a child, or the imperfect mothers who did the best that they knew how? If you aren't a mother, can you celebrate someone else who is, just because? My attitude on Mother's Day changed after my Mom's diagnosis, then it changed after I had my own child and I began to appreciate what she managed to accomplish with three of us. Then it really changed as I had more friends who lost their mothers. Instead of complaining, can you find the space in your heart to reassure that single mother that she can make it or to comfort someone who is grieving their mother that they were loved? 

If you still feel left out, you can borrow my kid on National Aunts and Uncles Day (July 26) while I enjoy my bagel with a coffee milkshake in peace. 

Ten years ago, in this very space, I heralded the joys of being an anti-parent. Also ten years ago, not long after I wrote that piece, I learned that my Mom had Alzheimer's. I am sharing that not to elicit your sympathy, but to highlight how life unfolds in the most unexpected of ways. There is beauty, there is pain, and as we know from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, a time and a season for everything under Heaven. 

Celebrate yourself! Go on an exotic vacation, have brunch and happy hour get-togethers with friends. Share the good news of your job promotions, your new home purchase, your newly published book,  your new exercise obsession, and whatever else you have going on. If you don't have anything fantastic going on in your life, who cares? It is social media--make up something and keep it moving. The thing is, you don't need a designated day to feel special because you ARE special!