Meeks' Musings

Who taught you how to stifle your truth? Was it when you were silenced in class by the teacher for being too talkative? Did you pretend you didn’t know something even when you were certain of the answer, instead remaining quiet because girls were likened to boys, or worse, were told they wouldn’t attract boys if too knowledgeable? Or maybe it was that time your father got harassed by police in front of you and he chose life through staying silent and taking it to avoid imprisonment or death. Did your mom maybe tell you to keep family’s business in the family and cause you to fear the consequence of disclosing painful details of the events that transpired the night before to a trusted friend or mentor? When did you lose your voice? Did you ever have it? More importantly, have you recovered it? 

Too many of us were brought up in situations where we had to stifle ourselves and what’s important to us because the world couldn’t or wouldn’t handle it with care and integrity. Whether I wanted to share my fears or something joyful, I often shrank myself so that others felt strong and seen or so I could guarantee my safety. This occurred with peers and adults alike and the only way I could regain my power for a long time was through the same violence enacted upon me. It wasn’t always reciprocal because I would occasionally flex on someone who was a lesser transgessor or completely not responsible for my pain, but who nevertheless didn’t see my fury coming. Silencing others is a show of force and a violent imposition. A fiery one since birth, I opted for physical violence until I learned how to masterfully chop people down verbally. Whatever seemed most effective at the time where I felt like a winner was my abusive strategy. Where I felt strong. Unfortunately I hurt a number of people and myself in the process. For years I did not understand how this volatile reactionary behavior stemmed from being silenced or made to devalue my opinion and voice. I’ve been blessed to develop my empathy, self awareness and to make amends to heal important relationships and myself, but one casualty of this early muzzling has remained: self-doubt. 

Contrary to how I’m publicly perceived, I am not a walking ball of confidence and strength. Often I fear failing and not being good enough. Being shut down by adults at critical moments in my development contributed to this low self esteem though in significant ways I’ve persevered and done well for myself. I can impress and connect with almost anyone and when I hone my craft, I’m on. But those sinking nights and doubtful days are regular occurrences. They scream, “why try?” or “who’s gonna notice?”, and “you don’t matter”. Being pitted against other girls/women, especially against women of color, by capitalism, all types of men and white women in a world that already discounts my skin color, name, history, sexuality and gender means always being speculative about whether I count at all. Also being hushed too often and spoken over when making points, or worse, being ridiculed for the simplest idiosyncrasies can do a number on the ego–the part that is needed for ambition, accomplishment and resilience. 

While it can seem hopeless and pointless, what’s been useful for my spirit is to share the hurt, the trepidation and the questions with trusted others. Having a therapist, life coach, a few dependable colleagues, mentors, chosen family and friends has done wonders for my ability to push through and accomplish feats in my adult life that I couldn’t even imagine as a kid. Putting my best into myself and the world despite the imposter syndrome that creeps up also enables me to remember how bad ass I actually am, that my contributions are worthwhile, and how I’ve got people rooting for me. We are not worthless, bad people, basic, or unloved. We have purpose, gifts to contribute and we matter. We are loved. We have created beauty and excellence and will continue to do so. Our mere presence is proof enough as to why we’re needed. These are some of my affirmations on hard mornings. But when you can’t do this for yourself, be sure not to isolate. Ask for help even if afraid. Tell someone you trust and let them guide you back to yourself. No one is perfect, we all go through hardships, and instead of silos we need community to balance us. I sure do, especially now when everything appears to be in flux. So where once I felt alone, I am now powerful in connection. Where I once was silenced and told or shown to shut up, the world now waits with bated breath for my tone, wisdom and experience. I am now the nurturing bellow of the shushed little girl. Through my values and resistance I am the megaphone. Not to oversimplify this necessary trauma recovery of being silenced, I am aware that there are myriad ways to recapture your voice so that fear, loneliness and stagnation don’t minimize or kill you. It will take many of us a lifetime to heal, rediscover and raise our voices as a prequisite for and consequence of our survival. By letting my people in when life hurts the most I am able to reconnect to myself and achieve a smidgen more of freedom and acceptance. We are mighty and it’s therapeutic to be reminded. So speak up, warriors. 

I don’t fuck with boxes. There’s no neat list to define me and I live my truth unapologetically. Outspoken and free. Having grown up around secrets and abuse taught me to never restrict my right to be. I feel fortunate to have this as a reality when countless others are consumed and silenced by such upbringings. After all, I once lived in that shrunken place. So anyway, me and categories don’t agree usually as I’m subject to change. How I dress, what I think, say, believe, and who I crave aren’t up for debate or critique.

So that last one, let’s stay there for this post. As a perceived masculine of center queer woman (mainly because society doesn’t really push past the sexual or gender binary despite proof of the fluidity and variety), I struggle to just be me without constant declaration. Having dated men exclusively in my teens and early 20s, it’s interesting to witness how it’s now unfathomable to many people that I did so willingly, frequently and exceptionally. Yes, I was gay then and not out in my queerness. No, I didn’t sleep with men to hide or front, though that’s a common narrative in people’s coming out stories. Nor did I feel repressed. I lived my truth, which constantly changes with time and experiences. I wanted men and had no problem acting on that, quite skillfully, for my twerk freak team who knows what I mean. Nothing about that desire was fabricated or placed on me. I wore dresses, panties, doobies, and owned a flat iron and makeup. Now that I rock boxers, bowties, wingtips, and A-shirts under crisp button-downs with cufflinks, braces and/or blazers, I get side eyes from too many alleged “woke” queer folk, brown ones especially, when I casually talk about this as part of my history, a possible reality for my future or when I swoon over a good lookin’ brotha. You’ve got to be kidding me! Aren’t we queer and here?! Aren’t we, the queer and progressive, able to hold that?! And real talk, my desire and appreciation for penis and the cis men and occasional trans men with them has not waned or faded just because at age 22 I decided to open my life to romantic exploration with women. It’s frankly tiring and disheartening to define and redefine myself in hetero communities (like in ’03 when I cut my hair and it automatically signified that I switched teams) to then have to deal with this same shortsightedness in gay spaces (like people not understanding why I don’t bind or how I could love penetration). We’re not on opposing teams and this is not a race to sexual superiority. I don’t need to disavow dick to prove my right to my vagina or my intense love of pussy. Let me be great. Let me be.

The gender piece is equally frustrating. I accept the “boi” term and he/him/she/her pronouns to describe myself because it’s all true. I also consider myself feminine. I like to subscribe to the gender-blend that has always been a part of my story. At first glance, I get called “sir” more often in public bathrooms and restaurants now and while in earlier years it irritated me, it doesn’t now because I get it. A certain kind of fade, plaid or color has the tendency to make us do that because of how we’ve been taught, indoctrinated. What irks me is when it’s assumed that I don’t wear pretty bras, eye shadow or nail polish. Or when boys’ night is all I’m relegated to. What?! Again, these are in queer spaces where this limitation commonly occurs. When did we get so narrow, so passé? Have we just decided to stop growing our reconciliation of the complex and fluid? I’m actually grateful to my earlier straight spaces where my gender or perceived gender has not revoked my access to fulfilling and holistic spaces like fucking spa day. C’mon fam. And if I get asked again who will get pregnant…

Perhaps this seems petty or like low-hanging fruit to some of you in the grand scheme of this painful existence we sometimes bear. Maybe you can’t relate, and that’s ok. My truth ain’t for everyone until it is. But these hateful and diminishing microaggressions are constant and overbearing. They incense and sadden me too regularly, especially because they appear to be unconscious and because they’re ubiquitous and seem to morph. Considering the violence we fight against personally and politically, and how I battle my own toxicity at times, it’s important to underscore this kind of categorical nonsense as a significant way that hate and indifference persist. As a teacher and student of life who inscribed the tattoo “LoveChangeLove” (read change twice to get it) on my arm, I am aware of our need to learn and inform to arrive at greater understanding with one another. As a black queer woman I never stop coming out. That’s alright. There is a difference though between clarifying and justifying. Honestly, I’m waiting on the real evolution which may primarily require folks to actually live in their truth instead of frontin’ behind these masks, whether gay, straight or whateva. Rid ourselves of the othering, groupthink, us v. them cycle, and fancier cages in which we willingly remain trapped. Equity for me means not having to ascribe myself as the man in my marriage or as the lesbian gold-star (look it up). It means I can want who I want in straps and crinoline and not be less me. All things require balance and I just hope we can exist openly, freely and without parenthetical qualifiers.

 

My sista-girl referred to me as a creator a few weeks ago. She did this in a mixed crowd of mostly allies, though sprinkled with a few adversaries, questionables, and indifferent players. Did it while this crew of mixed history doted on me with their fond memories of our times together and well wishes as I ended a very significant chapter – one that’s taken up 1/4 of my human existence – in my young 36 years. I smirked as I first heard it and looked down, having to eventually look up and back at her to make sure I heard her right. “Yep, that’s what she said”, I thought. “Creator”. Within less than two weeks of that, my favorite mentoring couple, people who’ve known me since I was a cocky teen, assured me that the world is mine and gassed me all the way up, meaning every word. They built me up like that for hours. And I believed and still believe them. One of them specifically instructed me to write about what I want to accomplish without any limits. To dream big. I didn’t know it then, but I would become anxious and unsettled within days of that cheerleading. Like, “am I ready for all that”? Imposter syndrome is a trip. The shakiness eventually dissipated through stillness, tears, time, and meditation, but the unsteadiness of the feeling is all too familiar. How long does it take you to remember who you are? Actually, why do you even forget?

As much as I’ve had to fight for where I am and what I have, I’ve been blessed in other ways. One area that has been glorious is through my authentic and deep connection with others. Thankfully, many people love me and show me all the time, even without my asking. Even when I’m a butt and undeserving. Yet, loneliness would have me believe otherwise. My cv is pretty damn flyy, but self-doubt has me comparing it to the corporate baller or distinguished veteran in their field, and the next one, and the one after that. I have the gift of captivating crowds whenever I speak publicly, however, my inner hater turns to the public intellectual or talking head who’s got 3 million followers online and a book or two on the bestseller’s list. Well Meeks, write the damn book already! Like some or many of you, I struggle with insecurity and half-glass-fullness too often. Struggling with the “shoulds” instead of being proud of and grateful for the “dids”. Fam, and I’m telling myself this as I write, please drop the shoulds and the comparisons.

So while having a mini panic attack in this scary new phase of my life, after being pumped up and loved on by my people, I realized something, or perhaps I remembered it in my spirit: I’m the biggest threat to my success, joy and sanity. That revelation, if I can even call it that, calmed me all the way down. Perspective is something else! So long as I believe that I can’t, then I won’t. When I follow a thorough recommendation or accolade from my squad with a “but”, or I craft 3-8 scenarios of pessimistic “what ifs”, I’ve already negated my prospects and invited ambiguity and mediocrity into my plans. Or just plain ol’ failure. Cuz let’s be real, for some of us failure is a safe place. If we fail or fear we will, then everyone’s expectations, including our own, can remain low or nonexistent. And then we don’t have to accomplish much of anything or set goals because no one’s depending on us. Why leave a comfort zone, even one that’s plateaued, dilapidated and claustrophobic for a scary, spacious unknown, with guaranteed elevation, right? Sike.

It’s time to gaze upon our reflections, not in some narcissistic manner or with false pretenses, but with full clarity, acceptance and openness and truly see ourselves, the way countless others have seen us, for what and who we are: magic. Capable. Extraordinary. Formidable. Purposeful. Beautiful. Brilliant. Whole. Stellar! I know it’s scary to be your own hype-man, especially when we’re taught a false humility that diminishes us, but shimmy that ass and scream into the mic already because the world is yours! Sure, missteps and rough spots are a given, but we’ve more than made it this far and done pretty damn well, and that’s to be celebrated and followed up with more intentions. When we struggle and hit hard times it’s easy to forget our worth and greatness. I have. I’ve compared myself to others who seem to have it all together or who never seem to fail. Real talk, some of those folks are scoping at you and me thinking the same thing. We’re human and our egos allow for this occasional slump and self-deprecation, particularly when we determine our worth by the externals we accumulate or forget that our sheer presence is all we need. At its best though, ego enables our greatness, even in the crummiest of episodes. So as my friend clearly stated, I am a creator. Through energy, dreams, goal setting, partnership and thorough execution, I created the good life I lead. And if I’m not mindful, I can surely create its antithesis. So I’ll ask again, how long does it take you to remember who you are?

Like me, let your people remind you of your dopeness from time to time. And believe them. We need that boost as it’s one way we’re able to witness the reflections of our truest selves and achievements. However, nothing is more satisfying or comforting than knowing it for yourself. Tonight, I am honored to live in this truth and remember that the world is mine.

 

And so it is. She is. 

Sensitive and fierce. 

Tough, often misunderstood. 

Reviled yet revered. 

Pretty.damn.complex.

Pragmatic, crazed. 

Certain even when questioning. 

Cerebral spirit dreamer woman with a mannish glow. Intimidating only those choosing not to exact themselves and know their ins, outs, and in betweens. Too big for small definition. Forever probing. Searching. Never meant for containment or consumption. 

Pure. Love. Fluid. Open. 

…and…free. 

I said I was ready for you. 

Prayed for you. 

But I wanted you on my time, in my sweet spot, when comfortable. And I wanted you easy and soft. 

Foolish of me to believe you would enter my world when I desired instead of when I needed you. Silly musings from a short-sighted and broken boi. 

As always you are in perfect alignment. Salve to my scars. You satiate before I can know hunger. Loving imperfect and unwilling me. 

Who knew I was always ready? Who knew you were always here? 

When I recount the patterns of my life I wonder if fear and stagnation passed to me prenatally. How else can I explain this dulled ache in my gut since I can remember that anchored my feet for decades as if complacency and mediocrity were inscribed in my heels? Generational trauma is not just tied to our socialization. So the same cord that nourished me could very well have poisoned me. And perhaps I’ve been a living corpse masquerading as bountiful and alive; full of promise, charisma and potential when underneath there was just this fraud of a soul. But no more. 

Even in this most tenuous period, perhaps in my entire life, certainly the most unsure I’ve been in my adult existence, I am free. Free? From what? From who? I am freed from my former self. Free from the lies that tried to dictate my demise. I am running wildly, in full stride from the pessimistic, doubtful, ashamed, broken, constrained and afraid She Couldn’t. I’ve dispelled the myth of the dilapidated She Won’t. In this sobering moment I embrace and fully welcome my I Am.

I am many things. My complexity and contradictions abound. It has helped my constant successful defiance of great adversity. Still, I’ve needed proof that I deserve the right to be happy. Struggle and pain became my markers for excellence. I diminished my truth and purpose in this way and wasn’t even aware of it. Real talk, how often have you apologized for just existing? But no more. Though I’ve accomplished so much, my worth is not defined by what I do, where I go or what I’ve acquired. I abided so long in the fight that I have struggled to dwell in the ease of the victory. The glory of the stillness. Of the just being. Right now, though it’s a tender place, I am reminded that I am entitled to greatness. My birthright is wholeness regardless of the shards that have tried to manifest brokenness. I belong because I am right where I’m supposed to be. I am here because I am. God is and so am I. And today that is enough. Because I am, I will. Because I am, I have. I am enough. I am free. I Am. 

Come, breathe openness into your lives with me. Expand the certainty of your next level by speaking it into existence and constrict apathy and imprisoning silence. Let’s get free! When we are free we are connected. When we are connected we are whole. We are so we will. We just are, and that is perfection all by itself. 

My father admitted to me before he died that he didn’t think I’d make it when I was a child because of who he and my mother were, or who he had tricked himself into believing they were, where we dwelled and what we didn’t have. How powerful a fallacy to prophesy over your child! Someone lied to him and so he spoke that same garbage to me. It’s one of the many things that set me on a melancholic path because I subconsciously believed, until two weeks ago, that I wouldn’t “make it”. But no more. My father was and so I am. And today that is glorious. Tomorrow it’ll be the same. 

This rainy NY evening I sat on the beach and watched the waves jump into perfect alignment between the sky and the sand. It’s always a reminder to accept what is, where and who I am – unfiltered and always evolving. Nature tells me the story of balance and ubiquitousness. Since we are human, natural, made of matter and spirit, our purpose is to be in harmony with all that is in and around us. I am not naive to believe that pain and discord won’t disrupt me as it’s definitely jacking me up even as I write. But freedom is still mine and yours. Allow this truth to help you ease out regret and usher in acceptance. Get free. Remain open. Reconnect to yourself or meet her for the first time. She’s beautiful. 

Learning tonight of another black life, two lives to be exact (Charleena Lyles and her unborn child), killed by police in Seattle has broken my heart…again. But then there’s my resolve, memory and my fight. And I’ve got plenty because my people are magic, which is one reason we’re always under attack. The headlines tell lies or the spin. It’s corny at this point to keep talking about children or unarmed men and women being gunned down I guess, so why not report “knife wielding” this time? But we’ve been here before. My sista, this is for you. Sleep in peace. 

Soon Come

Our breath was made just for us. 

We can’t kill you by just being. Creating. 

It’s not in our godly design. 

We don’t dream of annihilating you though you’ve earned it.

We exist for another purpose, one higher, truly whole. 

Yet we die in droves because you are incapable of breathing on your own.

And you hate us, punish us, for your weak, fragile capacity.

But you are the catalyst behind your flaccid state. 

You lost your air when you gave up your humanity to corrupt ours, and you have been gasping ever since. 

And we’ve been your unwilling ventilators.

Be wary of the time we shut off our supply. 

We’re adaptive. Never lost our conscience. 

And our lungs are fiercer by the moment. 

Certainly mightier than yours. 

It’s time to lay self destruction to rest. Actually, drown that hater because it’s vital for our survival. Cremate it and don’t dare memorialize it. Here’s to the end of our self-saboteurs: those nasty, defeatist and idiotic versions of our lowest, fearful selves that leech off insecurities and past mistakes. They live in our misery, thrive off self pity and are our biggest lies. Message! It is not a self-fulfilling prophecy to amount to nothing and be a waste of space. It ain’t our destiny to fail or just cope; to just struggle. Girl, bye. We are grander than our teensiest perspectives, so be great already. We are not made to be perfect (whew!), so our inherent goodness deserves our attention because it’s the best we’ve got and that’s enough. We are enough. Nourish it. Believe it. We are right where we need to be for brilliance to strike because we are stars. But can we see it or conceive of it? Or are we comfortable in the crappy place?

I fail often. It’s par the course for my humanity. I hurt myself and the ones I love, intentionally or otherwise, then occasionally boast about it as strength and/or justify the crap until my ego eventually turns on me glaringly, making room for shame, remorse and angst. And how do I keep the cycle going, you might ask? By believing I ain’t shit, lying to myself that I can’t help it, or that s/he deserved it because they hurt me. Sad thing is I often set up situations where I end up losing myself into the cray cray, so I can be right about being wrong. Instead of soothing my inner child and empowering her to be her best, I diss her and set her ablaze so that she continually reeks havoc in my marriage, career and other myriad relationships, including the most sacred one I have with myself. So, um yeah, not cool and so very far from growth and enrichment. This is why I’m imploring you to get free from your self-saboteur as I abandon mine in the sunken place.

We are not our situations. We are not our outputs or incomes. We ain’t our worst days or epic disappointments. We aren’t even our parents, for better or worse. We are magic and we change daily. But we get to direct the current y’all! We belong to us and must nurture our gentleness, humility, curiosity and softness. Our possibilities for excellence and presence abound. As a fierce Black woman, I have a right to exist and speak up and out, but if I let the saboteur reign, everyone suffers and I will eventually murk myself. This damning cycle has been perfected miserably at this point and as a long time fighter, I refuse to go out like that. Be abundant with me. Let’s clear the sorries and what ifs to permit each other to be fab. Let’s make amends, move on and really mean it. Affirm yourselves! Be yourselves! Accept that you just are. Forgiveness and acceptance are required and I’m down for that long, beneficial toil. Walk with me. Our legacy of love awaits.

If you know me, scratch that, if you’ve spent even 15 minutes with me then you know I like to tell stories.  Not lies, just facts from my life.  I’m an open book for real.  If I haven’t shared one of my stories with you, I was either over it/you, too sick or beyond tired, I really just don’t like you (sorry not sorry), you took up all the space per usual about nothing significant (which is probably why I don’t care for you), or it’s a bland work-based relationship where we talk about the weather.  So yeah, my 36 years have been FULL, I have a vivid and detailed memory, and I’m social AF; a perfect marriage for my musings, right?  I can listen to a song or smell the less pissy NY streets after a springtime rain and be telecommuted to that time when such and such square-jawed boy took the Nintendo controller from me at after school and beat Super Mario Bros. in one play because he knew all the cheats.  Or remember one of the many moments my Dad jumped and waved on Eastern Parkway, screaming “oh gosh” for Labor Day Carnival in all denim; probably the same day I milked two pairs of name brand kicks out of him for being absent daddy on a regular.  So yeah, I’m not one for holding in a moment if compelled and I like to share with my people.

With all my jabbering, there’s still a lot I don’t share: my fears, failures and hangups. These wack ass things that prompt self-doubt and shame.  I’m stuck here often because I’m human and the instant success culture we subscribe to, even before the internet and selfies, tells me to hold it inside and let no one in.  My ego says, “Only share the stories that inspire, that make them gag, make them envy or congratulate you, that won’t let them truly know you and hold you”.  So I don’t share my dreams often, not because they’ll be stolen or I’ll be beaten to the punch, but because I don’t want anyone holding me accountable to bringing them into fruition.  Why?  Because what if I fail?  I low-key self deprecate all the time by stifling these truths, these stories.  I rarely talk about the times I feel inept in jobs, relationships, or how that time standing at the board doing a math problem in elementary school shook me for at least a decade.  How I’m afraid of my power and my weakness and instead mask it through jokes, violence or bravado.  Or when that low moment sank to the point that taking pills or dying inadvertently through classic hood riskiness seemed inevitable because the pain was too much in my home, or in my mind.

Writing about this now fucks me up a little.  How could I post something that will open up my fragility to the masses, people I don’t even know?!  I must be buggin’.  But it’s time to get free y’all and stay there!  More than ever before I have chosen to walk in my calling that was prophesied eons ago by elders and angels and it feels so right.  So I can’t stay mute any longer on where I’m at and what I need.  On what reeks and what ails. This is cliché, but I really am on the precipice of greatness and since we’re all connected, affecting one another, it means you are too, which is another reason to testify!  Every day that I’m present with all I feel and know about myself and the world, being still and in my truth, I am stronger, less afraid and awake.  I am more healed and more unstoppable.  In these moments my vulnerability is not a weakness.  On the contrary.  It’s a gateway to splendor and newness; wholeness.  In these moments, I welcome the tears that flow without pause and the smile that follows.  In my profession and in my life I’m fortunate to be the anchor for many, the voice of blunt options and deep questions that allow for introspection, healing and transformation.  I am grateful for this gift from the Creator, despite how much it zaps my energy when I’m not careful.   Think, though, of the many times we provide wellness for others and forsake ourselves.  Stupidly common, right?  So through indignant self-awareness and speaking truth to myself about all of it — not just the shiny parts, or the parts I’ve mastered, but the parts I’ll probably muck up for years to come, because again, I’m human — I’m able to replenish, repair and grow.  And ironically or not, it enables me to serve, which is one way I show up in this world. Hence, my stories, me.  It’s not easy and it hurts into my core more than I care for, but it’s great tapping into that muscle memory because I’m proof of the work and the reward.

So what stories do you need to share?

 

 

A snob for artisanal french presses, cold brews, and lattes, I’d give anything for another cup of her International House of Coffee (quintessential boughetto), Maxwell House or Sanka, boiled on the stovetop in the small metal pot that despite needing a new handle or screw, never broke off.  For lean chicken cutlets and pork chops made specially for me because of my hatred of fatty meats.  As another commercial Mother’s Day approaches, I’m in my odd-year avoidant tentativeness on the verge of tears.  Ok lies… I cried for the last three weeks almost daily.  Maybe it’s the mid-30s tick tick of my feminine clock that compels me to coo at every baby and wish they were my own, especially when I consider she had far less capital and opportunity than me at this age, yet held us down and provided me with what she couldn’t attain herself.  Or perhaps it’s the beautifully complex upheaval in my career right now that has me considering where to carve a new trail, though without breadcrumbs since there will never be any going back.  At 36 I desparately miss my Mommy.

It’s finally the time where I’m less of an anomaly because my friends and colleagues are losing their parents too or watching them fade into illness.  Of course I provide the frequent anecdote and inspirational quote to empathize with them and assure them that they’re not alone.  Other times I just disappear out of habit because I know it’s a rite of passage for us all and that there’s nothing perfect to offer.  But as I watch myself in mirrors, brush these grays, hear myself sing Aretha’s “Ain’t No Way” where she would take the soprano part, or feel myself grimacing or chuckling like her, I’m reminded of her mortal absence and sometimes it aches in my core.  I wish to be irritated once more on an erratic day by her casual advice or “Jesus got it, baby” simplicity as I down Apple Jacks cereal, read Archies, or plan the next date with some man.  I wish she could’ve met the women I ran through in my 20s or that I took too seriously as I cyclically found and ran from myself before marrying my lover and friend.  Oh, she would love my wife even if she lowkey thought we might go to hell.  How I wish she could’ve met this out and grown Meeka, not just the young, tomboyish, boy crazy, feisty church girl that she secretly had to tell my dad would never wear purses, so he’d give me money on selective Christmas and birthdays instead.

Though there’s so much palpable pain in this lifetime of grief at inopportune moments, I know that half the shit I’ve conquered couldn’t have been fathomable had I not been made strong enough through her death. Sometimes I think Mommy dying was the hardest thing I’ll ever experience and that everything else pales.  Then I’m curious as to whether it was only the primer for the next major hardship, and if so, well damn.  Whatever the case, I remember what she cultivated in me, both intentionally and indirectly, and I’m grateful to be so present with the range of feelings, even the yucky ones on this wack ass holiday for capitalist gain.  Indeed, it is Mother’s Day EVERYDAY. At least I don’t have to clutch tightly to my chest the stories, coffee, sweet smells, gospel mornings, or her smile for fear of them fading because memory serves its purpose.  I miss her and I am her, so recognize the greatness of Linda when you meet me.