High Anxiety

The sneaky details of my life were planning a hostile takeover. Just waiting for me to look the other way, so they could creep from behind and wrap their poisonous little ways around my throat. That was their sinister, well-thought out plan.

But what did I know then? I thought I was just excited.

Excited that my girl and I were taking a spontaneous end-of-the-summer trip to Palm Springs , where we could sip Mai Tai’s and lounge by the pool in our designer swimwear that hadn’t seen a ray of the sunshine the entire summer. Couldn’t believe that only a second ago it was June and had big plans about the way our summer was going to unfold – this year.  Then a few summer camps, swim lessons, and field trips later, it was the end of August and the closest either of us had been to anywhere fun or exotic was flipping through the summer getaway article in Essence or Marie Claire.

So when my co-worker's timeshare became available at a price too low to pass up, we pounced on the opportunity. We didn’t even squawk that we were bringing the kids along to our desert oasis.

They’ll play together; occupy themselves. And we could relax, giggle, chat, and be momentarily free.

It was either that, or spend the last free weekend of summer doing back to school shopping at Target. Uniforms and back pack purchases always sounds tempting, but no.

We decided to run the other way.

Never mind I ran around like an insane person in Wal-Mart, on the hunt for any and all the neccessities: Swimsuits. Sandals. Inflatable balls, goggles, beach towels, sunscreen, band-aids, (etc etc.). Couldn’t find a volunteer to dog sit on short notice, so I was forced to pay a stupid amount for her stay at the doggie hotel while we romped out of town. I paid bills, did laundry, packed, straightened the house. What I needed for myself was an afterthought.

And when we got to our destination, as usual - the kids were hungry and wanted to swim, then play video games; which meant a grocery store run to stockpile the juice, water, snacks, fruit, etc. needed for the next few days. Back and forth, another need,  another errand.

So imagine my surprise, when having a quiet moment at the pool: lounging in my bikini, fruity umbrella drink in hand - and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

The rest of it happened so fast.

I signaled to my girl. She could see something was wrong, but I suspect my brain didn’t have the oxygen to make the words come out.  I simply sat up in the chair, shaking my head, eyes begging for help. My mind, that was always churning, always a step ahead of the game – suddenly failed me.

I broke into a sweat that had nothing to do with the desert heat. Felt like I was the lone passenger on a runaway train, speeding too fast toward doom. Everything happened. Or, I don’t know what happened. All I know was in a matter of seconds the world got smaller and smaller and threatened to crush me alive if I didn’t cut lose or do something. Anything. Fast.

“I...gotta...get...outta here.” My chest heaved with each word.

“Okay, I'll tell the kids they have 5 more minutes…”

“No!” I knocked over my friend's drink to grab her arm. "Now!”

My girl gathered the kids, dashed back to the condo, swung the van around to come get me. By then I was bent over, trying to remember how to breathe, hands trembling; and thinking with certainty - this is how I die.

Later on, my girl would assure me the whole process took under 10 minutes. To me, it seemed like hours.

I had fallen out of time.

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"The Mad Diary of Ms. Mom," excerpt  

The Liberation of Language

How I Do: The Liberation of Language as a Black Woman in America

Research is formalized curiosity. It is poking and prying with a purpose. – Zora Neale Hurston

Language, to me, is magical. Be it the spoken or written word, it can be used to inspire or incite, teach and transcend.  Firm in this belief, I now choose to weave my own brand of lyrical black magic, one abundant with beautiful sounds and courageous energy. My words, and the way I speak them, serve as my truth.  An unapologetic affirmation of who I am – a black woman in America, proud descendant of Africans who were forced onto this land, made to adopt a certain language, culture, and way of life, long, long ago. 

Truth, though: Things didn’t start off this way. After all, I was born the daughter of an English teacher, to a woman who grew up on a small farm in Beaver, Ohio, first in her family to obtain a college degree; to a woman who fell under the spell of the traditional “classics” (Hawthorne, Shakespeare, Dickens, Poe) and who had definite views on how her daughter was to embrace the correct execution of the English language. First lesson being: Of course, how to “speak properly.”  There weren’t to be any “‘’aints,” or “naws,” or “she be’s” freely flowing about our household. A lazily pronounced progressive suffix would simply not do. 

Indeed, my mother came up in an era where speaking “standard English” was the truest sign of educated, successful, and “accepted” black folk; the most important (and culturally annihilating) test a young black girl simply had to pass in order to propel herself into a better life.  That “other” English – you know, the language that black folk speak: the so-called testifyin’, slang, gutter, fractured jive talk which has been lambasted by American society as deviant, deficient, and sub-standard – was to be wiped clean from your linguistic plate.  Failure to do so would keep you stuck, she warned; leave you with nothing.

 How right she was.  And also, how wrong. 

 Here are some interesting facts: Linguistic research of the 1960’s and 70’s established that so-called black English[1] is regarded as a non-prestigious language variety, and that Americans – including African-Americans – judge its speakers as having less intelligence than Standard English speakers, and many European Americans have a negative attitude toward the use of African American Vernacular English[2] in intellectual discussions…African-Americans, too, may disregard their language with disdain, calling it “slang.”

More facts: In 1975, Robert Williams created the term Ebonics (“ebony,” meaning “black” and “phonics,” meaning “sound”) to define the language which Dr. Ernie Smith, a distinguished author, lecturer and professor of linguistics at California State University at Fullerton concludes as “having evolved in the Americas as a result of the adaptation of English words to an African language system.”

But as a child – what did I know? Nothing of the above, rest assured. During my “formative” language years (birth to 5 years of age), I flourished under the careful tutelage of my first and ultimate role model, my English teacher/Mum. I learned to read and recite by age four, entranced early on by songs and lyrics and books, the love of language evident in my blood.  I was well on my way to becoming a “standard, proper” girl, and then – something wonderful happened. In the early 70’s, at the age of six, I was transplanted from small town Ohio to black working-class Inglewood, California. It was there my ideals of good vs. bad (right vs. wrong) began to fray.

It all began, strangely enough, by keeping quiet. Being fresh on the block, it was the unwritten rule to play the backdrop amongst my new counterparts (as a sign of respect) while we felt each other out. Listening to my new playmates in their most natural and jubilant states, I was intrigued by what I heard. Alas! This wasn’t no kinda English I’d ever heard! It was as if they were speaking another language -  something strangely familiar, yet vastly different from my own. It was something more beautiful and rich. Alive.

“She don’t even know what she be doin’, when she make funny faces like that!”

“He gon get in trouble, fo sho!”

“Oh, she pretty!”

Immediately, I became intoxicated with the rhythm of these beautiful sounds. It was that magic; pulsating within my body like my own heartbeat. Alongside it, that highly touted “proper” way of speaking seemed stiff. Strained and lifeless. Practical, maybe; but without joy and affirmation and energy. 

Wait ‘till I run tell mama! Linguistically, she’d taught me how to walk. Now, my tongue knew how to dance.

It would be years before I’d even hear the word Ebonics, or learn of the firestorm which ensued regarding the Oakland School Board’s decision regarding it, or of the endless debates concerning language, dialects, or any other linguistic term, as it applied to the speech patterns of black people in America.  All I knew is that this other tongue I’d found and embraced felt comfortable, natural, and safe. By age ten, I was thoroughly and happily fluent. Even looking back now, I never felt that I was dumbing down or picking up “this talk” in order to fit in or be cool, like it’s so often suggested. My soul had been hungry for something, and this language - full of depth and honesty, merely served as the food.  

 Now, I can’t say Mum was entirely pleased, but she didn’t seem to fret unnecessarily about the new way of words I’d embraced. She’d already instilled the “standards” in her girl, and felt comfortable enough in my acquisition of English, to put up too much of a fuss. Surely, though, there were limits – for example, I couldn’t go into the classroom “speaking as if I had no sense.”  There were certain social situations that required “proper” speech, and I was to adhere to this rule at all times.

Why? I would ask. The answer: Because I was a smart girl. Because I’d been “taught better.” Because I wasn’t “uneducated.”

And this is how the shame begins. The message that very often becomes instilled in a young black mind, whether it’s inside the home or out:  There’s something wrong with the way you talk.  It’s bad, broken, backward, ignorant, stupid, and lazy. It’s slang, it’s jive. It’s useless. You must learn to speak “real” English; you must strive to “talk white.” It’s the only good way and the only right way. You must practice being who you are not. Because you are wrong. Repeat until fully indoctrinated. 

So as I grew up, I began to adopt the practice of what my friends and I called “switching it up” – that is, to speak one way at school, another at home. For me, it meant, one way in front of Mum, the other way with friends, yet another way in the classroom, and on and on. And off I went, skipping down the road of cultural schizophrenia, like so many of us are taught and encouraged to do.

Not surprisingly, studies have shown that regarding ones non-standard language with disdain “makes it difficult for one to form and maintain a positive identity, and this ambivalence may play itself out in many forms, prominent among which is code or style switching.”

So, there it is.  You must practice being who you are not. Because you are wrong. Repeat.

And I admit, even well into adulthood, I tried to alter my speech patterns. Being fully aware of linguistic profiling (societal assumptions based on the way a person speaks), I attempted to delete any tell-tale inflections or “accent” in my speech, over the phone, at school, and in the professional world.  I did my best to mimic a speech pattern that was culturally neutral. Stripped; unidentifiable. Despite feeling like a fraud, I don’t think it was ever successful. After surveying friends and strangers, I have concluded that the timbre and texture of my natural speaking voice readily identifies me as a black woman, even when speaking the most standard of American English. It may be a simple inflection or cadence in my speech that clues the listener to my cultural identity.  Either way, it’s not something I consciously alter these days.  Because the question I began to ask myself was: Even if I could successfully sound like someone, or something else – why would I want to?

After years of research and study, I now choose to be proud of my connection to something deeper. Dr. Ernie Smith has taught us that black Americans actually “think in and use African syntactical patterns,” even when speaking the English language.  Ebonics “follows the African deep structure in every respect when it is different from English, and there is solid empirical linguistic evidence of identical deep structure of syntactical patterns in West African languages.”  Indeed - my soul has memory. One that can be affirmed and liberated through language.

Oakland School Board’s 1996 resolution rightfully concluded that Black English is not just some random form of "broken-down English" that is intrinsically inferior to standard English, but is rather a speech variety with its own long history, its own logical rules of grammar, with discourse practices that are traceable to West African languages, and is a vibrant oral literature that is worthy of respect. The Linguistic Society of America has affirmed there are individual and group benefits to maintaining “vernacular” speech varieties, and there are scientific and human advantages to linguistic diversity. Historical linguistics have demonstrated repeatedly that the loss of an ethnic language amounts to the loss of ethnic culture.

 I do not wish to participate in the eradication of my own cultural existence.  I find that it’s no longer important how society might judge the way I speak, but rather, how I judge it myself.  I will always be a black woman, daughter of an English teacher; who depending on subject, circumstance, and/or mood, can either converse on a variety of topics which demonstrate well-developed analytical skills and logic; or drop science on some real issues like a sista know what she be talking about.  Either way, the most important personal truth is - instead of rendering my speech culturally neutral, I’d rather let the world experience a black woman who is intelligent and capable; proud to have mastered standard English and simultaneously unashamed to also speak in a way that affirms who she is, that celebrates the cultural legacy from which she comes.

That’s my liberation.

Excerpt, "How I Do: The Liberation of Language as a Black Woman in America" Passion, Pride, and Politickin': Homegrown Poetry and Essays

Madness, Interrupted

"Great things are going to grow out all of this." ~ Anais Nin

After almost a decade of being mired in conditions which now have professional names like major depressive disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, PTSD, and an anxiety condition mixed in just for fun – I feel like I can now speak with a little more perspective and understanding on such things.

Depression (and it's cousin, grief) have been my steadfast teachers these last years.  Strict, uncompromising ones at that. After watching my mom wither away from cancer, after the murders of my sister and cousin, after my close friend's sudden passing – I didn’t think I would make it. My life had reached a tipping point, and I was simply too physically and emotionally exhausted to keep on living. I didn’t understand death, could not comprehend how it was possible to keep on living after such losses, and fell into terrifying depressions as a result.

Now I have knowledge that, at the very minimum, grief and depression won't kill me. At some point, you just have to make that vow. Not everyone wins these internal wars, but once you decide to survive, you learn the importance of fighting back. I’ve struggled past the barely surviving points – the weeks and months spent in bed, the visceral flashbacks, the breakdowns, the self-destructiveness, the intrusive thoughts and panic attacks, the emergency room and psychiatric eval visits.

Somehow, I managed to stay alive. How I did - is another post entirely. The short list includes the support of friendships and family not willing to let me go, writing, books, therapy, medication, spiritualism, support groups, and harsh self-examination.  Along with a seemingly unconscious stubborness to survive – is what has led me toward better days and a better life.

But I’ve made the mistake of thinking that my condition, disorder, diseases – go away. They do not. They must be dealt with mindfully, constantly, and sometimes exhaustively.  This is clearly my lot in life, perhaps due to the same genetic flaws which caused my grandmother to be a paranoid schizophrenic, my mother to have overwhelming obsessive-compulsive traits, along with a handful of addicts, psychotics, and depressives woven throughout my family tree.  Predispostion is likely.  But it’s also tricky.  It’s like a roll of the dice – some people can endure unthinkable tragedies and do not become outstandingly depressed. Some people have severe breakdowns which to the outside world, seem to be brought on for no reason at all.

It’s all very mystifying, though, when you realize that your mind has the ability to unravel.  It’s disconcerting to know that a mind that is strong and creative, can also turn on you; become slippery and unstable. Too often people think it's a weakness, or not being “strong enough,” or something  you can “snap out of.” I congratulate those folks, because it means they have never experienced mental illness or depression first-hand.  I’m not here to convince anyone to change their mind on these matters; but only perhaps to raise some awareness, understanding; and hence, compassion.

This is my madness, interrupted.

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Excerpts, Memoir - 2011