Life

I Like Words

GalleryxoxoChrissy 2 Comments

I like words. I’ve always liked words. I’ve been reading since I was three years old (another blog for another day). Maybe that’s why I’m so fond of words – because I’ve been a part of my life for so long. Or maybe I’m just fond of words because I’m an old school prude. Who’s to say?

I text. I text a lot. However, I rarely use “text talk.” I don’t use text talk because . . .

I. LIKE. WORDS!

Sure, I use “LOL,” “LMAO,” and sometimes “IDK,” (I also use “bc” for because if I’m in a hurry). But other than that, I use words. Part of the reason I don’t use “text talk” is because it looks lazy and unintelligent. When I meet someone new and they text me using text talk, I assume they do so because they lack the basic intelligence required to string together a simple sentence. I realize this isn’t always the case. One of my dearest friends insists on “text talking” me. I endure it because I know she’s highly intelligent and just being lazy.

I find text talk particularly annoying when it’s used outside the confines of a text message or iMessage (or BBM for the Neanderthals still using the Blackberry). When I see text talk in emails or in Facebook statuses, I decide it’s because the author is too stupid to know how to formulate a sentence. (I give a little slack for Twitter simply because of the character limits).

I don’t have a proper closing for this blog. I just wanted to rant.

I. HATE. TEXT. TALK.

Goodnight.

Just Let Go of the Reins

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About three years ago I was vacationing in the Cayman Islands. One of the things I enjoy doing during vacations is horseback riding.  It’s a great way to view the landscape of a new place.  As is the case in much of the Caribbean, many of the guided horseback tours include a ride along the beach.  Many also have the option of taking the horse into the ocean (the shallow part, obviously).

After completing our land tour, we arrive at the beach and proceed to enter the water. As we’re riding, the guides increase speed slightly as they lead us through the section of water that is roped off for the tour.  The increasing difficulty of the ride leads to members of the group falling from their horses and struggling to get back above water. I watch as each one goes down.  As they do I yell, “Let go of the reins!!” You want them to let go of the reins because the horse doesn’t stop just because the rider has fallen off. So if the rider doesn’t let go of the reins s/he will be dragged along the ocean floor and, perhaps, get trampled by the horse as it continues to follow the group, as it is trained to do.

Fifteen or twenty minutes into the tour, I am still on my horse. Soon, I’m jerked backwards as my horse takes off at full speed. I’m startled but am able to gain my balance and stay on the horse as it wildly chases the horse in front of it. Eventually, I find myself sliding from the horse and splashing into the water while . . . holding on to the reins!

Intellectually, I know I should let go.  I know this. However, when you’re underwater and flipping over again and again, you lose your sense of up and down.  Your feet can’t find the ocean’s bottom even though the water is only 4 1/2 feet deep.  Your eyes have difficulty distinguishing light and dark on a cloudy day when there’s no sun to guide you.  You’re completely disoriented and the only thing you can firmly grasp is . . . the reins.  As a result, you hold on to the reins as if your life depends on it.

In life, we sometimes hold onto things as if our lives depend on them. Many of the things we’re holding onto can’t actually save us.  In fact, many of these things have the power to destroy us if we let them.  Holding on to things like anger, resentment, fear, envy or stress can, quite literally, kill us.  Intellectually, we know that holding onto these things isn’t good for us.  So why do we continue to hold on? Sometimes it’s because we’re stubborn.  Sometimes it’s because we simply don’t know how to let go. We’ve been carrying some baggage for so long that it actually feels normal to us. We’ve lived with stress or regret or defeat for so long that we think that this must be our lot in life and that we’re destined to continue to live the remainder of our lives with these burdens.

This isn’t true for any of us.

We all have the power to let go of the reins and save ourselves.We all have the right to live lives free of the many and varied burdens we pick up along our journey. We simply have to figure out how to do it.  Sometimes we can figure this out on our own.  Oftentimes, we need help  figuring out how to let go. This was the case for me as I was being dragged along the bottom of the ocean.  I was telling myself, “Let go.” I was hearing the guides yelling “LET GO!” I could hear the messages. I understood the messages.  However, I simply could not figure out how to get my fingers to open and let go of the reins.  After what seemed like hours, but was in fact just a few seconds, one of the guides reached down and gently tugged the reins.  I’m not even certain he had a firm grasp on them. But the slight tug was just enough to get my hands to open. It was enough to get me to distinguish up from down. It was enough to get me to plant my feet firmly on the ground and stand again. That’s all it took. A slight tug was all I needed to do the things that I always knew to do but simply hadn’t had the courage to do.

I relay this story to people fairly frequently because I think it’s a good illustration of how we hold onto things in our everyday lives that have the power to destroy us. Sometimes saving ourselves, our sanity, our happiness is as simple as letting go.  So, just let go of the reins and see what happens.

Dear Huma, Stand by Your Man!

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This blog entry was originally intended to be an open letter to Huma Weiner the long-suffering wife of NY Mayoral candidate, Anthony Weiner. I had all these grand ideas of sharing with her how incredibly weak and naïve she appeared “standing by her man” for the second time as he ‘fessed up to acts of betrayal committed during their marriage. I had plans of telling her how the message she was sending to young girls was an inappropriate one, blah, blah, blah.  Then I realized that this woman has zero obligation to act as a role-model to anyone’s child except her very own. Furthermore, her marriage is really none of my business.  Despite the fact that she’s chosen to live a highly visible life as a public servant, she has no obligation to be a role model to anyone.

“If your child has to look further than across the dinner 

table for a role-model, you’ve failed as a parent.”

I believe that too often parents put unrealistic expectations on celebrities and other public figures. They overreact when their children see these individuals behaving badly.  Then there’s the media with the talking heads asking, “What kind of message is s/he sending to his/her young fans?” I fully understand the temptation to respond in this way (refer to the first paragraph). But before we hop on our soapboxes telling people we don’t know how they should live their lives, we have to do a few things: 1) Realize that people are free to live their lives in any way they choose – even if it goes against our own fundamental values; 2) Realize that nobody is responsible for our children except us; and 3) Take full stock of the examples we’re setting for our children and ensure that they’re good ones. The people children encounter on a day-to-day basis have far more influence on them than anyone they’ll see on television or on the Internet. If parents are indeed doing their jobs, then children won’t feel the need to search elsewhere for the guidance of strangers.

“But I can’t stop my child from consuming the images of

wayward celebrities that litter the airwaves and Internet.” 

No, you can’t keep your children from seeing pictures and “news” clippings of public figures displaying acts of questionable character.  However, you absolutely have the power to establish yourself as a more important, more credible role model and source of encouragement than some person they’ve never met.

So . . .

 

Dear Huma,

Never mind.  Carry on.  After all, we don’t even know each other.

My bad.

xoxo,

Chrissy

Coming From Where I’m From . . .

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I was born in Detroit but moved to small “suburb” of the city two months before my fourth birthday.  That city was Inkster, Michigan.  Population 35,000.  The city is approximately 65% Black.  Inkster is a working class community with many residents earning a living in the factories of one of the Big Three (Ford, Chrysler and GM).  The residents of Inkster are down-home folks yet “fabulous” in so many ways.  For the most part people work hard, want the best for their children and seek nothing more than to make a good life for their families.

Inkster has received its fair share of bad press.  Crime levels are at or above national averages in many categories.  We’ve made the national news on, at least, two occasions.  Once was following the 1987 hostage stand-off and murders of three Inkster police officers at the Bungalow Motel.  We made national news on another occasion when we were the subject of a segment on ABC’s Nightly News.  The subject was the Demby Housing Project in Inkster commonly referred to as “Little Saigon.”  That segment was wildly popular.  Statistics cited during that segment intimated that Inkster had more crime, and criminals, per capita, than Detroit (the nation’s very first “Murder Capital” of the United States).  The ABC news segment, and the murders at the Bungalow Motel left an indelible impression in the minds of Michiganders, Midwesterners and Americans.  To outsiders Inkster Michigan was one of the worst places in the country to live.

It wasn’t until I left Inkster that I realized that it was such a “horrible” place.  While I haven’t always felt that I fit in in the place nicknamed “Ink-town” and “Crooked-I” I always thought highly of the people around me.  My block was a normal American block.  Parents worked hard to provide for their children.  The girls jumped rope and played with baby dolls on sidewalks and porches.  The boys played football in the middle of the street or in backyards. People looked out for one another.  The Smiths, the Walkers, the Jeffersons, the Robinsons, the Johnsons, the Hendricks, the Eatons and the Gilkeys all looked out for one another.  Back when I was in second or third grade and we had 12 inches of snow fall on the first day of spring, all the families on my block banned together to shovel each other’s driveways and walkways.  Somebody’s mother made hot chocolate for the kids while the men coordinated the effort.  In the summer the retired Mrs. Hall (R.I.P.) kept a watchful eye on all the kids on the block and told our parents when we did something wrong.  My friends and I freely rode our bikes around the six square miles of Inkster without fear of becoming victims of crime.  And with the exception of the summer that a serial killer terrorized much of the Midwest, I generally felt safe in my environment.

That’s why it came as such a shock to me to find out that Inkster wasn’t the safe, nurturing haven I’d made it out to be.  When I arrived at college I began to notice that one of the main icebreakers was “Where are you from?”  I’d reply, “I’m from Michigan . . . Inkster.”  That’s when I’d get the looks.  Even people from outside of the state (I went to school in Michigan) gave me the “Oh, really?” look.  I didn’t really understand what it meant until later.  It was later that I learned that what I perceived as the “Oh, really” look was really the “Oh, you must be the Affirmative Action kid because everyone knows that Inkster schools are isht so you can’t possibly have earned your place here” look.  At first I was offended.  But when I found myself earning grades comparable to, or better than, many of the prep school kids who looked down on me I snickered just a bit.  I figured, If I’m the stupid Affirmative Action kid and I’m kicking your @$$, what does that make you?  Eventually I went on to graduate (in four years) and begin my career and left a number of them behind, still struggling to finish their degrees.  Some of them took an additional year, or two, or three, to finish.  When they’d finally phone or email to announce their graduations I snickered again.

Even after college I continued to encounter people who would give me a curious glance when I told them where I was from. When asked, most times I simply respond that I’m from Detroit.  It’s easier than trying to explain to people who are unfamiliar with the state where I’m actually from (17 miles Southwest of downtown Detroit or four miles due north of the main airport).  Having lived outside the Midwest for most of my adult life I’ve been able to get away with the “I’m from Detroit” statement without much inquiry.  But even that has its drawbacks.  I’ve had colleagues ask, “Are you from Detroit, Detroit?  Like, the actual city of Detroit?”  Sometimes I say yes just for shock value.  Because Detroit’s reputation isn’t much better, if at all, than Inkster’s, they have a difficult time believing that I’m actually from Detroit.  Because I have an education and speak well, most non-black and uppity black people assume I’m from some Northern, Oakland County, suburb of Detroit as though it’s impossible from people from Detroit to speak anything other than Ebonics, have careers and live respectable lives . . . lives like their own.  When I encounter people who are familiar with Michigan and the Detroit-area I tell them that I’m from Inkster.  Some react as though they think I’m joking.  Others seemed shocked that I’m from Inkster. “You don’t seem like you’re from Inkster,” “You must not have lived there long?”  “You just don’t seem like the type.”  I have actually had one colleague, repeatedly, tell others that I’m from Ann Arbor.  While it’s true that I lived in Ann Arbor for four years while attending college, I am not from Ann Arbor.  For him Ann Arbor, the upper-middle class suburb that’s home to the University of Michigan, is a more acceptable place to be from.  Ann Arbor is also more reflective of the person he believes me to be (mild mannered, smart, well-spoken, composed, etc).  While these are all characteristics that I possess, they are not the whole of who I am.  Who I am at work, where I make the money necessary to support my lifestyle, isn’t completely reflective of who I am at home when I’m surrounded by the people I love.

It is sad that when people think of Inkster, my hometown, they think we are a monolith.  That couldn’t be further from the truth.  From Inkster has come world-renowned athletes (Olympic and NFL), Legendary Motown Recording artists, educators, scholars, musicians, artists, lawyers, doctors, judges, engineers, scientists and insurance professionals (me).  So this piece is a “shout out” to all my friends and family from Inkster who continue to defy the stereotypes.  This piece is a tribute to those who hold their heads high and represent their hometowns with pride.  Here’s to us!