Mothering my Mother

 I help her bathe and get dressed. I feed her breakfast before I go to work in the mornings, and I check in with the sitter periodically to see how their day is going.  I worry if she is getting the proper nutrients to sustain her.  When I get home from work, we talk about her day.  I make sure she eats dinner and help her prepare for bed.  I’m exhausted by the time I get everything done.  ,She watches from her chair, as I sweep around her, clean the kitchen, and try to prepare for work the next day.  She seems to be oblivious to all the work that goes into caring for her.  She doesn’t notice that I’ve had to rearrange my house so she would have a safe and comfortable place to sleep.  She doesn’t seem to realize that I’m taking days off every week to tend to her needs.  She doesn’t seem to care that I’ve busted my entire budget trying to make sure she can get to where she needs to go.  I wish I was talking about my disaffected teenage daughter.  Instead, I’m talking about my convalescing mother.

She moved into my home nearly 3 months ago after a serious health scare.  She needed a great deal of rehabilitation, and her home was neither safe for her, nor presentable enough to let strangers inside.  So I made the difficult decision to move her in with me.  Except it isn’t just me.  There’s my husband, of course, who was not all that thrilled with the situation, but resigned to it just the same.  Then there are my three rambunctious children, who take up all of my time and most of my space.

I suppose I should have seen this coming.  My body seems to be falling apart and I am thirty years her junior. Getting old happens to us all, if we’re lucky.  You would think that since I work in social services, I would realize that Medicare kicks in at age 65 for a reason.  Besides that, we kind of fit the profile.  According to www.caregiving.org, the average African-American caregiver is a female who is 44.2 years old,  and is caring  for 66.3 year old relative. ( I’m a few years younger, and she’s a few years older than that.)   This isn’t her first health scare, but it was the first one that ended up in a hospital stay.  

Several years ago, she was struck with a mysterious illness that caused her to temporarily lose her sight.  She was misdiagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.  Eventually, that was ruled out, but they never came up with an explanation as to why she went blind temporarily, or what caused her sight to come back.  She’s been on blood pressure medication and has carried an asthma inhaler most of her life.  Since those two things disproportionately affect our community, I should not have been surprised.  

There is a whole range of emotions that comes with the transition to becoming a caregiver.  I think my initial reaction was confusion.  How could the woman who taught me how to balance a checkbook at the age of 10, not be able to tell me how much money was going in or coming out of her accounts.  Bills started going unpaid.  Shutoff notices were ignored and eventually her phone was shut off.  My mother has had the same phone number from the time I was in Kindergarten until late last year.  It was not uncommon for people looking for any one of my siblings or myself to call the phone number we wrote in their yearbooks 20 years ago, and receive the same greeting that they always had.  “Hayes residence,” she’d say her voice lilting as if she was asking a question, even though she was making a statement.

I was confused because every Saturday morning, we had to get up to clean the whole house, from the baseboards and floors, to the cobwebs on the ceilings.  But somehow, her house has fallen into such disrepair, that we stopped having family meals there.  The floors don’t look like they have been cleaned in months and the living room is so cluttered that there is barely a place to sit down.  I’m confused because she looks the same, but things are not the same.

I’m not just confused, I’m also tired. It’s not just that I have to start hosting the family dinners now.  It’s that I also have to help her in and out of the bathtub. I have to maneuver her equipment in and out of my house.  I’m blessed in that my mother is ambulatory for the most part.  I don’t have to lift her, unless she falls, and so far that has only happened once.  But exhaustion is not always physical. Caregiving takes its toll mentally as well.   It’s that I have to schedule and get her to and from all of her appointments.  It’s that I have to keep track of her medications, and remember where she put her checkbook.  Nevermind the fact that I’m not sure I know where my own checkbook is at the moment.  It’s that I have to talk to insurance companies, and customer service agents with whom I have no relationship.   It’s that I have to do all of that and still manage my own very busy household.   I, like more than a third of all Black caregivers in the United States, have minor children in my care(caregiveractionnetwork.org).

I’m not just confused, and tired.  I’m also sad.  I’m sad that our mother-daughter lunch dates have become more of a chore than a source of respite. Gone are the days of brunch buffets at the local casino.  It’s easier for her to sit down to a bowl of soup that the waitress brings her than to try to balance an overflowing plate and her cane.    I’m sad because she  dozes off and loses track of time, so she can no longer keep my children. We have to put the home I grew up in on the market to cover the cost of her care. I’m sad because I can’t go to her for advice on how to handle this situation. 

I’m angry because I don’t feel like I was given fair warning.  Nobody told me what this would look like.  I’m sure it’s different for everybody, but I know there are some similarities.  She was about my age when her mother got sick.  She didn’t tell me about handling my grandmother’s finances or sorting out her affairs.  She didn’t tell me about giving up precious vacation days to run errands or to sit in waiting rooms. She didn’t tell me how hard it is to feel helpless, and still have be able to give help.

 I want to curl up in a ball and cry to my mommy about being confused and tired  and sad and angry.  I want her to rub my back and tell me it will all be okay.  But  today she is looking for that same reassurance from me, and I just don’t have it to give.

A social worker visited my home shortly after my mother moved in.  She was checking the home to make sure it was okay, but she was also checking to see if my mother needed additional services I could not provide.  After talking with my mom for a while, she told me that while my mother was healing, the roles would be reversed.  She pointed me in the direction of some important resources, and then asked me if I got it.  “I’ve got it,” I replied.  I was lying.  That too, is something that is common among black women caregivers.  One website, www.caregiving.org  says that this subsect of caregivers reported little to no physical  or financial stress, and a moderate to low amount of emotional stress as a result of caregiving.  I’m three months in and I know that this cannot possibly be true.  We are either lying to the researchers, or to ourselves. I suspect a bit of both. There is no way that being a caregiver leaves us unscathed.      Some of us have actual battle scars, while others of us have heart wounds that no one will ever see.

I confided in a friend that it feels like I have another kid.  “You do, kind of have another kid.”  That’s when it hit me.  I am mothering my mother and it hurts more than anyone will ever know.

*I wrote this three years ago. Some things have changed and some have not.  Mom rallied, and was able to live independently for a while, but since the beginning of 2023, her health has rapidly declined.  She mostly uses a wheelchair to get around.  She is blind in one eye, and her awful doctor is now saying she does have Multiple Sclerosis.  (In my life, I have wanted to fight two doctors.  Both of them were supposed to be “caring” for my parents.  Neither of them seemed to be very good at their jobs.”  

While mom is no longer in my home, she will soon need constant care.  I spent a full eight hours yesterday tending to her needs, and I have never been so tired in my life.  She has the same amount of medical appointments as my three children this month.  It’s 7:39am on a Sunday morning, and I literally just received a text about her most recent test results.  On the plus side, she got to enjoy a tea party with four of her seven grandchildren.  

I do not know if I have the energy to parent today.  I don’t even want to get out of my bed.  Of course, neither of these things is really a possibility.  I have already ordered groceries, and need to make the calendar for the week.  I’ll need to coordinate additional care for mom, and try to find an assisted living or nursing facility that is private pay that she can afford. I have to pray that the nurse we’ve hired to come in a few days a week doesn’t quit, and that my aunt who is there on the nurse’s off days stays healthy enough to continue.

Today is Mother’s Day,  so I’m going to enjoy a mimosa, or several.  I’m going to hug and kiss my children, and I’m going to be grateful for the privilege of still being able to call my mother, even though, now she is the one calling me.

If Mother’s Day is a struggle for you, please know that you are not alone.  Treat yourself well today, even and especially, if nobody else does.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Friendly Cooperation

I want to say I was shocked by the announcement that Southern Baptist Convention voted to boot out one of the biggest churches in the country. But as someone who is truly “Baptist-Born, Baptist-bred, and when I’ll die I’ll be Baptist dead”, I barely shrugged my shoulders.

Saddleback Baptist church has 19 campuses and weekend attendance can reach upwards of 30,000 people. In the early 2000s, the church’s founding pastor, Rick Warren, published a book that changed the way churches across the company operated. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are still churches in my city who are using one of his small group studies today. The Purpose-Driven Life was read across the world and was published in 50 different languages. It was probably one of the SBC’s biggest success stories.

So how did we get to the point that the SBC’s board voted Saddleback and four other congregations were no longer considered “to be in friendly cooperation”? Well, it’s simple. The church named a woman as “pastor”. You need to know that the woman in question, Stacie Woods, is not senior pastor, but the wife of senior pastor, Andy Woods. Some of the other churches may have had women serving as lead pastors. Apparently, in the year 2000, Southern Baptist Leadership affirmed a rule that only men could serve as pastors. You read that right. Not the 1960s, not the 1980s, but in the year after we took Prince’s advice and partied like there was no tomorrow, the denomination decided that women pastoring churches was the line they weren’t willing to cross. As a Baptist who has had to sit through the sermons of known philanderers, drug addicts, and suspected thieves, (We even had one pastor in the metro who dressed as a woman when he gambled at the casinos. ) I find this line… questionable (Insert eye roll.)

Any organization that automatically disqualifies 50% of their constituents from leadership is doing itself a disservice. And I’m being nice. I know that I have been to Bible Studies and Prayer meetings where the women outnumber the men by a wide margin. I’ve been in services where the only man present was the pastor. It’s unfair to the pastor, and it is certainly unfair to the congregation he is serving.

Despite the fact that I haven’t been to church on a regular basis since the pandemic began, I am still very much a Baptist. On the first Sunday of every month, I wake my kids up with a medley of songs about the blood. I take communion, albeit, by myself. I even have been known to bake my own wafers. I teach my kids hymns, and I ask them random Bible questions, just because I can. But what I won’t do is subject my children to teaching that tells them that my son is more qualified for anything, simply because he was born a male.

How can a church that has been telling us that we’re in the last days for at least the last 100 years, not believe that the Lord is pouring out his Spirit on all flesh? How can you hear Rev. Renita Weems, or Bishop Vashti Mackenzie and doubt that they, too, are called by God to lead God’s people? (Bishop Mackenzie was appointed Bishop in the same year that the Baptists voted not to have women as pastors. I’m pretty sure that is not a coincidence.)

As for Saddleback and the other churches, they can appeal this decision, but I’m not sure they should. One of the hallmarks of Baptist churches is the autonomy of the local body. Unlike some other denominations, there isn’t a governing board who decides what pastor should be matched with what congregation. Each Baptist church is supposed to have its own processes and procedures for governing the church, including choosing its own leaders. The SBC is supposed to support these individual congregations, as they try to preach the gospel to the world. This move doesn’t sound all that supportive. I think the church in California will probably be just fine without assistance from the SBC. But some of the other churches may have greatly benefited from the SBC’s support.

I still believe in the Baptist ordinances and I hold the church covenant close to my heart. I aim to be faithful in my engagements and exemplary in my deportment.

But…

I’m for bodily autonomy for individual churches… and for individual people (that’s another blog for another day), and unfortunately, that might make it hard for me to find a Baptist church where I can fit comfortably. For this (and many other reasons )I don’t see myself joining a church any time soon. I think I’ll just remain in friendly cooperation with a number of congregations for the time being.

Happy Black History Month

It’s Groundhog Day in America. I don’t know if Punxsatawney Phil saw his shadow. But I know there is certainly a dark image hovering over the land.

Yesterday, the family of Tyre Nichols laid their loved one to rest. I didn’t watch the funeral. I don’t believe that family grief ought to be for public consumption. Nor did I watch any of the video footage of Mr. Nichols encounter with the police. I honestly haven’t watched any of these videos since 2017. My heart can’t take it. It is hard for me to shake off the darkness that follows watching such things.

But just because I’m not watching, doesn’t mean that I’m unaware. Almost every podcast I listen to has talked about the videos and its aftermath. I have heard everything from Jason Whitlock’s nonsensical take on the situation to Tyre Nichols’ big sister telling the whole world that all she wanted was her little brother back. I’m a big sister and that one line was enough to darn near bring me to tears, and I’m not a crier.

It’s Groundhog Day in America.

Michaela Angela Davis once said about mothers who have lost sons, “It’s like the light has gone out of their eyes.” The darkness can sneak up on you. It can find you when you least expect it. I cannot imagine what Mrs. Wells felt when she watched that footage and heard her son calling out for her. Unfortunately, there is a cadre of women who know exactly what that’s like. Sometimes dubbed the mothers of the movement, women who have lost their sons to violence by agents of the state, often show up in support of others who are forced to join their sorrowful sorority.

It’s Groundhog Day in America.

There is talk of another police reform bill. But the two major parties are already blaming each other for why it won’t pass. The bill, named for a black man killed at the hands of the police in 2020, passed the House in June 2020 and again in March 2021. It’s been stalled in the Senate. It didn’t even make it out of committee. The Washington Post’s tagline is “Democracy dies in darkness.” That may be true. The thing about darkness, though, is that our eyes adjust to it. When we first see the darkness, it is jarring, maybe even scary. But the longer we spend in darkness, the more comfortable we become. That’s why I can’t watch the videos.

It’s Groundhog Day in America and I couldn’t care less about whether the ground hog saw his shadow. The darkness that concerns me is one that lies within. It is the inability to recognize the light in others. You cannot tell me that the officers involved in Tyre Nichols’ death recognized even a spark of light in him. One of two things had to happen. They were either too concerned with their own light (self-righteousness), or they had let the darkness overtake them . In either case, the officers failed to see the image of God, the light, in this young man. They had “othered” him in a way that made their own behavior okay. We are all capable of this and that is the most frightening thing. My parents saw it in the 1960s. I saw it in March 1991. My children are talking about it in January 2023.

It is Groundhog Day in America, but maybe like in the Bill Murray film, we can learn from our mistakes and try again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Happy Black History Month!

Advent 2022: Blessed Quietness

Advent, the four weeks leading up to Christmas, is always a reflective time for me. I didn’t realize until recently that it is beginning of the liturgical calendar. As a Baptist, we don’t pay too much attention to the the Liturgical calendar except for Christmas and Easter. Generally, in our traditions, each individual church and pastor sets their own preaching calendar . But for the high holidays, you can almost guarantee that you’re going to hear a sermon of either the manger or Golgotha’s hill (or probably both!)

So I was fully prepared for this week’s Sunday school lesson to be about the angel meeting Zechariah in the temple. I love the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth. It’s one of my favorite of the Christmas stories, probably because I have entered my Elizabethan age. I’m a married lady with a few years on me. My husband is also a minister. I am more likely to identify with Elizabeth, the big cousin, than I am with the blessed and highly-favored virgin. (I got all three of my babies the regular way.)

Anyway, my teacher asked about Zechariah’s punishment of being silent, and I have been sitting with that question for 24 hours straight. My classmates correctly ascertained that since Zechariah was responsible for speaking on behalf of God, that the angel didn’t want him speaking out of doubt. They also talked about the difference between God’s responses to the men and women asking questions. I didn’t have a problem with any of that.

My problem lies with the question itself. What if Zechariah’s sentence to silence wasn’t so much a punishment, as it was preparation? Sometimes, God has given me things that I released either at the wrong time or to the wrong people. It did not end well. Perhaps, the angel sensed some immaturity in Zechariah’s questions. The angel was bringing good news and just maybe, Zechariah was not ready to hold such a precious gift yet. Also, forced silence makes you appreciate the glory of God in a completely different light. We can hear so much better when our mouths are closed.

Can you imagine the things Zechariah heard while he was forced to be quiet? Imagine hearing the prayers of petitioners that you previously on half-listened to before. Or think about the late night conversations he could have heard between Elizabeth and Mary, as they discussed the joys and woes of pregnancy, and the dreams they had for their unborn sons. Imagine how not being able to speak for a little while, makes you appreciate the gift that is your own voice. After Zechariah’s time of silence was up, his first words were offering up praises to the LORD.

I think the song that Zechariah lifts up at the end of Luke 1 was being written on his heart in during his quiet time. I think that he learned to appreciate the power of his voice, and I think going forward, Zechariah was probably a lot more careful with the weight of his words.

But more than anything, I think Zechariah’s story teaches me that what I might see as punitive is really preparatory for my next season. This reframing has been critical over these last two months as I battled my way through some tough situations. I’ve been in my own season of relative silence, but when the time is right, like Zechariah, I think I’ll have plenty to say.

Advent: to look forward to the coming of something new. As we get ready to close out 2022, I pray that you find something to look forward to.

Until next time.

Photo Credit:

Andrea Piacquadio

Church Girl: The Intro

A few weeks ago, Beyonce dropped her latest album, Renaissance. I didn’t listen to it when it leaked. I didn’t even rush to hear it after the official release date. Instead, I heard the buzz. I heard a few things about the album that made me think that this wasn’t for me. Then @Notkarltonbanks did a spoof about one of the songs on the album, and it caught my attention.

Beyonce has a song called “Church Girl”. Now, I don’t know if you know this about me, but umm… Church girl sounds like a pretty accurate description of me for my entire life. Most of my friends qualify, too. So I gave it a listen, and not only is this song for me and my friends, it might as well be about me and my friends! Have you ever seen church girls at the club? We be the main ones acting a fool. Skirts hiked up, twerking on the wall, on each other, or whatever fool man decided he was going to try to jump in on our girls-only good time. We shut the clubs down on Saturday night, then we get up early Sunday morning, because some of us have to lead praise and worship, serve as greeters, or even teach Sunday school the next day.

I have been the church secretary, sung in the choir, taught Sunday School and Bible study, and I sometimes twerk in the mirror (shout out to Janelle Monae). If the atmosphere and the music are right, I might do it in public. As a girl who has always been too worldly for the church, and to churchy for the world, this song spoke to me. So many churches are filled with girls (and quite a few boys) just like me, who feel like we can’t be our authentic selves in the place that is supposed to be our sanctuary.

So on Saturday nights, some church girls go to shake off the weight of the world that they have been carrying on their shoulders all week long. It feels good to let loose after living a buttoned up, boxed in life. So when Beyonce sang, “I’m warning everybody, soon as I walk in this party, I’m gonna let go of this body. I’m gonna love on me,” I felt it deep in my soul. So many of us are overworked and underappreciated, in the world, and specifically in the churches. We just want a space where we can be free of expectations and judgment, and sadly the church is rarely that place.

I’m hearing that there are those in the church who are condemning Beyonce for her use of a Clark Sisters standard. I, personally, grew up Baptist, so the Clark sisters weren’t on rotation in our house. You were much more likely to hear Stevie Wonder than you were to hear the Gospel Wonders. (You could, of course hear, Kansas City’s own gospel group, The Sensational Wonders, but that’s only because they practiced across the street) That being said, I looked up “Center of Thy Will” today, and it’s pretty good. I seriously doubt I’m the only one who googled the song after Beyonce sampled it. I imagine there are a lot of people being exposed to the Clark Sisters music for the first time. You’d think the church would celebrate the message being spread to new audiences.

The same church that teaches that “whom the Son sets free is free indeed”, spends a lot of time telling its members, particularly its women, what they can and cannot do. You’ve probably seen Bishop Wooten suggesting Mrs. Knowles-Carter had sold her soul to the devil. You might have heard similar sentiments in your own places of worship. In the church’s condemnation of this one woman, they missed the ministry of her music to other women. She is singing to and for a group of people whose voices are often drowned out, or for those too exhausted to speak up. Beyonce’ is speaking to and for the church’s core audience. (There are very few American churches where the women don’t outnumber the men ) I found this album more uplifting and life affirming than a whole lot of the sermons I’ve had to sit through.

There is a generation of church girls who are literally just trying to do the best we can. If the church doesn’t figure out a way to minister to our needs, we’re going to spend a whole lot more time dropping it like a thotty, and a lot less time dropping our offerings in the collection plate.

“Church girl” is the hot mama summer anthem I didn’t know I needed.

This is episode one, because this song, like every church girl I know, is multi-faceted.

Guns and Roses

It’s been almost a month since an 18-year-old walked into a grocery store in Buffalo, NY, shooting thirteen people and killing ten of them. He live-streamed part of his attack. The person arrested for this crime has entered a plea of “not guilty.”

It’s been nearly three weeks since 19 children and two teachers were killed in a classroom in Texas, and I still haven’t talked to my kids about it. I refused to watch a 10-year old testify in Congress that she stayed alive by covering herself in a classmate’s blood. I couldn’t listen to her father say how his daughter has changed since that day. It’s been three weeks and I still have to fight back tears at the thought of it.

We have had more mass shootings than we have had days of the year. Not all of these shootings have been deadly, but many are. There is not enough time to mourn the dead before we get news of another tragedy. It is hard, and it is heartbreaking.

Of course, there are calls for reform and stricter gun laws. I’ve heard people spouting ideas like arm the teachers, and buy your kids bulletproof backpacks. Some of the dumbest plans I’ve heard call for a reduction in entrance and exit points in schools. These people would rather break fire safety laws than enact sensible firearm legislation.

I’ve heard politicians and their operatives talk about the mental health crisis in this country, racial animus, and growing dissatisfaction with the government. These same folks then turn around and discuss the sanctity of the second Amendment. Because I have a curious mind, I decided to take another look at the amendment:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

It’s funny how we skip over the first part of the amendment, right to the part we like. There is nothing well regulated about the militias that have formed today. At least, not from the outside. I’m not saying they aren’t well organized. I’m saying that some of them are not as interested in a “free State”, unless they agree with the person in the White House. I also have questions as to whether they would extend that freedom to people who may not look or think like they do. But that’s a discussion for another day.

The people have the right to keep and bear arms. It says so right there. But before the constitution, the framers wrote the Declaration of Independence. In it, declared that there were inalienable rights, and among those, were the right to life, the right to liberty, and the right to the pursuit of happiness. What do we do when one of the enumerated rights is in direct contrast with the unalienable rights of others? Don’t see it?

The people in that grocery store, were going about their everyday lives, picking up birthday cakes, and strawberries for dessert. They were deprived of the right to life when someone with an assault rifle took aim at them. There were fourth graders who sat in a locked classroom, deprived of their liberty for nearly an hour, while a gunman shot their teachers and their classmates. And as for the pursuit of happiness, what does that even look like as we’re burying babies and senior citizens, none of whom died of natural causes? This is a man-made disaster, not an act of God.

We are facing a mental health crisis in this country. There is racial animus. People are disappointed in our government and folks are getting desperate. But we also have a gun problem in this country. Anybody with any of the above issues can walk into a store and buy as many guns and as much ammunition as they want with very few restrictions. Until we are seriously willing to do something about that, we will continue to have to lay wreaths and roses at the grave sites of far too many people.

A famous rock band once sang “Welcome to the jungle. It gets worse here everyday.” The song was supposed to be entertaining. Now it almost seems prophetic.

Pass the Mic

One of the best things that came out of this pandemic was Jasmine Sullivan’s Heaux Tales. The songs are interlaced with interludes of women telling stories of their romantic escapades.

I have a confession to make. I can’t personally identify with a single song on the album. That doesn’t stop me from blasting the music while I clean up on Saturday mornings. It doesn’t stop me from singing along when the lyrics get good to me, and it doesn’t stop me from pointing other people to the genius that is Ms. Sullivan.

There’s been a lot of talk about lived experiences in my time-line of late. It all started with Jennifer Buck’s book: Bad and Boujee: Towards a Trap Feminist Theology. Now, several things caught my attention here. First, I don’t trust anybody who spells bourgie that way. Anybody with serious middle class pedigree knows better. (I, personally have not yet reached that level yet, but I do have bourgie aspirations.) Second, I have no idea what Trap Feminism is. I know a little bit about trap music, and I know a little bit about feminism, but I’ve never put the two together. Third, was the girl on the cover with an afro bigger than mine. I am always jealous of anybody with a bigger afro. And then there’s theology, and you cannot have spent any time around me in the last 10-15 years, and not know that I have a serious interest in all things theological. If I could get a sponsor, I would absolutely enroll in somebody’s seminary as soon as possible.

The book definitely had my attention at this point. So I googled the author. She’s got all the right degrees: BA, M.Div, and Ph.D. This isn’t even her first book. And then I saw her picture.

Deep sigh: Now listen, I believe that Dr. Buck is fully capable of writing a scholarly work about the intersections of hip-hop, female empowerment, and theology. I think her title was tragic. I feel like her cover art was a tad misleading, and I think maybe, just maybe, Dr. Buck, missed an opportunity to lift up the voices of black women theologians, who are underrepresented in seminaries across the country, as both students and faculty.

Let me go back to Heaux Tales for a minute. Sometimes, I find myself singing the opening interlude. (Google the whole album if you haven’t heard it. Be warned, it is definitely R rated. If you have heard it, then you already know the first few lyrics.) Nothing on the album even remotely mirrors my own testimony. I know nothing about that life, but if you think I don’t blast that album when I’m cleaning my house you would be very wrong. I can recognize the beauty in the art. I can buy the album and look forward to the upcoming tour. I could even try to write fan fiction based on the album’s interludes. I could even attempt to fool people into thinking I identify with the narratives. But anybody with a discerning ear could tell I wasn’t speaking from personal experience.

I haven’t read it, but I imagine that’s the problem with Dr. Buck’s book. It doesn’t quite ring true, not because her information isn’t accurate, but because it is lacking an air of authenticity. It’s because her target audience knows something in their bones that the writer can only study from the outside looking in. I do not believe that lived experience is a prerequisite for scholarly work, or for ministry for that matter. IF that was the case, I would never be able to sit through the sermon of another male preacher, or listen to the wisdom from an unmarried friend.

I believe that Dr. Buck appreciates hip-hop music, feminism and the work of black women theologians. I think there was a better way to show that appreciation. I think she had an opportunity to listen to and amplify their voices, to sing along, and to tell other people to listen to them. I hope she does that next time.

In the meantime, she should check out Jazmine’s Sullivan’s Heaux Tales, Mo Tales, and look for concert tickets.

And the Oscar Goes To…

Did you know that Samuel L Jackson finally got an Oscar last night? An openly queer woman of color also won the Academy’s highest honor. Did you hear about that? Did you know that the movie that won best picture, was about a child of deaf adults (CODA)? Had you heard that Will Packer directed last night’s show, and is only the second black person to ever do it? Did you hear that Will Smith, after 30 years of chasing being the biggest movie star in the world, finally got an Oscar? Probably not, because all of those accomplishments were overshadowed by another moment in Oscar history, one Chris Rock called “the greatest night in the history of television.”

UGH!!! I know by now you have all read all the hot takes. I have heard everything from “That’s what Chris Rock gets,” to “Will Smith was way out of line” to “this is all Jada’s fault”. And my least favorite take of all “if you’re not a husband, you wouldn’t understand.”

Pause. Let me stop at that last one. To think that a wife, a woman, a spouse of any gender doesn’t understand protecting their spouse’s honor is ignorant on so many levels. I don’t know a wife worth her salt that doesn’t spend countless moments trying to protect her husband’s honor, his integrity, his reputation, his ego, and his heart, EVERY DAGGUM DAY! Ask anybody who knows me, that if you come after Ernie Radford, I’m going to come with everything I got within me, and everything I got in my purse. I don’t care if it’s my mama, his mama, your mama. Everybody can get it.

But my mild-mannered, sensible, husband has taught me that sometimes in my defense of him, I escalate a situation, when, had a I just taken a breath and let things settle, the problem would have worked itself out. Chris Rock told a joke that nobody under 30 even understood. (GI Jane came out in 1997, and also Jada would kill at the role!) Had Mr. Smith looked around the room, he might have seen that. But he didn’t look around the room. He looked at his wife. She was not laughing and that sent him into a tailspin.

Let me be transparent. I didn’t watch the Oscars. I haven’t seen any of the Oscar nominated films, except Encanto, and I haven’t seen anything with either Will Smith or Chris Rock in years. My family will tell you that nothing puts me to sleep faster than a movie. I did, however, read Will’s book. In it, he talks a lot about feeling like a coward, and his ego, and I think we saw both on display last night. In his mind, his greatest failure was not being able to protect his mother from his father. Last night, he saw a familiar hurt in his wife’s eyes, and decided to do something about it…Except his Ego stepped in and said do it now, in front of these people, and in front of the cameras. “Let them all see that you and your family are not to be messed with.”

Except that in defending his wife from a not-so funny joke, he left her open to attack for jokes that were actually hilarious, and way more disrespectful. I’ve seen think-pieces blaming her for all of the shenanigans last night. We had finally gotten over her “entanglement” and in his effort to defend her honor, he brought it all to light again. Listen, if you saw the aftermath of the smack, you practically saw the wheels in Chris Rock’s head working through a joke that involved August Alcina and he stopped himself, probably for the good of his health, and for the protection of his paycheck.

Speaking of protection, the Oscars ain’t got nobody to protect the performers on stage? What kind of nonsense is that? That’s why Beyonce didn’t perform live in the theater! Y’all got her messed up. Ain’t no way Will would have made it from his seat if Julius was around.

Anyway, it was arguably the biggest night of Will Smith’s career, and it was overshadowed by what might be recorded as a low-point in his public life. The whole thing makes me sad, and makes me contemplate my own actions more carefully. I wish I could take some of my actions back, but not all. Some of those folks deserved whatever I gave them.

But really, the Oscar should go to all these folks acting like they were watching the Oscars, before the incident. Or the people acting like they know what they would do in that situation. Y’all are putting on the performance of a lifetime! Congratulations!

The Book was Better!

We all know a book supremacist, somebody who swears that the books are better than the on-screen portrayal. Famously, Crissle West, of The Read podcast, is a perfect example. She frequently tells her co-host, Kid Fury, and the listeners how horrible the Harry Potter movies were in comparison to the books. She makes no effort to conceal her distaste for the films. She admits freely that she has only been able to sit through two and a half of the movies. I’ve heard similar critiques about the Game of Thrones series, anything based on J.R.R Tolkien’s novels, and even the children’s book , Mr. Lemoncello’s Library.

Book supremacy is a real thing. There is something to be said to leaving things to the imagination. Which brings me to my point: Mike Todd’s sermon illustration crossed several lines. I went back and forth about whether or not to watch the video of him hacking up phlegm, rubbing it in his hands, and then wiping it on another black man’s face in the middle of a pandemic! But ultimately, I felt like I had to watch if I was going to comment, and I couldn’t not comment. Everybody else is commenting. Let me throw in my two mites. (You see my little biblical reference. I be reading and stuff!)

First let me say this. I like Mike Todd. His “Crazy Faith” sermon series was a blessing to so many people, including myself. I sang along when he sang, “I got the keys, keys, keys…”. Relationship Goals is a best seller for a reason. But umm, this latest sermon illustration went just a bit too far, which he acknowledged and apologized for. I appreciate you for doing this. I wish more pastors felt compelled to apologize when they misstep or overstep in public. Unfortunately that is not the norm.

Mike Todd absolutely owed an apology to his congregation, and to every person who watched that demonstration. But more importantly, he owed an apology to that young man who stood there and took that abuse, all in the name of making the word come alive. I love a good sermon illustration. I love it when pastors pull out props. I love a multimedia presentation. Some of us need that to understand biblical concepts.

I refuse to watch the Babysitter’s club shows, because nothing on screen can recapture the nostalgia of my mid-90s self reading about Claudia (the real star in the books) and her friends dealing with teenage issues. Denzel Washington’s lone tear in Glory, was a magnificent piece of work, but even that horrible scene wasn’t as bad as actual slavery. I didn’t like the Passion of the Christ because there is no real way to depict the agony of a crucifixion. No movie magic can portray the painful death of Jesus on Golgotha’s hill. And none of us needed to see Mike Todd spit into his hands (twice) and rub it on somebody’s face.

Remember, when the old church mothers would corner young women and tell them they were dressed inappropriately. If your skirt was too short and/or too tight, (as many of them were in the 1990s) the older women would say “leave something to the imagination.” How come nobody ever said that to the pastor?

The word to the pastor is always, “Make it plain.” Plain doesn’t get you likes or retweets in today’s social media environment. Instead, some preachers are opting for sensationalism. And in employing the sensational, we have lost our common sense. We have forgotten that God’s word and his grace are sufficient. Nothing needs to be added. Nothing needs to be taken away. The Word is enough.

I guess that makes me a book supremacist, too. I wish more of us were.

Wonder(ful) Years

When I hear the term “reboot”, I think of turning my computer off and turning it back on again. It is basically my go-to move for all tech support related issues. My computer is frozen. Reboot. My phone is glitching. Reboot. Can’t open a website. Turn it off for a few minutes. It should be fine.

So usually the the term reboot has a negative connotation for me. It usually means something has gone wrong. That’s how I think about these television shows, too. I had no desire to watch any of them. Yes, I watched Will and Grace and Roseanne when I was younger, but I grew up. I would assume the characters on those shows should have grown up, too. But then, I saw a trailer on Facebook for “The Wonder Years” and I was intrigued. I was hooked after one episode.

Have you seen the melanated marvel that is the newest version of “The Wonder Years”? Set in 1968 in Montgomery, Alabama, we get to watch the coming of age story of Dean Williams. He’s a 12-year old boy in an ever-changing world. They cover first love, first heartbreak, and the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, all in the first episode. In episode two, they sing the Negro National Anthem.

As a kid, I watched the original show with Fred Savage. I always dreamed that some boy would look at me like Kevin Arnold looked at Winnie Cooper. Of course, Winnie spent all her time on a bike, and I spent my time reading books. We weren’t really that similar. And I was hoping to grow out of that middle school angst, but that never really happened. I think I finally outgrew my awkward teenage stage at about age 32. Somehow, I did get one of the boys from the neighborhood to marry me, though. Neither one of us is too sure how that happened. But that’s enough about my extended period of weirdness. One of the benefits of watching this show is getting ideas about how to shepherd my kiddos through their own awkward stages.

The cast is stunning. I have loved Dule Hill since the West Wing (the only other reboot I’d consider watching.) I can’t believe he’s old enough to be playing a dad on TV, even though I’m sitting here playing a parent in real life. Tony-nominated Saycon Sengblah shines every time on the screen. But the real stars on this show are the kids. EJ Williams, Amari O’Neal, and Milan Ray all look like they could be my son’s friends. I just want to feed them and let them hang out on my sofa. Then, there’s the voice of Don Cheadle narrating their adventures. This show is my new favorite thing.

I need y’all to watch this show and tell me if you love it as much as I do.