Bucket list

Until the movie came out a few years ago featuring a pair of elderly men who set out to do things before they died, I’d never really considered myself to have a bucket list. Sure, there were things I wanted to do. However, I never formalized them into a list. Yet, each year as I got older, I seemed to be checking things off of my mental list of “Must do before I die” and feeling better and better about it. I’ll be honest the list has changed, grown, and shaped up differently over time. A few things got on the list only after I’d completed them. I never knew until I tried that I even wanted to do that in the first place.

One such thing for me was singing at an event and being the primary entertainment. I’ve never wanted to be a solo musician. I love harmonizing and enjoy just the occasional show. Now, background vocals? I’d do that for life. Anyhow, when I moved in 2010, there were several things that I set out to accomplish in my new town. One of those things was to sing with a band at an event. I had no plan of how this was going to happen and had never done it before. Yet after a few short weeks in the city, I was rehearsing with a band and had gigs regularly around town.

I’ve always loved music, singing especially. So, this wasn’t entirely out of my element. But because I had never done it before, I wasn’t sure if I could. I don’t mean that I wasn’t capable, but I thought that somehow perhaps I would not be allowed. My experience was so long ago, and even then, was not comparable to what I was seeking to do now. But after a few rehearsals, I felt grounded. I could do this. And we began building our set list.

The more and more we did, the more and more I wanted. I gained confidence and excitement about singing again. So, I believe it was then that I determined what my goal would be for singing with the band. I wanted to do a New Years Eve show. The guitarist had an opportunity for a gig and I was all about it. I invited 10 friends and family to come join me at the event as soon as I heard. And they were all on board. That to me, would be the culmination of this great experience with this particular band. So, the countdown to midnight began.

The next month or so until December 31, we continued to perform at corporate events and nightclubs. It was fine, but I was simply ready for the real deal. To me, the only gig that counted was New Years Eve. When that night finally arrived, I was ecstatic. I could barely contain my excitement. Most of my friends had never seen me perform before and this was my night to shine. No, the songs weren’t all my favorites. Yes, there were some moments when we weren’t in sync. But overall, it was a great night.

New Years Eve was my final night performing with that band. For some reason, the vigor and life seemed to leave after that performance. I wanted to end things on a high. They were still doing nightclubs and had some other events lined up. But for me, I had already checked off one of my mental items, hopefully far before I kick the bucket.

Gone too long – a work of fiction

I return from one of my disappearing acts like nothing ever happened. I do that…disappear. When I’m fed up, tired or just need some “me” time, I leave. Sometimes I’m gone too long and all the food is spoiled when I return. I spend my first moments back from being gone making a grocery list. My man doesn’t do grocery stores.

So, I go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. To my surprise, there is about half a gallon of milk left in the gallon jug. Instinctively, I life the jug to my nose expecting a foul scent, but am greeted by none. I then look for the date and see that this milk doesn’t  expire for another three days, which means it was bought when I was gone…and my man doesn’t do grocery stores.

But I’ve been gone for 3 weeks, surely he needed some cereal in the morning. I can understand. He had to do what he had to do, since I was gone, so long. But then I check the bread expecting to see a green molded mass contained by a twistie-tie. Instead, I see a fresh loaf of soft wheat bread, not my usual brand, but something from a local bakery. Well, I had been gone. Perhaps his mother felt bad for him and brought him something to eat. That was sweet of her.

Upon further investigation of the refrigerator, I find fresh meat, cheese, and veggies as well. So, I decided to cook my man’s favorite meal. Everything I need is here. So, I get to work. I take out everything I need and begin to prepare a meal that will make him forget that I’d been gone so long. I remember the first time I prepared this meal for him. It was more than 4 years ago. We’d sit and talk over candlelight at least once a week. But that time had come and gone and so had I.

But tonight, I’m going to make things right, starting with this dinner. I turn on some music and get to work in the kitchen. I’m having such a good time that I don’t see or hear what I should have seen or heard to let me know that I’d really been gone too long.

A woman stands in the doorway with a fresh bag of groceries.

laptop

Shortly after my last post, my beloved desktop computer bit the dust. Now, to say that I’m not technically savvy is an incredible understatement. I’m also very hesitant to try new technology because of the learning curve. So, when my brother brought me a laptop to type on, I was insistent that I needed a full keyboard to be able to put my thoughts onto screen.

I was frustrated because I’d just gotten into a groove with my blogging and had ideas for several, more radical topics that I wanted to cover. But my lack of a “real computer” prevented me from doing any of that. I wasn’t ready to convert to the world of wireless computing. Much like those who still have house phones, I wasn’t ready to go completely into the next phase of technology. What would I do without my computer?!?! I still need a desktop, right?

So, this isn’t really a rel post. This is my attempt to say that I’m back, not with a vengeance, but instead…with a laptop.

May 17, 2027

It’s a week before my 47^th birthday and I’ve got a lot on my mind. I wake up naturally around 8:30am daily. Gone are the days when an alarm breeched the world between slumber and the conscious. However, I’m still a night owl, so waking up before the sun is rarely something I can accomplish. Instead, I now wake up when I’m finished sleeping and I get to savor the last moments of each beautiful dream.

 

After a simple breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, I turn on the news to see about the weather for the day. Looks like it’ll be beautiful, no clouds, no rain, just sunshine. The high is only in the 70s. Perfect. This is my kind of day. I look at my phone and see that I’ve missed a few calls and texts. There are some people who just refuse to accept that I’m not a morning person. They still call at hours they know I won’t be awake. It’s ok though. They’ve learned not to expect a call until at least 10am. Today is no different. I put the phone down and return my attention to the news. Local stories have always been my favorites. I love to hear about the young girl who sold the most cookies or a family whose corn stalk looks like Jesus. Those stories make me smile. I know there are many more serious issues to report on, but I still like the fluff, even after all these years.

 

Just before 10:00am I begin to return my phone calls. My brother and friends know this is a big day for me. Every year since I was in my 20s, we’ve traveled for my birthday. Sometimes we leave a week before, sometimes a week after. But it’s still for my birthday. This year’s trip has been postponed a week because of my impending announcement. Those closest to me already know. I told them years ago, back in 2011 to be exact. So, they have been prepping themselves for years. Now that day is finally here and everyone is anxious, except for me. I’m relaxed and casual. That’s been my norm for years. There is very little that can break my stride, even something a significant and life changing as this.

 

Usually the conversations between my friends a week before my birthday involve finalizing travel details. This year is similar, but different at the same time. They are asking me when they should arrive and which calls they should return. Speculation has been building outside of my inner circle and some people have reached out to those closest to me to get the answers I would not provide. My trajectory has been strategic, but not usual. I didn’t go to law school or participate much in the local political scene. I’ve made a name for myself in other ways though. My involvement in local organizations has grown to make me a local celebrity of sorts. My business is flourishing and has granted me the opportunity to be in the national news on more than one occasion. Still, I am not yet a household name. Even with that being true, I’ve made a decision and I’m committing to it and today is the day I let the world know.

 

Once my friends arrive at my place, we get right into our routine of talking and laughing. From the outside, it would appear this is a normal gathering. But we all know there is something more happening. We’re dressed to the nines in business attire and there’s a limo waiting out front to take us to our destination. I check the mirror a few times before we head out. I’ve always loved my reflection. My emotions are clear on my face. I’m excited, eager, and a little scared. My best friends are making sure I’ve prepared for all the questions I might have to answer. I appreciate their help, but I’ve done the same thing a million times myself and I do believe there is such a thing as being over-prepared. So I suggest that we flip through some photos from previous vacations and steer the conversation towards the trip we’ll take next week, for my birthday.

 

We walk outside and all take our seats in the limo. I’ve never been a fan of limousines. I’d much rather have a chauffeured sedan, but my friends wanted us to all be together. And I obliged. Silence takes over and represents the multitude of feelings on the ride downtown. I love them for being there. I’m excited about where this journey will take me and I’m glad this day is finally here. When we arrive at the park, there are already people there. Passers-by innocently ask if I know what is going on here today. I tell them that I heard there will be an announcement of some sort. They stick around to see what it is. The news channels are all there, but I’ve escaped the eyes of anyone just yet. I’m enjoying the view of the lake. It’s beauty is why I chose this location to hold my press conference. After a few moments of solitude, my brother tells me that it’s time to begin. We walk up to the podium looking like we just stepped out of a magazine. Sharp. After a brief introduction by a friend and colleague, I step to the microphone and smile. Cameras are snapping pictures before they even know what I’m here to say. But I’ve cleverly dropped enough hints to make the speculation necessary.

 

“Thank you all for joining me here today on the beautiful shores of Lake Erie. Many of us live here and rarely recognize the magnitude of this Great Lake. Even fewer of us recognize its power. Simply because it has been here all of our lives and we pass it in our daily commutes, we underestimate it. Perhaps we take it for granted. Yet if we took a moment to relish it, we would see what a gift we have been given. However, sometimes it is necessary to speak up in order for someone to recognize your strength or contribution. The lake sends waves roaring and crashing into the shore for us to acknowledge its presence. In the coming summer months, many will enjoy the afternoon on the shores of this very lake and will wonder why they don’t do this more often. How sad for our beloved Lake to go over looked. Like our lake, there are many in our society who go unheard until they cry out in an uproar. Until there is an epidemic, a boycott, a walkout, a bankruptcy, their voices seem mute to the world. But I hear the cry. I hear the outpouring from communities around this nation from people who deserve to have their voices heard. I recognize the contribution of every segment of society and believe that it can be incorporated into success for us all. When you thrive, I thrive. Together we can create the type of nation that is representative of everything is should be. I may not be a big name in politics. I haven’t been at this game for years. However, I’ve been an active citizen. I’ve been a member of a community. I’ve made a difference and I’ve helped others realize their dreams. A visionary who believes in action and difference is what we need right now. I am a visionary and I will make a difference. I am Tamika Lawson and I’m running for President of the United States.”

Hometown

There’s something about Detroit that will always be home. No, I don’t still have my address ending in 48224 or have to take an exit off of the Lodge to visit friends. But there is a considerable part of my being that is derived from Detroit. It’s become a bit more popular to talk about Detroit since the Chrysler commercials and the “Imported from Detroit” epidemic. People here have asked me what it’s like or what it was like growing up there. I share vivid stories of all the things I loved about the city I left more than 10 years ago. I’m keenly aware that there’s a fascination here with the city. It has a history and a legacy that are worth discussing. See, I respect Detroit and love it for the person it shaped me into. My street smarts and witty humor are directly related to my hometown. I’m proud to be a descendant of a city that played such a huge role in music, international relations, fashion, and Black history.

Today, however, the city itself is foreign to me. Everything that made Detroit home has changed or disappeared. I can drive through my old neighborhood and find maybe one person who remembers me. The others have moved away. My favorite restaurants have closed down. The mall is no longer what I remember from working there as a teen. The people, the places, the memories of home are just that…memories. I’d rather preserve them in the beauty that they are in my mind than have them tarnished with the reality of Detroit today. Those people aren’t my neighbors anymore. The kinship I felt when walking to the corner store or cruising on the isle with classmates is not there anymore. The closeness I felt at church is gone as well. It’s moved to another building and I don’t even know what section my friends sit in anymore. In the old location, we always sat about 8 rows back, against the right wall. I don’t know where to find familiar faces anymore.

The route I’d take from college back home is different too. I recognize some of the same potholes, but my normal gas station isn’t there anymore. The car wash has burned down. When I turn onto my block, yes my childhood home is still there, but who I really would want to visit at home is not. It’s a house now, no longer the place of refuge and joy it was all those years. Now, it belongs to someone else and the reason I’d go there is no longer waiting for me either. I still have my keys and can remember how excited I’d be pulling up to the house. Now, I’m grieved when I drive down Outer Drive. That drive makes me miss my mother more than anything. Visiting her in the cemetary isn’t nearly the same as pulling in the driveway. So, why go to Detroit? Why? It only reminds me of what was and no longer is. Why go to Detroit? It saddens me to realize how much things have changed, and not all for the better.

I haven’t had a visit yet that hasn’t left me in tears. I long for the Detroit I thought there would be when I was a child. I imagined I’d always maintain a home there, just to come back to. But now, I don’t even like to visit. Detroit reminds me of my own mortality and that one day I’ll no longer be here. It reminds me that someone, someday will ride down these same streets and wonder what ever happened to me, and I’ll be gone. Someone rides down the street today and wonders that about me or my family. We’re gone.

Home is supposed to be a place of comfort and security. I have found that, not only in another city and state, but in particular places. I am at home with the church family I have locally. I feel like I have a place that is all mine. People take me at face value. They let me be who I am and don’t want me to become who I am not. I’m appreciated. I’m loved. I’m home. When I travel with my friends I feel the same way. It is not the location that I am comfortable in, but the company. With my friends, I have a comfort and security that extinguishes all fear or self-doubt. Instead, I am challenged to become a better version of myself. I’m encouraged. I’m supported. I’m home.

So, if I’ve found a home, why do I need to go to my hometown? It brings me such sadness and no one seems to understand. It isn’t the city alone. It’s everything. It’s knowing that the life I lived there will never, ever be again. People constantly ask me to come to the city. They nonchalantly try to persuade me to spend some time there. I’d love to. I wish I could. I wish I could enjoy the city while I’m there as much as I do when I’m away. Here, away from the city, I eagerly tell others that I am a Detroiter. I defend my city’s honor to the end. I speak of the vitality and resurrection like I’m an eyewitness myself. I’m a believer. I know too many good people from my city to throw it all away, but I just don’t want to go to Detroit. I wish that could be respected. I wish people would stop asking me. I wish they would just understand and accept that it’s not them, it’s me. I like the life I’ve created for myself across the state line. Here, my mind isn’t filled with memories and my eyes aren’t filled with tears as I drive down the street and recall taking the same drive with my mother as a girl. Here, I can pretend that all is well. I can act like I have it all together. I can be strong and resilient, captivating and legendary, just like Detroit.

The real reason

I have nappy hair. It’s my natural texture and I don’t change it with any chemicals or straighteners. Lately, there seems to be a bit of a revolution going on with black women and their hair. More and more of us are publicly embracing our natural textures. I’ve been invited to workshops, posted in online forums, and read many articles about black women and natural hair. Because of this phenomenon, when people see me and my nappy hair, they are comfortable asking me a variety of questions. The most popular questions relate to my reason for “going natural.” For most sistas, this is quite a decision. The period of contemplation can last anywhere from weeks to years. Some have decided to go natural, but not publicly, and still wear weaves and wigs. Others begin the journey only to turn back a few weeks in. As a black woman, there are few things I can think of more important than my hair. Yes, it frames my face, but it also is an expression of how I feel and how I want others to receive me. There are styles that are flamboyant, reserved, classic, and just plain sharp. Ask any black woman you know about her hair and you will engage in quite the conversation.

 

So, when I’m approached with these questions, especially from black women with straight hair, I know what they are expecting. They want to hear how I made the decision, how I wore my hair in the interim, and how others are receiving me now. They might be pondering the same choice themselves and need some guidance. I welcome the questions. I usually say something about wanting to learn to take care of my hair in its natural state or appreciating my natural beauty. But I have to be honest; none of that is true. The real reason I went natural is because I’m impatient.

 

A black hair salon is not a place to go if you’re short on time. Even the most considerate of stylists will probably take a couple of hours to complete your style. Regardless of appointment time or style, black hair salons, in my experience, are slow. There was one stylist I had on Gratiot in Detroit who was prompt. She would schedule me right after school and I’d be out of there in an hour flat. Other than that, I’ve never found someone so considerate of my time and schedule.

 

Once I moved to Ohio, this problem worsened. I’m impatient by nature, so waiting even 10 minutes past my appointment time is too much to ask. Most stylists assume their customers are used to this practice and don’t even apologize for running behind. On my search for a new stylist, I scheduled times at salons all over town. I got recommendations from friends and coworkers. I had a simple bob and didn’t think that would be tough to maintain. My primary question when asking for a recommendation was whether or not the stylist was timely. Apparently, I have a different definition of that than most people. Stylists who came highly recommended had me waiting for 30 minutes after my appointment time and then were sluggish in completing their other customers ahead of me. The icing on the cake for me was when I called 30 minutes ahead of my appointment time to be sure that she’d be able to accommodate me when I arrived, only to find there were three people waiting when I got there. I didn’t stay for my appointment.

 

My time is precious. The abuse of it is not something I take lightly. When stylists disregard our appointment time and keep me waiting or become distracted and chatter with clients while I’m in the chair, I’m offended. If I showed up to the salon an hour after our scheduled time, that would be addressed. However, when a stylist is an hour behind schedule at a black salon, it’s just supposed to be understood. No, not by me. I have plenty of other things to do besides wait in a salon for hours. Although I wasn’t willing to wait for the services of a stylist, I still needed them. And so my journey to going natural began.

 

Since I was unable to maintain the relaxed styles and layered cuts myself, I decided that going natural would allow me to regain control of my hair and my time. If I wanted to go to a salon for a special style, I could. But in the meantime, I could maintain my own hair and still look gorgeous doing so. Becoming comfortable with my own texture would allow me to find styles and tools that made me feel confident and beautiful without spending hours in the company of someone who took my time and money for granted. That wouldn’t be acceptable in any other industry or for any other clientèle. So, I decided it would not be acceptable for me either.

 

I went to the barber shop to get a haircut and have only been to a salon twice since then. I get compliments on my hair all the time. To say I’m feeling my hair would be an understatement. I love my hair. Having the free time that I savor and more cash on hand makes me love it even more. As I play in my kinks and wrap my naps around my finger, I think about my ancestors in Africa. There were beautiful women walking around this planet with nappy hair long before I decided to do so. This isn’t a revolution after all. It’s simply returning to my roots, literally. I feel more beautiful than I have in a long time. Other women tell me they wish they had the courage or confidence to do the “natural” thing that I do so well. I’m an inspiration to others and a force to be reckoned with…all because I got tired of waiting.

Default

Default

 

The default font on my computer is Times New Roman. I’ve never cared for that font. It reminds me of the countless college papers I wrote for which the professor required that particular font, in a 12 point size, with 1 inch margins. Other than trying to extend a 3 page paper to 5 with expanding font, what’s so wrong with choosing something other than the default? If I compare the page length in Times New Roman to that of the font of my choice (Tahoma or Verdana for me) and see that they are comparable, then why wouldn’t I have been able to turn my paper in that way? Why force the default upon me?

 

After a brief stint as a TA during grad school, I pondered this question even more. Reading paper after paper in the exact same font is annoying and difficult on the eyes. I’d much rather have the mix of some Arial or Lucida in there. Heck, I’d even appreciate the daring soul who turned in a paper completed in Wingdings , provided there was a translation. Times New Roman added nothing to the quality of the essays I read. It didn’t make comprehension easier. That font added nothing to the grammatical structure either. Instead, it simply made it more difficult to tell the papers apart, at least from a distance.

 

I’m a rebel at heart so trying to force a default upon me is rarely going to stick. I don’t select barbecue sauce for my nuggets because that’s the initial offer. And even if I don’t make a selection, sometimes it still ends up in the bag. Nope, I don’t want to sit down and wait. I’ll stand. Some might consider this behaviour contrary, but it isn’t. It’s actually exercising the option to do something other than the default. It’s freedom of choice, individuality, creativity, forming an opinion. It’s being something other than the default.

 

It’s easily to get programmed into doing the expected things. Often we go with the flow and don’t even question it. Some people have gotten so used to following the norm that they begin to choose the default and even prefer it, never having tried any other option. You even have those people who will defend their choice of the default by saying they can exercise their freedom of choice. But have they really exercised any choice at all? Or have they become so accustomed to the default that they no longer realize they have another option?

 

I don’t want to become a default-chooser. I pray I never lose sight of the other options available to me. I don’t think I can. Being an individual is a part of my nature. It’s as intrinsic to me as walking upright and blinking. Whenever I’m presented with a choice, I consider the options. More times than not, I’ll go with the one least expected. Yes, the road more traveled may be well paved, but there could be a beautiful view at the end of the one less traveled that few have ever seen. There could be fresh fruit trees lining the jagged lane and new neighbors to meet on the way. I’m willing to take the chance to discover for myself where this path takes me. Others have done it before. Great inventions have come from someone making a mistake or trying something new. See, there are directions for traveling a life on this less traveled path. They simply say “follow your heart” and they are not written in Times New Roman.

Natural Born

Natural Born

I hadn’t planned on becoming an X-Factor fan. It just happened. I watched an episode of the initial auditions and instantly became a fan of Drew. If you’ve seen the show, you’ve seen her and you can possibly understand my admiration. Not only is she a young girl with a gift, but she has a genuine excitement that makes me smile. Her voice is incredible and the talent she possesses is clearly something she was born with. Hearing her sing that first week made me think about the natural talents that each of us possess.

When I was Drew’s age, I was playing my cello everyday and loving it. It didn’t come natural to me though. I had to practice constantly and work harder than most others in the orchestra to even come close to the level I desired. Private lessons were grueling because it was not natural for me to do even the simplest things required of a cellist. My natural tendencies were not to hold the bow correctly or to place my fingers at the right point on the fingerboard. However, with consistent practice, I got better.

But there was something that was natural to me, singing. I could listen to a song once and create my own rendition of it that was perfect. Harmonizing came easy to me. I could hear the missing note and fit right in. My range was also impressive, even at that age. But I’d decided that I wanted to play cello. So, I focused on that as my musical avenue and sang mainly in the shower. One summer, I went to Blue Lake fine arts came when I was in high school. I’d auditioned in the spring and gotten a partial scholarship. This experience was really going to take my musicianship to the next level.

When I got to camp, I was overwhelmed. Many of the others in my orchestra were far beyond my skill level. Even with the extra practices I’d begun a few weeks before camp, I was clearly under-prepared. I’d been playing for years, but next to these kids I felt like i just picked up the cello for the first time. It was a struggle. I spent a lot of time wondering if I would ever be able to learn to do what seemed to come so naturally for them. As I listened to a 12 year old play a cello concerto that I couldn’t even read, I realized that this would be an uphill battle.

That next day, flyers began to circulate about auditions for the Blue Lake European tour. There would be multiple groups traveling to Europe that next summer, including a choir. As the day went on, I couldn’t get the idea of singing out of my mind. So, I signed up to audition, for the choir. I hadn’t sung in a while, but I knew that I wanted to take the chance. So, I warmed up and walked into the choral audition. Most of the people who auditioned were there for the choral program, not for orchestra. I sang the requested song for the audition and as the accompanist stood to shake my hand, he whispered, “your voice is amazing.” I was selected for the International choir and traveled to Europe that next summer to sing for a month. It was an amazing experience. We had about 35 songs in our repertoire, yet none were too difficult to me. It would have taken me all year to learn 35 new songs on my cello and even with daily practice, I would still be just slightly above average. But singing was natural to me. It was simple and I loved every minute of it.

Yes, I still continued to play the cello after I returned from Europe. But I also found ways to incorporate singing a little bit at a time. I let it lapse for a while and rediscovered the joy it brings me again recently. Sometimes, we move so far beyond what we’re natural at that it seems a distant memory. It’s fine to learn something new and take a new direction in life. That’s part of the adventure. But there’s always something that just feels right. It isn’t hard and it isn’t supposed to be. It just is. For some people it’s drawing or telling jokes. For others, it’s medicine or problem solving. Whatever it is, I’m convinced that we found it years ago. We might have covered it up with the daily trials of life or forgotten about it because it isn’t practical or profitable, but it’s still there. Make time to reconnect with it. That natural thing that you were born to do will never cease to bring you joy. It can coexist with the chores and family obligations. But let it exist. Be free to enjoy the natural high that comes from doing what you do best. You might just find a new way to enjoy life, naturally.

Why Blog?

I’m not famous yet, but when I am, this blog will be something that people will read about to learn even more about me. Who am I? What was I thinking? Where did I get the inspiration for all the witty things I have to say?

I’m candid and practical living in an impractical world. That being such, I often see things a different way than most of those around me. However, I know I’m not alone. In fact, I think that my comrades are around the world, spread far and wide and we’ll find each other through this blog. It may not be this post that catches your attention. Perhaps it’ll be the one I write after the first big snow about Ohio drivers. Or maybe the stories I share about a boring night on the town will make you remember a similar evening. Or just maybe sharing a moment of emotional candor will bring you in just enough to care to read a bit more of my thoughts.

There is no theme. I’ll write about my hair, dating, my neighborhood, church, love, hate, and so much more. Eager to share my thoughts with strangers all around me, I begin my blog not just to engage in vivid discussions and gather feedback, but to create the memories. How amazing will it be to look back 3 years from now at who I thought would win the 2012 election or what things were on the top of everyone’s minds. I’d love to reminisce with you. I’d love to share with you. And so I begin…