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E. Nichole

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09.17.2017

separation and confirmations

“you don’t need me.“

It got quiet after that.

If you had denied the reality that there was a disconnect, you should have known from then. Having gone to two visits for vaccinations prior, she recognized the baby by name before picking up the chart to find her initials. We sat in a close enough proximity that standing our daughter up on our knees served as a bridge that joined you and I, yet, there must have been an air of distance that was easily felt upon entering.

“Are you the mother and father?”

The softness of the yes that was released was loud enough to invite tension in. And just like that, the glue that bound us–if only for a few minutes–ripped apart as the doctor took her from our hands. How fucked up of me to think:

Someone freed my baby from the misery of her own parents.

Sitting in the silence of the examination room cut deep and I wondered about the prospect of our children well aware of our separation. She continued to ask questions, each one feeling as if the Universe was utilizing this woman as a vessel to get through:

“Does she show signs of happiness at home?”

Do you, Erica?

Yes, she does.

“Does she sleep in her crib?”

In you being away, they tip-toe around your return. Here at home, here in this bed. Afraid of how Mommy would respond to the triggering sound of “Daddy.” They make restrained remarks like, “I can smell him here.” When I put the kids down at night, I prop extra pillows where you’d lay to hide the scent on your side.

You’re here, even in your absence.

via CreateHER Stock.

I don’t tell her that our daughter gives me comfort in what feels like a broken home, so it’s only right that I take her out of her crib in the middle of the night to lie next to me. I’m alone and trying to figure this all out, and baby girl keeps the thoughts of how she came about, around. I’ve got to hold on to that. And I have to learn to rid myself of all of it, too. She holds your spot in a memory foam mattress that swallows her whole.

You are here. Even in your absence.

Yep, she sleeps in her own bed.

presence and absence; that’s been the theme of it all.

Curiosity killed me. An unfamiliar, yet similar scent of womanhood followed you inside. Our conversations were different. Being a Cancer, you never were one to say much, to begin with, but shortened conversations were substituted with silence. I did hear you emanating off of your fingertips, your tone of voice disguised as default notification sounds at 2:24am. Soulmates turned strangers living under one roof. I wanted in. In my own home, I was left out.

separation and confirmations; the death of us since her birth. 

Months later, we sit next to one another with green and blue text bubbles between us, entertaining wandering souls that fell into our laps. We palm phones and grip secrets with the same thumb that strokes her back to sleep, and pray that our transgressions aren’t wiped on her skin. “Bless the hands that prepared this food” takes precedence during prayer ‘cause we know what our fingers have said that our mouths could not. We hope that our children don’t consume our sins.

“Is she saying any words? Responding to your voices?”

With dialogue bordering extinction, the apartment is wreathed with song lyrics and the echoes of our babies’ laughter. Maybe it was a simultaneous mental note that words are barely spoken between us, that we blurted out a synchronized yes–the first time in a while that we’ve been on the same page. We shared the story of how ‘dada’ came about and how she’ll squeal upon hearing my voice at the door after work. I quietly let out a laugh that went unnoticed by the room except you. And perhaps in that second, you and I reconnected, hope briefly became a thought.

Hope–inked at the tip of my spine, coincidentally crippling me from moving forward.

“Is she crawling?”

Are you, Erica?

Come nightfall, I express missing you under the guise of “maybe spending the night will be good for the kids,” and the children’s once withdrawn words shift to open proclamations of “Daddy’s sleeping here again!” I tell myself, he’s staying because of the kids.

And when it’s quiet, for an hour or so, the weight of our bodies fuse with the burdens we’ve been carrying throughout the years–our exchange, equal parts sexual liberation and mental stagnation.

But there’s a guilt in backsliding, going against my healing that awakens me.

I should have been let us go.

I say it low enough so that it doesn’t disturb your sleep; softly in that it hints at shame. I wished you heard me, but maybe I needed to say it out loud to convince only myself. He’s staying because you want him to. Because despite everything that’s happened, you want confirmation that you’re still wanted. I think about how we as women neglect the magic and magnitude of our own intuition. If perhaps, we welcome our own misery with open arms and legs when we continue what should cease. We bank heavily on hope. Potential. Promises we know will go unfulfilled. For many of us, we leave with less…and still go back for more. Freedom is hard work, uncertain, and terrifying. Captivity can be somewhat comfortable. I remember that lying underneath the confines of your arms, trying to find ways to not make this feel familiar.

No. No progress on movements.

And for a second, her affirmation of “she’ll get it soon enough, Mom” stings. I know that my daughter will. And maybe, I will, too. Because although I feel empty most days, what matters is that,

somehow, in this moment,

I’m still here.

Even in your absence.

Even in our separation.

Filed Under: Family

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the miniature version of the blog.

in december of last year into january of this year in december of last year into january of this year, one of the closest people to me was admitted into the hospital for a serious medical condition that led to daily dialysis treatments for 3-4 hours on end. for a minute, for the first time, really, i questioned God, wondering if this was the answer to my request, “please bring me closer to you in the new year.” this wasn’t the way i had envisioned it would pan out, yet, it brought my family together, brought my children into my bedroom to find me kneeling at the foot of the bed, brought my brother back to life. today, i celebrate his 1st saturn return, his rebirth, and his entire existence. ⁣
⁣
to my little big bro on his 29th: i love you just as much as i did on the saturdays we watched bobby’s world + animaniacs together, when we argued over who was better in mortal kombat + crash bandicoot, and the day you saved me from myself back in ‘03. i know how to fight—in every sense of the word—because of you. watching you grow up. watching you on that bed. ⁣
⁣
thank you for pulling through.⁣
thank you for pulling through.⁣
thank you for pulling through.⁣
⁣
thank you for being my first best friend + holding the title since. happy birthday, kid. it’s good to see you on this side.
“are you a princess?”⁣ “she said ‘i’m “are you a princess?”⁣
“she said ‘i’m much more than a princess, but you don't have a name for it yet here on earth.’”⁣
⁣
halloween ‘20.
“𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.”

𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗵. 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗿𝘅.
moment of transparency: when i had my firstborn 11 moment of transparency: when i had my firstborn 11 years ago, i was 130 pounds, a size 7. fast forward to the present + three children later, i’m a little under 200 pounds, fluctuate between a size 10-12. the power of the snapback skipped right over me all three times. shifting between loestrin, depo-provera + the iud; struggling with removing sweets from my diet after being raised in a home that didn’t prioritize healthy eating; and elevated levels of stress throughout the years definitely doesn’t help with my weight loss journey. so as much as i appreciate + understand the wonders of what a woman’s body can do, do i still struggle with my image? absolutely.⁣
⁣
the moment of taking off a sundress came with a small bout of anxiety as i pulled the stripes that camouflaged the belly + back fat over my head. i adjusted my breasts, i pulled the bottom of my one-piece from the crevice of my butt that no longer sits up perkily. and maybe my face gave me away as it usually does, but he trekked over hot sand to grab the dress from the hands that gripped at it as if it were the edge of a cliff.⁣
⁣
“it’s not a towel. it’s okay.”⁣
⁣
as it folded itself up into a mess of a ball + fell on the towel beneath us, he grabbed a handful of a cheek. in a mix of sensual and playfully, he squeezed the jiggly parts where the lines intersect + the dimples started to form. he would lean over, drink in hand, and pinch flesh.⁣
⁣
“you’re drunk,” i would tell him, but was immediately reminded of the ways that we diminish our beauty, our value, ourselves when we use cover up language to lighten the mood or lessen the (emotional or mental) weight of a moment. or in this case, hide how we feel about compliments and our level of self-confidence. it took years for me to realize that sometimes refusing admiration was simply a reflection into how I saw myself…⁣
⁣
new, full article over at members.xonecole.com.
“humanity does not suffer from the disease of wr “humanity does not suffer from the disease of wrong beliefs but humanity suffers from the contagious nature of the lack of belief. if you have no magic with you it is not because magic does not exist but it is because you do not believe in it. even if the sun shines brightly upon your skin every day, if you do not believe in the sunlight, the sunlight for you does not exist.”⁣
—c. joybell c.⁣
⁣
𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤.⁣
𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠.⁣
𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠.
“my mother⁣ is pure radiance. ⁣ ⁣ she is t “my mother⁣
is pure radiance. ⁣
⁣
she is the sun⁣
i can touch⁣
+ kiss⁣
⁣
+ hold⁣
without ⁣
getting burnt.”⁣
—sanober khan
first came the vision. if you know me personally, first came the vision.

if you know me personally, you know i have a tendency to act off impulse + act on any and everything God sends me in a dream. an event centered around Blackness—the totality of my existence—and Latinx sororities—my avenue into uprooting my ethnic identity. 
but life’s changed. i haven’t (co)hosted in an event in five years or so. i’ve been clinically diagnosed with anxiety since. i’ve lived a quieter life. so i couldn’t manifest this. because it would mean revisiting the life i left behind. pushing through panic attacks. amplifying my voice. then i read my horoscope that same morning.
.
“when you make room to speak about what exists, you no longer have to spend time wondering about everything left unsaid. lean on your natural talent for courageous leadership as much as possible right now. invent new voices for yourself. you will have to do something you don't normally do or that you've never done before. your best bet is to roll up your sleeves and do it.”
.
you don’t sleep on double confirmations. you can’t diminish the gift that is manifestation.

so countless people came to mind + when i stopped doubting the gift that was this event, i hit send. women from so many sororities came through with an overwhelming response. “finally, we’re talking about this collaboratively and nationally.”
.
and here we are. i created this event—strategic about the name; who would moderate + that connection between The Divine Nine and Latinx orgs; the panelist selections—to (re)direct many in the right direction through education + always led by (the Black) experience.

Join me + @janelm of @aintilatina for an important discussion on cultural relevance and responsiveness within Latinx sororities, featuring:
• Ysanet Batista of @slu1987 and founder of @wokefoods
• Dr. Ariana Curtis of @omegaphibeta and curator of Latinx Studies at the @nmaahc
• Dalma Santana, President-elect of @chiupsilonsigma and Director of Special Events and Parent Relations at St. Peter’s Prep
• Jelisa Jay Robinson of @kdchi and Black American playwright

indebted to these women for being the pull up-types that rihanna spoke of. have a seat at the table with us on weds? #BlackLatinx
“𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.”⁣⁣
— bethanee epifani j. bryant
in 2016, i shared some of the following on fb. rep in 2016, i shared some of the following on fb. reposting w. additional thoughts:⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
in 2008, Rob + i had the chance to sue the pd for head trauma, causing his eyes to fill w. blood after being assaulted + arrested for asking a question at the precinct. the sight of his eyes was one of the most frightening things i’ve ever seen. we were told that our family would be targeted for suing law enforcement. there would be a chance we “would be dead before a trial even happened.⁣”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
everytime a case of police brutality hits the media, we ask: what would‘ve happened if we followed through. birth names would’ve been prefaced w. pound signs, including our unborn.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
but something has to give. it’s one thing when it affects your people; when it affects your household, it’s a whole ‘nother ball game. it’s very personal then.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
you go hard for Blackness differently.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
you pray for Black men harder.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ with intensity.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
you love Black men softly.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
bell hooks said, “black male ‘cool’ was defined by the ways in which they confronted hardships of life without allowing their spirits to be ravaged. they took the pain of it + used it alchemically to turn the pain into gold. 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵. it was defined by the ability to withstand the heat + remain centered…defined by black male willingness to confront reality…not by black male denial or by assuming a “poor me” victim identity, but by black males daring to self-define rather than be defined by others.”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
today, i thank God for his words from that day:⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣i’ll die for what’s right, but my girl shouldn’t be left without support. my son shouldn’t live without his father. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐨.
a nurse asks me when do i start having conversatio a nurse asks me when do i start having conversations with my children about being Black + what would it entail.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
i tell her color was a conversation in my house when my sons were 4 + 5. that there really wasn’t a “too early” when it came to educating my kids on race. i wrote about interactions in school that made Kae aware of his lighter skin before his father + i even introduced color as a topic of discussion, bringing to light: “𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.” ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
so when it was time, that premature in their lives, it was more so:⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣• y’all are going to look different than some of the kids in school.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ that shouldn’t stop y’all from being friends with them.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
• but when you’re older, how you look may have a direct relationship to how long you 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 on this planet.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
explaining the unfortunate complexities of survival, freedom + fear, to children is fucking hard. you struggle with what’s too much. you give in doses, pray it’s enough. you are cognizant of the fact that race supersedes age—it’s known that america disregards the innocence + joy of youth when you’re Black. ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣now that they’re 10 + 11, it’s weaving in lessons about schoolwork with race: “if the plan says do 5 exercises, do 10. ‘cause when you‘re older, you’re going to have to do 2x as much—if not more—anyway, to get to the destination. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐦 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
+ it’s not an option for me to educate them later. i will not do the work they are struggling to do now with their children. with themselves.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
the nurse who pulled her seat up to have this conversation, cut the silence of the ER to say, ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
“𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧, 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐢 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝.”
“art is the child of nature in whom we trace the “art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.”⁣
— henry wadsworth longfellow⁣
⁣
Mother’s Day ‘20
“but there’s a story behind everything. how a “but there’s a story behind everything. how a picture got on a wall. how a scar got on your face. sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. but behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begin.”⁣⁣
⁣⁣
i am 𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚,⁣⁣
mother of 𝐊𝐚𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐧, 𝐊𝐚𝐦𝐫𝐲𝐧, and 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐞.⁣⁣
#daughterof Angela,⁣⁣
granddaughter of Bernice,⁣⁣
great-granddaughter of Olivia,⁣⁣
great-great granddaughter of Lelia.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
sending infinite love to all the mamas + their daughters especially today.⁣
⁣
Mother’s Day ‘20.
“𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.” ⁣⁣ “𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.” ⁣⁣
⁣⁣
i worried about high school + girls, thinking of girls like me in high school. foremothers didn’t express specific stages to be leery of, but the inauguration, generally speaking, begins at 12. the year i became. “you’ll see” was the blanket advice to signify a future dance with karma + if i were smart, i would enroll in patience from early to help subside the side effects of puberty + adolescence. we are now one + two years away. i’ve had ample time to learn with some wiggle room left.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
i have trouble with surprises, meaning i have difficulty accepting things out of my control. so he says it slowly, as if to ensure i can swallow what‘s being offered. he tells me that those years have arrived. earlier than anticipated, but timely if i were attentive. this is motherhood. ⁣⁣
⁣⁣
this is here. where the classroom is expansive + changes often; where i am less of the professor + more of the pupil. this year’s course: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? watching him teach, i know that he will crack like the bark beside him, split like the branches before him, rise like the trees above him. i want to interject, raise my hands without being called on + shout out the answers, but one of the greatest lessons i learned when i took this class was courage. i won’t be far behind, but i won’t follow him too deep into the woods, because “if we’re always following our children into the arena…they’ll never learn that they have the ability to dare greatly on their own.” you’ll see.⁣⁣
⁣
#slumomsweek (day 3: wisdom wednesday)⁣
#30layers30days(day 6: courage to leave)
“what can i do with my happiness? how can i keep “what can i do with my happiness? how can i keep it, conceal it, bury it where i may never lose it? i want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace + silk, and press it over myself again.”
— anaïs nin
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