family – Finding Melodie

January 13, 2017August 18, 2017

A Letter to The President

It’s significant to me that the presidency for America’s first African-American president will come to a close next Thursday, January 19, 2017. It’s significant to many, many people in my life, throughout the nation, and around the world.

It’s significant to pause and consider America changed her history eight years ago and elected her first-ever African American president and person of color president. That’s worthy of celebration. America CHANGED HER HISTORY. She showed that race and color could no longer be a barrier to how she would be led by her own people.

That had never happened before on a presidential level.

I’ve had the honor to vote in five elections in my lifetime. 1st time in 2000, as a 20 yr-old. And eight of those 16 years that span my voting experience were lived during America’s 1st African-American Presidency. That is historic. That gives me pause.

These eight years and this presidency were not without their challenges, questions, and at times disappointments. But this is life. And we grow through how we learn, listen, and use moments to shape us for more opportunities in the future.

Seeing President Barack Obama, First Lady Michelle, and their beautiful daughters Malia and Sasha in The White House the last eight years = significance because seeing them means I see me. I see an affirmation of brown skin and black culture that poured confidence and belonging into my soul.

I see tender respect for family, marriage, parenting, and love. I see my President and First Lady, but I also see a dad who hilariously imitates his teenage daughters on their cell phones texting to their friends, “Girl, I couldn’t believe it…” and a mom who goes to CVS to get earphones for her daughter. I see America. Diverse. Not all the same and learning to respect the differences in others. Bridging the gaps. Crossing the divides.

When reports surfaced throughout these eight years at different times of American citizens publicly and often via social media calling The First Lady a “first chimp” or a “monkey” and The President a “spider monkey” or a “nigger” it digs into the significance that grew my confidence through this presidency. It hurts. It makes me mad. People are still calling black people animals some 154 years after the end of American slavery and the declaration of The Emancipation Proclamation. Still seeing us as not human, not enough, less than simply because our skin is a different shade. That hate for The President and The First Lady is unconsciously absorbed by me because I look just like them. I’m black. The hate that so easily spews from ignorant minds towards the leader of the free world can just as easily come my way.

This callous racism surfaces because of the color of the President and The First Lady’s skin, parts of their physical makeup and identity they had no choice in selecting. God created them in His image. He chose their brown skin. He chose my brown skin. He chose all the skin colors in this world. Before the world knew any of us, He knew us. He was present as we were being knit together in our mama’s wombs. He knew US. And this is why the dig of racism is so vitriolic, so sinful, and very demonic: It calls what God created with intention and from love defective and unworthy. And this kind of severe brokenness can only be redeemed through the power and the blood of Jesus Christ.

Racism forces me to stop and accept that though America did change her history, many people don’t want to live in the present. They lust for the prejudice and bigotry of the past. I hate that people want hate more than they want racial diversity, cultural understanding, and relationships with others who don’t look like them or come from the same background as them. I hate that ignorance is just as alive and well in 2017 as it was after Civil War Reconstruction and early Jim Crow laws took their death grip across the American South and other parts of the nation.

Hate had grandchildren and her sister racism did the same and now we are here. We are here dealing with their kids and we are here trying to protect our kids and we are here fighting to be human.

And yet hate will not win. She’s riddled with deficits.

Love has already won this war and the banner of victory rests beautifully on the shoulders of Jesus, the Messiah. He fills in all the gaps that hate leaves empty and deformed. He is The One who holds all things together:

¹⁵He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. ¹⁶For by^[f] him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him.¹⁷And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

Colossians 1: 15-17

His love reminds me to have hope. That hope inspired me to write a letter of thanks to The President and First Lady this week. In the face of intense realities these last eight years, they both served in their human giftings and also human limitations, with faith and diligence, as they opened their lives and shared their family with millions in our country and around the world. They showed up for the challenges and are leaving next week, having woven some new tapestry into the fabric of America’s ever-evolving story.

In my 37 years of life, this is the first time I’ve written to The President of The United States. The first time I’ve mailed something to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, Washington, DC 20500. Yesterday, I kept looking at the envelope with my handwriting, touched the stamps, and thought to myself, “I’m mailing a letter to The President. Wow.” I feel like I’m a part of history. I’m grateful for that.

October 17, 2016

My Mama Taught Me to Kick Butt & Take Names

“I don’t think it ever occurred to me before how much and how often women are praised for displaying traits that basically render them invisible. When I really think about it, I realize the culprit is the language generally used to praise women. Especially mothers.

She sacrificed everything for her children…She never thought about herself…She gave up everything for us…She worked tirelessly to make sure we had what we needed. She stood in the shadows, she was the wind beneath our wings.

Greeting card companies are built on that idea.

Tell her how much all the little things she does all year long that seem to go unnoticed really mean to you.

With a $2.59 card.

Mother’s Day is built on that idea.

This is good, we’re told. It’s good how Mom diminishes and martyrs herself. The message is: mothers, you are such wonderful and good people because you make yourselves smaller, because you deny your own needs, because you toil tirelessly in the shadows and no one ever thanks or notices you…this all makes you AMAZING.

Yuck.

What the hell kind of message is that?

Would ANYONE praise a man for this?

Those are not behaviors anyone would hope to instill in their daughters, right?

Right?

I’m not saying MOTHERHOOD shouldn’t be praised. Motherhood should be praised. Motherhood is wonderful. I’m doing it. I think it’s great.

There are all kinds of ways and reasons that mothers can and should be praised. But for cultivating a sense of invisibility, martyrdom and tirelessly working unnoticed and unsung? Those are not reasons.

There are all kinds of ways and reasons that mothers can and should be praised. But for cultivating a sense of invisibility, martyrdom and tirelessly working unnoticed and unsung? Those are not reasons.

Praising women for standing in the shadows?

Wrong.

Where is the greeting card that praises the kinds of mothers I know? Or better yet, the kind of mother I was raised by?

I need a card that says: Happy Mother’s Day to the mom who taught me to be strong, to be powerful, to be independent, to be competitive, to be fiercely myself and fight for what I want.

Or Happy Birthday to a mother who taught me to argue when necessary, to raise my voice for my beliefs, to not back down when I know I am right.

Or, Mom, thanks for teach me to kick a** and take names at work. Get well soon.

Or simply Thank you Mom, for teaching me how to make money and feel good about doing it. Merry Christmas.

Where are the greeting cards for the kind of mother I try to be? For the kind of mother I need my kids to see? For the kind of mother I want my daughters to one day be?

And if there is no greeting card, what is there?

There is me.

I have to be my own greeting card. And to do that, I have to at least be able to take a compliment.” – Shonda Rhimes, “Year of Yes.”

I would like to take this beautiful moment in time to honor my mama Gloria, who’s taught me to kick butt and take names in all aspects of my life:

Find your inner warrior: “Life may get you down Mel, but it never has to get you out.”

Dealing with challenging humans: “Who she THINK she IS? She ain’t no betta than you.”

Maintaining better health: “Did you take a cod liver oil pill? I keep telling you to do this.”

Being aware of one’s surroundings: “Mel, secure your pocketbook, lock your doors!”

Perspectives on social media: “I think I may want to get on Spacebook.” (Um, it’s Facebook woman).

Mama, I honor you on the day you entered this world and celebrate your birthday with many who love and thank God for you. You are a jewel – a hilarious, sometimes crazy, but always brilliant one! Happy birthday to the woman who’s been a real-life greeting card in my life, showing me what womanhood, personal excellence, and #blackgirlmagic looked like before that hashtag even came to be.

I love you mama.

You are my #1 she-roe.

Always your girl,

Melody Latrice

February 28, 2016

Grandmama Memories

My 11 year-old eyes stayed locked on her standing at the top of the porch of her Eatonton home in the Georgia country, as my mom backed down the gravel driveway.

The car shifted gears, moving away as my grandma Lena and me waved and blew kisses back and forth, saying and smiling goodbyes until we both could no longer see each other.

This was something we always did when I left her, a special tradition between us.

Another memorable southern summer full of red clay roads, ice milk and Big Red chewing gum came to an end. It was time for fall, time for school, and time to say goodbye to Lena Mae, at least until the holidays came ’round and I could get back to her…

September 22, 2015January 29, 2016

Lena & Her Soaps

When I look back on my childhood I remember two things my grandma loved especially the most during the day: drinking her coffee in her little kitchen and watching her soap operas on CBS.

As a 36 year-old woman I still have an unspoken allegiance for The Young and The Restless, The Bold and The Beautiful, As The World Turns and Guiding Light because of my grandma Lena.

She knew every in and out and every crazy storyline taking place in those fictional cities of soap opera land. And I knew that from 12:30 pm until 4 pm, my little brown tail needed to find something fun and quiet to do while she sat back and got down with her soaps.

Being that we were country folk from a little small town called Eatonton in middle Georgia, she made sure we finished up dinner (codeword for lunch) before the soaps came on so she was ready to watch “her stories.” Supper would come later in the evening (codeword for dinner).

Her commentary on the latest and scandalous events happening in the shows would always crack me up. “Oh, that Nikki with her nasty self and her fast tail, she oughta be ashamed of herself sleeping with that man when she know she married to Victor” and “That old rascal Jack, he’s just a crook” and so on and so forth.

Her commitment to these t.v. soaps and watching people who always never got a happy ending (because if soaps had a happy ending where would the drama be and who wants to watch that) made me feel connected to her in a special way. In my best way, my young 10 year-old self was ride or die with her as a neophyte soap opera fan, agreeing about Nikki’s adulterous ways, shaking my head at Jack’s witty and sly behavior and committed to these storylines because my grandma Lena was committed to these story lines.

I don’t know when she started watching soaps. But they made a connection to her life and whether she found escape through them or just some comfortable relaxation, Lena loved her soaps and I loved her for loving me and letting me watch them with her.

Later on in my teens I realized how crazy these soaps were as I tried to create allegiance to some ABC and NBC shows but nobody ended up staying happy! And I wanted people to be happy! I wanted people to have their happily ever afters but many of the characters just seemed to be waking up with their morning afters from plenty of bedroom romps, devious business schemes and other “what the what” storylines. I eventually had to hang up my soap opera watching jacket. It was just all too much for me.

But I often think of my grandma when I think of soaps.

I think about how much she loved watching hers. I think about the daily commitment she had during the week to see her stories. I think about how she’d talk to me about the characters and ask me what I thought. I think about the memories I have of her and I am grateful.

This Saturday marks two years since she breathed her last breath this side of heaven and went to be with the Lord in heaven. My grief and my mourning over her death these last two years have taken me through a journey that I would have never fashioned for myself but I also wouldn’t trade for anything because I am completely a different woman, writer and human being as a result. I’m a better Melody even though I became a broken Melody. I’m a stronger Melody even though I was a wounded Melody. That pain of grief clarified and changed my life in a positive way. It was hellish but it purified me like gold being placed through fire.

My family has a shared love for Lena Mae Brown and also a shared suffering in our grief and mourning in losing her. I remember being in Eatonton right after she died and going over to my great aunt Essie Mae’s home because I needed some air as my family was going through things at my grandma’s and I was starting to feel very anxious and overwhelmed.

20131006_183627 — My great aunt Lucille, pictured top left, my great aunt Essie Mae, pictured bottom left and my grandmother Lena Mae, pictured right.

My heart was beating and I just wanted to run away. I asked Essie Mae if I could come over and she gladly welcomed me. She’s a beautiful soul, has likely never met a stranger in her life and has loved me as long as I can remember. She’s two years younger than my grandma and they were two peas in a pod, both calling each other “Mae” when they’d talk to one another.

I spent lots of time at her home when I was little, having sleepovers with her granddaughters, my cousins April and Hope, and playing as little girls do. Going to her home I found my way to her bedroom and just laid down. Nostalgia, memories and sadness flooded my heart all at the same time. I found some rest but I couldn’t get away from the reality that someone I loved had died, this was true and my life would never be the same.

I wanted to just drive down the old Georgia country red clay roads in the city I’d spent so many summers of my life in and just find some kind of freedom and escape from the grief and mourning that was fervently pursuing me. I wanted the sun to wash over my face and I wanted the blueness of the clouds to wrap me up in love and take me to a place where my heart didn’t feel so broken anymore.

Grandmothers are some kind of special. Mothers are the first friends many of us have in life. Grandmothers are those magical she-roes that our mothers come from and in my eyes my grandma Lena was an automatic legend to me. She was just some kind of beautiful wonderful to me. She was a second mama and she was also my friend. Her death hurt me deeply.

My cousin Brian and my mom came some time later and picked me up from my great aunt’s place. I remember sitting in the back of Brian’s car as my mom and him talked about funeral arrangements and life insurance and funeral costs. I laid down and started crying softly.

They both quieted their talking as my mom reached back and touched me with her hand. My tears were my language that I just didn’t want it all to be the way it was.

But it was that way.

Death was real.

My pain was a clear indicator of that.

August 22, 2015January 29, 2016

Mamas & Aunties

When I’m wanting her to listen to me or give me something I want or have her stop telling me something I told her I already know, “mama” is what I call her. Mamas just have a flavor about them. When I’m laughing with her, laughing at her or giving her my perspectives on the world and just shooting the breeze, “momma” is how I see her. She’s the same lady that called me one day and asked, “Is your phone — that 229 number — still working?”

Me (curiously): “Um, yes.”

Momma: “We’ll, I’m just checking ‘cause it just rings and rings AND rings…”

Me: “That’s ‘cause I didn’t HEAR it so I could pick it up!”

Momma: “Oh, okay, well I’m just checking.”

She is a verified hot mess. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. My mom is one of my best friends. She gets me and I get her. I learned from her early on how to carry myself with grace, poise, intention and also enjoy life with plenty of humor and tons of wit. She is one of the wittiest people I know! She is the Queen of Wit. Man, she is sharp and brilliant and loving and so wonderfully amazing. She’s been a great mom to me.

Not everyone can raise a daughter as a single parent with God’s guidance the way she has with me. Every accomplishment, success, endeavor and privilege I’ve been afforded took place from the lift she gave me to climb upon steps she laid in advance for me. She sacrificed her needs to make sure I had mine met.

My mom was one of the first two African American civilian employees to integrate the City of Atlanta’s Vehicles for Hire division in the 1970s. She’s an Advanced Toastmaster and can lay it down with her oratory and sharp communication skills.

She’s served as the president of her homeowner’s association for several years and leads with style as an usher at her church. Oh, and the woman can bust a baaaad Michael Jackson moonwalk-ish routine when Thriller comes on. I have the video evidence to prove it. Incriminating? Maybe. Hilarious and will I plan to keep it to show my kids one day? Absolutely.

As I get older I’m thinking not just about the family I desire to build in my life but also the ways I plan to care for her and bless her as she gets older. When one of my books come out and it’s best selling and good things begin to happen, I can’t wait to give back to her plus so much more all that she’s blessed me with through her love and sacrifices. I am the woman I am today and in all the days that will come because of my mama.

We have a regular time to connect each week and chat about life, usually Sunday evenings. I missed last week and was trying to find a time this week to talk. She was picking Friday and Saturday night and I was like, “Mama, I am young and single. My evenings are busy…I’m am not sitting around with nothing to do.”

Her reply: “Well alright then Mel (in a slightly little huffy voice)! When do you want to talk???”

Me: “In the morning!”

We both are a mess.

I don’t know when I knew to call her auntie but I was young enough to know that’s who she was and who I needed her to be. My mama’s younger sister. The woman whose birthday is just two weeks ahead of mine. The breast cancer survivor. The one who shares a similar gentleness and heart on her sleeve as I do for the world around us. The lady who wants people to know about Jesus and uses opportunities to keep telling the world about him.

The lady who has the same eyes and smile as my mom. The one whose kitchen cabinets I would crawl in when I was very little and play in after I’d go around, ask for and get the fuzzy fuzz lint balls in my Uncle Randy’s pockets. The woman I respect as my aunt but love as my “Auntie.” Aunties just have a swag about them.

She’s the same lady that told me once, “All these men who are downloading…this is just horrible Melody, downloading and all this stuff.”

I believe she meant to describe men who were on the “down low” hiding their bi-sexuality from the women they were sleeping with. But I knew what she meant and I was not going to say anything different.

Mamas & Aunties. They are some kind of amazing.

Originally written August 30, 2013.