Hope actually groans every time I say, “Hey, we’re going to *try* something…”
It’s going to be a long year. That said, the fruits of this trying labor are totally paying off. I can’t say we tried as much this month—we’ll see when I make the list below, but what we did try, we did it with flair.
So, without further ado:
We both signed up for Duolingo. Hope is taking French (which she takes in school) and Spanish. I have finally (6 years later) resumed my Portuguese lessons with a side of French.
We try to write each other short emails in French.
We tried new vegetarian recipes.
We tried a couple of new restaurants.
We continued to try to find other adoptive families to hang out with periodically.
I took Hope roller skating.
Hope served as a teen service leader during the recent youth service at our church.
Hope also spent her first afternoon at a band friend’s house, which meant that I got to try some of the new found freedom that comes with Hope having something like a social life.
Hope went on an out of state band trip without me—again with FRIENDS! I got to try a new vineyard and go wine tasting with fellow blogger, Polly of KnitMeForALoop.
Hope tried to use her new debit card—I’d like to say “responsibly” but we’ll get there.
Hope does her own hair exclusively now, and as I wrote recently, she rocks her glorious fro on the regular.
It was a successful month. Our March tries will get under way soon; I’ve got a bit work thing going on and I need to plan somethings for us. But, so far, so good! Trying things has been fun and has broadened both of our horizons in meaningful ways.
It’s hard to believe that me and Hope have been together for 2 years now. Sometimes it feels like forever, and other times it feels like the blink of an eye.
I was so excited when she came to live with me that her hair was natural. I also remember the first time I took her braids out and did her hair. It took me 5 hours. Detangling it was like grooming a Yeti. As the months passed, Hope and I relished the routine and the ritual of doing hair on the weekends. It was a time of the week when I wholly and completely took care of her. It was primal, really. It was an experience that she had rarely enjoyed before I became her mother, so she really relished the time and attention.
Until I suggested wearing her hair out, natural, in a regular old twistout done on wet hair.
Until this week.
Now, keep in mind that I had encouraged her to embrace her curly mane. She has gorgeous, thick curly hair. It’s grown a lot in the last two years under my care and attention.
Last month, I made her *try* to care for it herself, with little to no assistance from me.
Well, she blew it out most weeks, because she likes the stretched look.
Cool. I gave her a few bottles of heat protectant and told her to have at it.
She complained that doing a twist out on wet hair was just too much shrinkage. Too nappy. Too this, too that.
Ok. Rock on.
But leave it to laziness to be the mother of invention and trying.
Running out of time this weekend, she decided to try a twistout on wet hair.
It was glorious, but I only told her it looked nice because I knew if I gushed too much then she would bail on it.
We visited my parents, and Sister K visited with her sons; Hope’s cousins told her that her hair look fantastic.
And well, they are boys, Hope’s prime focus group.
She commented that her cousins liked her hair on the drive back to NoVa, and I knew that this was a vital piece of data.
And contrary to my loquacious nature, I kept my comments to myself and my piehole shut.
After two extra days home (Presidents’ Day and a snow day) Hope returned to school today rocking this ridiculously fly, curly, parted afro. Frederick Douglass would be proud.
She glammed out with jewelry and makeup with her flannel shirt, skinny jeans and sneakers.
When she got home, she casually commented that her classmates inquired about her hair—who did it, the name of the salon, why did she look so fly today, why hadn’t she wore her hair like this before…and on and on.
I raised one eyebrow to show I was intrigued by the line of inquiry, but I kept my mouth shut.
She went on about how the kids loved her hair and that it MUST be the coconut oil she used, because she really didn’t do anything different.
#eyeroll #chileplease
I simply nodded.
We went to her band concert. Again, on the drive home, she regaled me with stories about how her band mates loved her hair.
She concluded, “Huh, I must look amazing today.”
I smiled and nodded, “Yeah, you look good.”
Never mind two years of prodding, coaxing, product purchasing…two years after moving in, my daughter is rocking her mane of hair in all its fabulous, awesome glory.
Inside I am beaming.
I am also grateful for the cosign of the male cousins who validated Hope in a safe way. Kudos.
I can’t wait to see what she does next, and how she will embrace herself next.
I know that I will be sure to remain supportive but patient in getting Hope to love herself, as she is, with no filter.
In the midst of a lot of crazy today, my afro wearing kid totally made my day.
For the last couple of months I’ve really been focusing on attachment parenting. I managed to get through the “get off me, get off me, get off me” phase and get to the genuinely enjoying time with Hope phase. Things have been far more emotionally stable in the house, and that’s definitely a good thing.
But I’ve still been fighting my own demons.
During the recent snow storm that left Hope out of school for a week, I worked hard to get 30 minutes of exercise a day. I meditated. I relaxed. I spent quality time with my kid.
It was all great, really. I felt good.
And then we tried to get back to our regularly scheduled programming.
A week of disregulation was tougher on me than on Hope. Work, lately, has been like drinking from a firehose and I’m exhausted and there’s never enough time. The sidewalks are still covered with snow (it’s quickly melting this week thank to a mini “heatwave”) so Yappy and I haven’t been able to take our long walks. It’s been dreary. I got the new car and lost the Chili Pepper, which, really, seriously, has affected me so deeply that I have no attachment to the new car (Ironic, no?).
With each day I was quietly coming a little undone.
And then last night Hope’s bug phobia reemerged after a stink bug in search of a dry place to hang out got into the house.
Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to muster the appropriate response to this particular issue of Hope’s.
She awoke me from a deep sleep to ask me to kill a bug in the kitchen. I honestly didn’t have the capacity or coordination to do it. I got her water for her and went back to bed. Fear of the bug persisted through the morning routine and, let’s just say, that I didn’t react well. Add to my list of poor reactions I flipped out because, as usual, Hope dragged arse getting ready for school. In her defense, this morning was probably more about avoiding the bug situation than her usual obliviousness about time.
I messed up. It is what it is.
After she went to school, I killed the bug and I realized that her morning arse dragging annoys me because I want to have breakfast with her without rushing. I want the kind of morning routine I had with my family growing up; I want to check in, to pray, to watch the news, to just share time and space.
That stuff is also important to Hope, but I know that she doesn’t get it that it’s tied to the morning routine for me. I wasn’t even able to articulate that myself before today. I guess that makes part of my meltdown worth it.
I wrote Hope a note trying to explain.
I’m trying to deal with the bug phobia, I am, but it’s a trigger for me too.
I know I’m on a tipping point that could send me careening, so tonight is about self care: fuzzy socks and PJs, cuddles with Yappy and curling up with a good book.
Tomorrow is another day, and I will try again to do a bit better.
Other than the exterior color, it’s really amazing. It’s fully loaded and pretty lux. But the truth is that while I am happy about the new car, and new car smell and all of that, I kinda hate my new car.
Or rather, I hate what it represents, which is another piece of pre-Hope identity kicked to the wayside.
In recent months I’ve really embraced motherhood and really tried to meet Hope where she is. We both have benefited from this effort.
But there’s something about this car purchase that sits on me like a giant thud.
Yesterday morning I was the owner (free and clear by the way) of an adorable little red Mini Cooper that I called, the Chili Pepper. “Chili” was my dream car. I’d wanted a Mini for years, but really never thought I’d get one. I’d had a sports car right out of college and then I had a cute sporty wagon. So when I started my doctoral program, I took the plunge and headed to the Mini dealership, where I fell in love with Chili.
I loved that car. Me and Chili had seen a good chunk of the east coast. Like all of my previous cars she was a stick shift. and I loved the handling and the power this little car channeled. She was distinctive with her little personalized plates. People would walk by Chili and smile. People would ride in Chili and marvel at just how awesome she was. When Hope moved here, my ownership of Chili was definitely an indicator of my potential “coolness.” She was different. Did I mention that I loved her?
I owned Chili for 5 years, almost to the day. Her warranties were just about up and repairs and upkeep can be pricey on Minis. She’d just endured a repair that would’ve been about $6K but for the fact that it was covered under the warranty.
Then there was Hope’s instrument; she plays a tenor sax. The dang thing took up the whole boot trunk. If I ever offered another band kid a ride they couldn’t be from the low brass or percussion sections, that’s for sure. And Hope plans to take guitar lessons this year so there’s really a need for more room.
Finally, there’s the trip to Boston and Martha’s Vineyard of 2015. I had to get a roof bag to accommodate all of the luggage. We stayed at the sexy Boston W hotel for a few days, and when we drove up, we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies traveling in a clown car. It worked, but it was clear that it wasn’t optimal and that something was going to have to change. I was simply too cute to look like a traveling vagabond on vacation. The faces of the uber hot valets when they saw up pull up invoked all kinds of shame.
Sigh.
So yesterday, I cleaned Chili out and sold her out for an SUV—a Nissan Rogue. It’s gray, which I hate, but it is what it is since the deal was just something I couldn’t walk away from.
So, what’s the rub?
Losing Chili for a much needed family car is another way my life has changed since becoming a mom. It was the end of another chapter. It was another thing I gave up for the good of my family.
I don’t regret it, but I’m so sad, so so sad. I’m all in my feels. Cause I’m a wee bit selfish and petty.
I knew trading Chili in would be hard for me, but I teared up as I stood in CarMax, looking at her one last time, reminiscing about our good times and how I was sad to close this chapter on my pre-Hope single, footloose and fancy free life.
Since then, I’ll admit that I’ve had two all out snot-riddled sobbing sessions since coming home with the new car.
Grief is a beeotch and it hits you in the worst ways at the worst times.
I know it’s not about the car; it really is about what the car represents.
Now, instead of this distinctive cute car, I’ve got a great car that is just like everyone else’s great and reasonable car. . Heck I’ve already tried to break into two other cars like it while shopping ,and it’s not been quite 24 hours since I signed the papers.
I always knew where Chili was in a parking lot. <snif>
And did I mention that Hope is unimpressed? The source of disinterest in part stems from the fact that I deviated from my intended purchase plan. In essence, she’s salty because I didn’t buy the car I originally intended to test drive and purchase and plan changes generally don’t make her feel safe. So, there’s all that drama left to unpack too.
The new car is new and different in a cool way, but it’s another change, it’s another accommodation required of this life, that frankly I didn’t give a lot of thought about until about 6 months ago. Another naive parenting pothole for me, I guess.
I will fall in love with the new car. It will get a name and develop a personality, and I will learn to find her in the parking lot. In time the new car will allow me to cart Hope and some friends around, take her to summer band camp and maybe even take her away to college. This will be a great chapter. I know it will.
And in time, I will be able to remember Chili and our time together and not be sad. I’ll remember it for what it is—a chapter in this life—and I will think about when I’ll be able to get another Mini. It will happen, and we’ll all be happy.
Until then, I’m a bit sappy about this required change.
There was a Val Kilmer movie in the mid-90s called The Ghost and the Darkness about some man-eating lions in Kenya in the 19th century. I loved that movie, probably because I thought it was cool that the movie’s stars—the lions—are in the Chicago Field Museum. I look forward to seeing these dumb stuffed lions every time I go to the museum; even as a kid, long before the movie, a trip to Chicago meant going to see these creatures.
Well, my current home is plagued with ghosts when all of the lights are shut off for the night. And it is seriously, uncool. There are no lions, but there might as well be a whole pride of them living here. Hope has started having bad dreams, she’s refusing to go to sleep until just a couple of hours before she gets up. She’s freaked out about all kinds of things around the house. Yesterday we went to Walmart to buy night lights and a clear shower curtain to help her feel safe. Meanwhile I was on EBay stocking up on sleep masks because I have issues with light sensitivity at night. #Ihatenightlights
Suddenly, she is consumed by fear, and it just bubbled up unannounced. She’s dreaming about people who hurt her. She’s dreaming about people she doesn’t know possibly hurting her. She freaks out if I walk Yappy after 10pm for a quick No. 1. When the sun goes down, the fraidy cat comes out.
I know that we are beginning to really wrestle with some of the hardest memories. We’ve managed the bug phobia, but new fears are emerging all the time. Sleep disturbances abound. It’s tough to experience as a kid and as a mom to this kid.
I’m glad she told me—incidentally, my new mood decoder ring-thingamajig is one of these:
Very helpful and I can usually get to the bottom of things a lot sooner.
I’m sure all of this stuff has always been there and that this probably some way of us making painful progress, but oy, this sucks. I feel like there’s not much I can do to make her feel safe.
I bought all the things she asked for to help her so far. I make a point of letting her know when I’m retiring for the night so she can turn on or off lights in the main areas to make her comfortable. I make a big to do about locking the front door and making sure that the balcony door is locked; even though it’s 30 degrees out and I don’t think anyone is going to break in via balcony 8 floors up. I let her know that I’ll check on her in the middle of the night. I wake her up in the morning and make sure she is ok.
I’m hoping that time will bring Hope some peace and push off the ghosts that plague her in the darkness. I’m hoping that I can just walk alongside her into the light, step by step over the next few months.
Hope and I have had a lovely holiday break. I have really, really worked hard to use this time to focus on attachment, since it is something we’ve struggled with so much this fall. We did fun things, we watched movies, we went to the gym together. We made sure that we did our little family’s made up traditions (and now that we’ve done them 2 years in a row, they are *officially* traditions!). For New Years we had a 3 hour dance party using YouTube videos from songs we like.
I managed to keep my cool except for two times. It’s been a good two weeks.
Like a lot of people, I am really reflective during this time of the year. I work on my vision board, set goals (not really resolutions), and figure out what to keep and what to keep.
At the risk of sounding hard on myself, I really, really, have a lot of room for improvement on this parenting thing. I’m a bit of a hot head. I also neglected myself a bit this year on the self-care tip. What can I say, it’s easy to get sucked into the daily routine of life. When I’m run down, I’m tired, I get sad, then resentful, then suspicious and it’s all downhill from there.
Last night at our fancy NYE dinner, I asked Hope to list all the good things that happened in 2015; her initial response was that more bad things happened than good things. Hope always defaults to the negative, so I insisted that we spend some time reflecting on our happy times. The list ended up being pretty long, and it was a fun exercise.
Then I asked her about those negative things. When she rattled off her list, I quickly realized that most of the negative things were about our relationship and our struggles. It was tough to hear, and it was heartbreaking to know how much I contributed to her struggles. Some of it is just regular teen stuff, but other stuff…well it’s trauma stuff, it’s attachment stuff, it’s love stuff.
And it’s hard to overcome barriers to success with Hope because she sees the world through a One and Done kind of lens. If she tries and fails, she concludes that it can’t be done. Failure is terrifying, and when failure is scary, just trying becomes a set up to fail. So, I have to drag her kicking and screaming to try anything new, even things that will make life for us better. Risk for Hope never seems to mean possible reward.
We talked about what we wanted to be different in 2016. She didn’t want to list anything because, well, in her mind it wouldn’t make a difference. Weren’t we already trying? Hadn’t we already failed? Couldn’t we just resign ourselves that our current state was our permanent state? According to her calculus, this less than desirable state is better than previous states, so while it’s not great, it’s too risky to attempt to make it better.
But we will improve. This is a journey. There is a lot of building that has to happen here; a lot that can and will happen here. At this point, I just want to prove her wrong; I want to show her that our life together can and will continue to improve. I just have to help her continue to stretch her ability to trust that the world won’t end after a few setbacks.
And so we begin 2016 with a new mission: continuous improvement. We will just keep pushing forward. She will learn to do her own hair and to do a proper smokey eye. I will practice better self-care and work on decluttering the house. We will focus on attachment and loving one another. We will learn to trust each other. We will learn to try without fear. We will stumble, and sometimes we will fail, but we will learn to always just try to push towards personal and family improvement.
Hope was 12 when we became a family. She was the same age as Tamir Rice.
The. Same. Age.
She might’ve have physically passed for a teen a few ages older, but she could not be mistaken for a 20 year old.
She experienced some rough things in her young life, but none of Hope’s trials can be mistaken to have been her fault.
In spite of this, I genuinely fear for her safety as a young Black child.
To be Black and young is to be in danger in America. Having a Black president has changed nothing; if anything it has made the vitriolic hatred and the systemic efforts to sustain marginalization more visible, more socially acceptable.
It is exhausting month after month, year after year to hear and see people of color–often young people of color–assaulted and assassinated in the streets of a country I love and call home–in spite of a long history of hatred and genocide–with little more than the acknowledgement that the episodes are “tragic.”
They are more than tragic, but I have no more descriptive words. I’m just sad, exhausted and irrepressibly angry that this is life for me and my beautiful girl.
Meanwhile, “affluenza” boy is on his way home, still breathing and no doubt arguing that privilege made him do it.
I hope that 2016 will be different, but there is little real hope that it will be. The data show there is little reason for me to maintain hope that our sons and daughters will be more safe next year.
I used to love The Winans. When I was a kid they had this gospel song called Tomorrow; pretty famous song actually. I have always loved that song. Last night after a meaningful conversation with Hope, I thought about that song a lot, like a lot a lot.
On the drive back to NoVa from Christmas celebrations down south, Hope and I got to talking about what a beeotch on wheels I’ve been for the last month or so. I tried to explain that this time of year is stressful and sad for me. There’s so much to do, and I also get to remembering all the people I miss so much. I tend to be reflective this time of year and it takes me a long while to get to the good stuff in reflecting; it doesn’t usually happen until that very last week of the year when I consciously beginning looking forward as I put together my vision board for the next year.
I also really have a hard time with the minimal amount of available sunlight, and, well, I’m just grumpy.
This year I’ve been thinking about how much life has changed for me, with an emphasis on the hard stuff and I’ve been feeling a little resentful about how hard it is. It’s just been a really tough fall for me emotionally.
It’s always a tough time for Hope; she’s becoming more open with me about how that’s the case, all the time now. It makes me sad..or rather sad-der.
As she was telling me about her feelings last night, I asked her what, besides me being less beeotchy, could I do to help her.
LOL, she said, basically be less beeotchy. I chuckled.
She pointed out that I seemed to understand that Yappy does dumb stuff and I don’t punish him harshly, that I understand that as a puppy dog that he’s going to do dumb stuff. She said, but dogs just want to make their people happy. Why can’t you be more like that with me?
Just understand that she’s going to do dumb stuff that annoys the hell out of me and not flip out and think it’s going to ruin her future.
Well, damn.
Yeah, ok.
I explained to her, as best I could, that I just want so much for her, more than she is capable of wanting for herself right now. I’ve known for sometime that this was a dangerous path for me because It set me up to be critical of everything she does. And while I don’t comment or tell her that I judge everything, I’m sure I’m constantly giving off that energy and that’s not healthy for either of us.
I explained how those desires are rooted in my love for her, but I acknowledged that it meant I probably was rarely meeting her where she was. I was so focused on “tomorrow” that I was just neglecting her immediate needs for just accepting her awkward-still-trying-to-figure-out-her-adoptive-teen-life.
So, I got to thinking that I’ve really been overthinking some things. Hope needs me to worry about her “today” not her “tomorrow.” She needs me to just zero in on helping her get through each day without worrying if she’s on the path to say, college. She’s just trying to get through today and get to tomorrow.
As strong as I know she must be to have endured all that she has, she is incredibly fragile. She just can’t process thinking about more than today or maybe to the next weekend.
This is so radical to me because I have always plotted everything; I’m always looking at the macro-view of my life to plot my next steps. Hope is a micro-thinker who needs me to drill down with her to just help her stay on task day to day.
I get it. I admit, that this isn’t new; I heard it before, but I think I really get it this time. I’m really fortunate that Hope can break this down for me sometimes; I can’t imagine having to figure this out with the really little ones! [Bless y’all for home fostering and adopting the littles is a calling…I’m so not built for that!] #Idigress
So, I’ve got to do some rewiring of my own brain to figure out how to better meet her where she is.
[I wonder how many adoptive parents parenting kids with histories of trauma have had before and after PET scans to see whether/how our brains must change to adapt to therapeutic parenting…must hit Google Scholar later…] #Idigressagain
Anyway, Hope announced she was sleepy and drifted off mid-sentence, leaving me to my own thoughts.
Although I see so much talent and promise in my beautiful girl, she is still in survival mode. While I do an ok job at this mom thing, Hope still isn’t feeling safe enough to make the conversion to thinking longer term. We’re still white knuckling it. I mean, I knew I was struggling and I knew she was struggling, but I didn’t realize how my hopes for her wanting more was undermining her ability to just focus on getting through each day. #boo #parentingfail
All of this got me to thinking about the Winans’ song Tomorrow. It talks about how we shouldn’t put off salvation until tomorrow because, well, tomorrow isn’t promised to us. In fact, the Holy Homeboy is practically doing jumping jacks to get us to move today rather than waiting for the unpromised tomorrow. The last line of the song urges us to forget about tomorrow because tomorrow might be too late to get on the party train to the pearly gated club up yonder.
I’m guessing the Holy Homeboy was stepping in to hip me to the fact that Hope needs me to just forget about tomorrow right now and help Hope just get through today. These early teen years are such a mess for any kid, but I can only imagine what it must be like when you’re dragging an extra bucket of messiness around in your head. I gotta not sweat what things will be like 3 years from now; it will be what it will be. Hope needs me to stay present with her, right here, right now.
It’s hard for me to put a lot of that desires on ice, but if I want any of that life to be within her grasp, I gotta adapt and help her just maneuver through today.
So, for now, tomorrow is going up on the top shelf in a pretty box with a note saying “Open when you get to tomorrow.”
So, without telling *alla* Hope’s business, we are deep, deep I say, into the throws of teenage girl-dom.
As Hope and I endured the last 18 months of middle school, I can’t say I remember much about my own middle school experience—somethings about crushes and such, but middle school was such an emotional drag that I just seemed to have blocked out a lot of it.
I can honestly say that once I think back to high school I am able to call up all kinds of memories about my social struggles. This is a good thing because I can really relate to some of the things that Hope is going through—insecurity about my own beauty, self-consciousness, desire to be liked, desire to have friends, desire to be cool—the kind that doesn’t get in trouble, but the kind that seems to have an easy life and eternal happiness. There is a desire to get the hair just so, experiment with makeup and clothes, and to just get to dating already!
There is a lot going on and it doesn’t take much to upset the apple cart.
In my day the friend consultations happened by phone, you know, like people actually *called* each other, spread gossip, discussed crushes and how to manipulate boy situations to your advantage—you know, on the walkway outside his class at just the right time, or oh, hey? I didn’t know you ate at this cafeteria? Have you always been here? I must’ve missed you. Today, it’s just texting…texting and emoji wars (I have no effing idea what purpose emoji wars serve, but there ya go…).
So, this weekend, a social situation involving a crush came to a head like a big ‘ole white head pimple, and then the dang thing went splat all over the mirror. #youknowwhatImtalkingabout And life as we know it came to a screeching halt.
There were the lyrics to sad dirges written down, gnashing of teeth and instant replaying of the event to the point that I feel like I was texting it in real time too. I’m happy to report that my little scientist can also deconstruct a conversation for “real” meaning just like her mama. There was epic emotion at Casa d’ABM this weekend.
Before Hope and long before one of my besties got married, we had a deal for dealing with social upheaval in our lives. We would get together and then drive to the nearest Krispy Kreme and the one who was not enduring the crisis of the millennium would eat one Krispy Kreme donut. We called it, “Taking one for the team.” We didn’t want the actual sufferer to add emotional eating to her litany of woes (although it probably was already there, along with a lot of wine consumption), so the non-suffering bestie would consume the donut.
So, yesterday as we were headed to get Hope a haircut, I swerved into the Krispy Kreme bakery near the house. Hope was like, “Why are we here?” I shushed her, got out of the car, walked us to the end of the line, ordered myself a donut and texted Hope’s godmother an SOS: Crisis! We are at Krispy Kreme. Because Hope didn’t quite understand what was happening I allowed her to get a donut, since she doesn’t yet have an appreciation for this womanhood ritual.
Light Fluffy Goodness…
We grabbed a booth and I snarfed the donut in, like, 3 bites. Hope’s godmother texts me back.
“Tell her that won’t be the last donut, shake it off…those donuts have been comforting women for years.”
True dat.
Hope giggled as I explained why we were at the donut shop and how this thing was supposed to work. If I’m the one experiencing the upheaval and she knows about it, then she has to take one for the team. But, today I was taking one for her because I knew she was sad. Sometimes it feels like I should buy donuts by the dozen, but I explained that this specific womanhood ritual is reserved exclusively for crisis situations. No way I’m just eating donuts for any old body.
We had a nice time bonding. Hope thought it was all funny; I hopefully reinforced that I love her and would do just about anything for her; and hopefully, she got the point about sista friends who ride for you during dark times and have your back. I love my bestie and I hope I never have to eat another donut for her—which is more a testament to her happiness than my waistline.
I ended up taking an extra long walk and doing an exercise video to make up for the extra 240 calories consumed on Hope’s behalf yesterday.
So, I am the eldest daughter of three girls. We are a dynamic threesome. We are educated; independent, firery, sweet, and super thoughtful. We are also big believers in girl power!! We all own power tools and do home repairs too.
Our father is a retired mechanic. I think his biggest hope for us was that he and our mother would raise us to be independent women who could take care of ourselves who would in turn meet men who would do it for us. Gosh I love my daddy.
In my “capital F” feminist days I was a bit offended when I came to this realization, but now, years later, I kinda dig it. I mean, I can and do take care of myself, but the notion of having a partner who could shoulder the burden and do a lot of stuff, is more and more appealing as I age. Ok, not just for doing stuff, but you know…<smile>.
Anyhoo, at one point I was a Feminist—capital F—and I asked dudes out, I was ready to burn my bras, Gloria Steinem was my homegirl. I raged against the patriarchy! I pushed my way into a corner office and tried to find ways to bring women with me and thank the women who mentored me.
Then I got tired, because, well, being Black and a Feminist is hard work. Don’t believe me, peep #FeminismIsForWhiteWomen on Twitter.
The movement doesn’t really have a good, solid, inclusive space for women of color and the narrative of seeking equality on multiple fronts.
So, then I just kinda lived my own brand of feminism—little f.
I do what I want, when I want and I pursue equality and justice the best ways I know how.
So what does this have to do with anything?
Well, as a 14 year old girl, Hope is boy crazy. There are hearts on notebooks. Mr. &; Mrs. So and So scrawled here and there. It’s adorbs! But, it’s usually accompanied by Hope chasing a boy to exhaustion to go steady. Love comes and goes in epic fanfare in a 7-10 days.
The thirst is real. We’ve talked about it in therapy and without breeching too much of her confidence; the need to be loved by someone other than me is really serious and specifically by a man/boy is essential.
So we’ve been working on social cues, particularly from crushes and learning to just lay low and be the pursued instead of the pursuer.
Let the crush express his interest.
Consider his true worthiness of your time.
Let the crush ask for your number.
Let the crush text you first.
Let the crush wait a bit for your response.
Don’t be so accessible.
Cultivate your sista friendships instead.
Let him ask you out.
Breathe.
This is the whole reason why the Holy Homeboy gave the male species all the pretty colors and stuff–think birds–peacocks, mallards, robins, cardinals…amiright? Of course I feel some kinda way that he made the girlie birds all bland and homely looking, but that’s another discussion for another day. #idigress
Now, none of this really stands in opposition of feminism for me—big or little f. But coaching Hope in this way feels like I’m taking a step back in time and teaching her those silly “rules” about dating. It feels traditional in a way that feels throwback, in a way that feels like I’m somehow cheating on my own brand of feminism.
It’s just weird that the anecdote to Hope’s social issues is to teach her a very traditional view of what courting is supposed to be like.
And yet, of course I want her to be courted. Dammit, she deserves to be courted and she should dang well be taught what it should look like so she doesn’t get shafted by some dork who isn’t worth her time and who I might have to chase away with a broom like my mom did with one of my sister’s suitors (that was EPIC!). Let’s face it, no one will be good enough and I’ll be using my $5 Bed, Bath and Beyond coupon for a fancy new broom this weekend. Oh, and let me be clear, the desire to be courted has nothing to do with the desire to be treated as an equal in a relationship.
It’s especially weird because I feel like I’ve come full circle—this is what daddy taught me, what I moved away from a bit as I explored my own world, what I’ve returned to with my sweet Elihu (he’s a serious courtier in word and deed) and now what I’m teaching Hope.
Am I still a feminist? Um, yeah, of course, I am!
More importantly, with this whole full circle thing, am I old?
What the hell????
It just feels like I’ve fallen down some weird rabbit hole in which my adult lived experience is colliding with the values I hope to instill in my daughter about her own worthiness.
They aren’t really that different. I think they are just different chapters in the same story…at least that my story and I’m sticking with it.
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