As I reflected upon my life in 2011, I realized that 2011 was the year I became a woman. The year I finally started to own my womanhood. This is the year I finally had the audacity to say, “I’m a grown woman, and I’ve got the battle scars to prove it!” For this, I am truly grateful. The point of adulthood is different for everyone. For some, it occurs when they turn 21, learn to drive, graduate from high school or college, or vote for the first time. For others, getting married, having children, or getting their own place is their rite of passage to adulthood. And for others, facing an illness is their introduction to the grown-up world. For me, caring for my granny through her battle with Alzheimer’s, watching her fight for her life, and ultimately losing her were my rites of passage. Caregiving of any kind has a way of forcing one to grow up. Facing and accepting death also grows one up. At some point during granny’s last hospitalization, I finally began to accept that she would never return home. I repeatedly said to myself, “My granny’s going to die. I can’t imagine life without her.” And then she passed away. And dealing with her death was hard, devastating, and disorienting. Six months later, it is OK. I am OK. I’m not over her death. Not anywhere near close to being free of the pain and void she has left in my heart. But, I am here. I survived. Six months ago, it was hard to imagine being where I am now. I have learned that loss is a part of life. Granny’s death is the biggest loss I have ever suffered, akin to losing a mother because she raised me. But, her loss won’t be my last. It doesn’t mean that future losses will be any easier. But, her loss has grown me up. It has forced me to remember how important it is to be strong, independent, and a survivor. Her loss has taught me the importance of love, friends, and family.

As I walked home one night, I remembered how granny used to wait for me at the train station every night with a cane she swore she’d use to fend off anyone crazy enough to mess with us.  I thought about how I would begin the process of starting life anew after granny’s death. And then it hit me. This is how granny must have felt when she returned to New York after the death of her own parents. By the time granny was my age, thirty-three, she had given up her job and apartment in New York on two separate occasions to care for her mother and step-father. And after each one’s death, she returned to New York and started over. If she could do it, then surely I can. After all, I come from strong stock. But, loss and starting over weren’t my only rites of passage this year.

I also found my voice. I found the audacity and the self-love to start speaking up for myself in ways I have never done before. Oftentimes, we find it easier to advocate and care for others than to do so for ourselves. I found the audacity to ask for what I want and to begin living life on my own terms. I also realized that I needed to figure out what those terms are. I am still a rough work in progress and may not be where I should be. But, I’m not where I was.

Every New Year’s Eve, granny and I used to write two letters to God: one thanking him for everything he did for us that year and the other detailing our prayer requests for the upcoming year. While on a New Year’s Eve flight to San Francisco, I completed both of my letters. My “thank you” letter turned out to be nine pages, because I have much to be thankful for. My “prayer request” letter turned into a two-page “bucket list.” As I reviewed my request letter, one theme emerged: I wanted to live a joyous and audacious life. So, this is my New Year’s resolution: to have the audacity and courage to create a life that brings me joy and satisfaction. Here’s to a joyous and audacious life! Happy New Year in 2012!

My granny’s home attendants always marveled at her habit of saying “Thank you.” Whether you gave her a piece of tissue to wipe her nose, some duck sauce to pour over her food, or a bath, she always said “Thank you” with the sweet and sincere gratitude of a child being given candy.  Granny truly appreciated what she had received, and you felt her love and thankfulness in each quiet “thank you.” Little did her home attendants know, granny had spent a lifetime cultivating an attitude of gratitude. She used to say, “God, you’ve been so good to me that if you never give me another blessing, I’ll still say ‘thank you.’” From the time I was a little girl, granny and I would each write two letters to God every New Year’s Eve: one thanking God for everything he had done for us that year, and the other detailing our prayer requests for the upcoming year. “How can you ask God for something when you haven’t even bothered to thank him for what he’s already given you,” granny would tell me. Afterwards, we would place our letters in a Bible, kneel side by side shortly before midnight, and pray until the New Year arrived. Like everyone else, granny had her share of trials and tribulations. But, she never forgot to say “Thank you.”

Thanksgiving and the end of the year aren’t the only times we should give thanks to others and the universe for our many blessings. Gratitude is the price we pay for living and partaking in all that has been bestowed upon us. When we fail to appreciate what we have, we take our blessings for granted and assume that those blessings will always be there. Simply put: a lack of gratitude is a slap in God’s face. No matter how hard life gets or what funk we may be in, there is always something for which to be thankful. You may not be satisfied with your job, but at least you have one in a time when many people are unemployed and no new job is in sight. You might want to live in a different neighborhood or a better house, but at least you have a roof over your head. You might wish you had a new car, but at least you have a car and the ability to pick up and go whenever the mood strikes you. Although you might wish you had a spouse/significant other, you could be in an abusive or unsatisfying relationship. You may have lost a loved one, but you were blessed to have had them in your life at all. You might not possess the same talents as someone else, but you have your own unique gifts. There is ALWAYS something for which to be grateful. Granny used to say, “Let every day be Sunday and the Sabbath will have no end.” In the spirit of the season and my wonderful granny, “Let every day be Thanksgiving and the blessings will have no end.” This year, I think I’ll get a head start on my Thank You letter to God.

 Some of My Favorite Quotes on Gratitude:

What if you gave someone a gift, and they neglected to thank you for it –would you be likely to give them another? Life is the same way. In order to attract more of the blessings that life has to offer, you must truly appreciate what you already have. — Ralph Marston

To live a life of gratitude is to open our eyes to the countless ways in which we are supported by the world around us. Such a life provides less space for our suffering because our attention is more balanced. We are more often occupied with noticing what we are given, thanking those who have helped us, and repaying the world in some concrete way for what we are receiving. – Gregg Krech

Be thankful for what you have; you’ll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never, ever have enough. – Oprah Winfrey   

If you can’t be content with what you have received, be thankful for what you have escaped. – Author Unknown

It is impossible to feel grateful and depressed in the same moment. — Naomi Williams

Make it a habit to tell people thank you. To express your appreciation, sincerely and without the expectation of anything in return. Truly appreciate those around you, and you’ll soon find many others around you. Truly appreciate life, and you’ll find that you have more of it. – Ralph Marston

The unthankful heart discovers no mercies; but the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings. — Henry Ward Beecher

There is always, always, always something to be thankful for.           — Author Unknown

“If the only prayer you say in your entire life is “Thank You” that will suffice.” — Meister Eckhart

Mourning the loss of a loved one is a very interesting and individual thing. Psychological models tell us that there are stages of grief. I’ve used these models as a measuring stick for my own grieving process, only to find that no two people are alike or grieve in the same manner. There are popular (mis)conceptions of how to “properly” grieve. On my way from the funeral home the day my granny passed away, a neighbor said to me, “It’s gonna hit you later on.” He assumed that I hadn’t fully grasped the impact of my granny’s death, because I wasn’t crawling on the ground and pulling out my hair in a raging fit of despair.  Little did he know, I had gotten a head start on my grieving. I had engaged in such crazed behavior before granny’s death, when I realized that she didn’t have long left to live and I couldn’t bear to see her suffer. Even after her death, I pleaded with an invisible granny, Whyyyyyyyyy did you have to leave me? You know I need you! Afterwards, I laughed as I imagined granny looking down at me with a frown on her face and saying, “Stop it! Stop making all that noise!” The day after one such cry fest, a colleague saw my puffy eyes and asked if I was OK. “I’m fine. I need to take some Claritin for my allergies,” I told her. The truth is that grief is a stealthy culprit that constantly changes shapes. Grief comes in the form of headache-inducing tears. It is the sometimes pounding, other times subtle, but ever-present heaviness that bears down on your chest and hampers your breathing, making your heart race and skip beats. A veil that floats through the air, wrapping mundane acts of daily living in memories of your loved one. An elderly woman walking up subway steps reminds me of how granny used to wait at the train station for me every night so that I wouldn’t have to walk home alone. Every time I buy take-out food, I remember how I used to bring food home after work and share it with granny as we watched TV and talked. 

It’s hard to know how to mourn, and whether one’s way of mourning is correct, proper, or even normal. What is normal? And who gets to be the judge, jury, and psychiatrist? I now understand people who leave the bedrooms of their dearly departed just as they were before their loved ones passed away. I used to think these people were emotionally unstable, stuck in the past, and in need of some happy pills. That may be true. And maybe not. But, I am now one of them. Three months after her death, granny’s bedroom remains unchanged. The clothes granny wore to the hospital – undergarments, dress, sweater, and shoes, still lay balled up in the plastic bag an ER nurse gave me four months ago. They still reek of death, and bring painful memories. Granny’s two packs of Oreo cookies still lay in her night stand drawers, hidden from her greedy home attendants and invisible friends. Her half-eaten croissant is still in its plastic wrapper in the refrigerator, along with her jar of duck sauce and the prune juice she drank daily to keep her “regular.” “You need to throw that stuff away. It’s not as if she’s coming back to eat it,” someone recently said to me. Granny’s dirty laundry is still unsorted in her hamper, littered with food stains and still smelling like a mixture of her body musk and the Dior Addict 2 body lotion she loved. “What you doin’ with that glittery lotion on, ma-ma,” a male nurse asked granny in the ER. Granny’s sweat pants with the word Peace written on the butt make me laugh because they remind me of her feistiness, and the times when she was anything but peaceful. I lovingly look at bags granny packed with eyeglasses, napkins and pieces of paper, and then hid in random places. I remember how she always loved to carry purses, was always packing to go somewhere, and why we always had to hide her glasses and the paper towels. These were the closest things to her. The scents I smelled when I hugged her. The life she lived and the things she loved. They all evoke memories of her, and our life together.

It is true. I am now one of the mourners of the hoarding variety. But, I am quite fine with that. Keeping remnants of loved ones close is also a way of mourning. There is comfort in the familiar. Each item represents many memories. Keeping things just as they were is an attempt to freeze time. Yes, you know that your loved one is gone and will never return. Yes, you have all of their wonderful memories. No, you cannot keep things as they were forever or bring your loved one back. But, just for a little while longer, you want to feel their presence. Just for a little while longer, you want to savor the images of their happy, healthy, living selves.

Is there a normal way to mourn? I’ll never know. But, it is a deeply personal journey. Perhaps the best way to mourn is at one’s own pace and in a way that gives you peace. Learning to adjust to life without my granny poo is my newest and greatest challenge. I will continue to cherish her memories, and will move along one step, one day, one piece of clothing, and one Oreo cookie at a time. I will not put a time limit on my own grieving process. Each day, I’ll get stronger and stronger. For me, this is the essence of good mourning.

She slipped away from me. Right through my fingers. Right in front of my face. I thought granny would live forever – or at least far longer than her 74 years. After the initial shock of her Alzheimer’s diagnosis set in several years ago, I figured granny would be around well into her eighties or nineties, still fussing at her invisible friends and accusing them of stealing her underwear and Oreo cookies. At least she doesn’t have any medical problems, I often thought. Other than her Alzheimer’s and the accompanying delusions and hallucinations, granny was relatively healthy.  

 “What ya brought me,” she asked me almost every evening when I got home.

 “How do you know I brought you something? You are so spoiled, granny poo!,” I always responded with a smile as I pulled out that day’s treats for her. We both knew that I always had something for her – a new pack of Oreo cookies, ice cream – butter pecan was her favorite, or meat-filled dumplings from the Spanish restaurant around the corner. I often ordered chicken wings with extra duck sauce or BBQ spare ribs from the Chinese restaurant. I called so often that the staff automatically recognized my voice and remembered our address. Granny loved chicken wings, and she plastered everything with duck sauce – meat, croissants, rice, vegetables, you name it. We had to put duck sauce on her broccoli just to make her eat it, because melted cheddar cheese no longer did the trick. Two nights before she went into the hospital, I came home to a very grouchy and agitated granny. I got something for ya, miss thang. I know just what to do to cheer you up. I ordered some spare ribs. 

 “Granny, do you want some ribs?”

 “Yea,” she muttered from her bed.

 “Well, then you have to get up.”

 That did it. She slowly got out of her bed, and sat in her favorite chair – a blue plastic lawn chair with a black cushion in it. I will never understand why she insisted on sitting in outdoor furniture despite having two soft recliners in her bedroom.

 I pulled her TV table up to her, and placed three big ribs and some iced tea in front of her. Granny chowed down and had a finger-lickin’ good time.  

 I know these chicken wings and ribs are probably clogging up her arteries, but she should at least be happy, I often thought. I pictured granny dying with a chicken wing or Oreo cookie in her hand. But, I never thought she’d leave me anytime soon, and certainly not in the manner in which she had. 

 I never imagined that granny’s sudden and inexplicable lethargy, and incoherent and slurred mumblings would lead to respiratory failure and two stints on a respirator, her fingers turning blue and cold from a lack of oxygen. How did that happen? The doctors had no clue, and called her “a miracle” when she finally regained consciousness. I was ecstatic when granny’s nurse told me, “She’s not the same sweet granny she was when she came in.” Although sedated and on a respirator when she first arrived on the Coronary Care Unit (CCU), granny was now breathing on her own and kept trying to climb out the bed to sit in a chair. When she saw me drinking a chocolate frosty from Wendy’s, she had even asked, “Can you spare any ice cream?” My feisty granny is back! It’s just a matter of time before they evict her from the CCU and transfer her to a regular unit. Sure enough, granny was transferred to a regular unit that night.

 Who knew that the course of events would result in granny losing the ability to swallow and having a feeding tube inserted into her stomach? But, I remained optimistic. Yes, it’s harder for Alzheimer’s and elderly patients to bounce back and relearn tasks such as swallowing and walking, but granny was my superhero. She could do anything. With some feeding therapy, granny would be back home eating Oreo cookies, chicken and ribs in no time. Right? Wrong. Granny refused to open her mouth, making it difficult for nurses to clean her mouth or therapists to conduct feeding therapy. Thinking she would listen to me, I attempted to squeeze a lemon flavored q-tip between her lips to clean her tongue and lectured her about the possibility of her not getting any Oreo cookies if she didn’t cooperate with the feeding therapy. She simply looked at me and squeezed her lips even more tightly together.

 However, I was still hopeful, even when granny asked about her dead sisters and looked into a corner of the room and told her deceased mother, “Ma Dear, get down from there!” I continued to focus on when she’d return home, rather than on whether she’d return home. I never caught on when I asked, “Granny, when are you going to get better so you can come back home to me,” and she replied, “First of all, I’m already home.” When granny calmly said to me, “Jodi, in three weeks, it’ll all be clear,” it never crossed my mind that I’d be sitting at her funeral three weeks later. Granny was out of the CCU and breathing on her own. Her CT scans and other tests were unremarkable. Surely, granny’s words were the ramblings of an elderly, disoriented patient with Alzheimer’s. Right?

 The night before she went into the Intensive Care Unit, I noticed that granny’s breathing was quite labored and she was very congested.  When I tried to leave her bedside to find a nurse to speak to about this, granny squeezed my hand so tightly that I could not move or even unwrap her fingers from around mine. So, I just stood there paralyzed with my right hand in her left hand until she released her painful grip. That encounter shook me to my core. That was the first time I allowed myself to consider the possibility that my superhero might not live forever and that she was trying to tell me goodbye. At 6:30 the next morning, a hospital employee called to tell me that granny was transferred to the ER because she could not breathe on her own.

 I cried as the respiratory therapist wrapped granny’s cold, blue fingers in a towel to warm them up enough for her vital signs to register. They’ll figure out what’s wrong and fix her right up. They always do. Granny’s got more lives than a cat. And they did find the answer. Pneumonia in both lungs. High doses of antibiotics will cure her. And then her doctors told me she was in septic shock, as evidenced by her low blood pressure and kidney failure. But, I still thought she’d pull through. She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s a fighter, a doctor said to me when he came to examine her one night. That’s right. My granny is my superhero and a fighter. Super bad. Super fly. So, she’d fight and she’d win.

 And then reality began to slowly and stubbornly set in when the doctors started telling me things like, “We’ll continue to treat her because we have to, but there’s really nothing else we can do for her.” I often went into the bathroom right outside of the ICU and cried on the floor. God, I don’t want her to suffer. One night, as I spoke softly to granny and rubbed her face, and swollen arms and hands, a nurse said, “You remind me of myself when my mother was dying.” Why did she have to say the “D” word? Just because her mother died doesn’t mean granny’s going to die. Oh my God. My grandmother is dying. I thought another nurse was rude and insensitive when she told me, “I told your mother that if she wants to see her mother alive, she should come as soon as possible” and “In addition to the pneumonia and sepsis, your grandmother has a type of bacteria growing in her blood that is resistant to most antibiotics. We don’t know where it’s coming from. I’m sorry.” She was blunt. But, bluntness was just what I needed at this point. The day before granny passed, a doctor said to me, “Her lungs are very bad. They are too damaged. I’m sorry.” I knew. I finally knew. I knew all along, but I finally accepted the inevitable. It was only a matter of days, hours. Lord, let your will be done.  

 I arrived in granny’s hospital room the next day, three minutes after she had passed away.

“It’s finally over, sweetie,” I said as I stroked her hair and face. My superhero had fought a good fight during her month-long stay in the hospital. My superhero. The only mother and father I’ve ever known. My buddy. My best friend. My sister girl. My ace boon coon. My favorite person in the world.

 She slipped away from me. Right through my fingers. Right in front of my face. I thought granny would live forever – or at least far longer than her 74 years.

 She is still my superhero. She will live forever. Forever in my heart.  

Annie Lee "Granny Poo" McKinney ~ April 23, 1937 - June 27, 2011

I don't remember what was so funny, but granny sure looks fabulous!

Today, granny celebrated her 74th birthday with a party and a tiara to match her fabulosity. Granny’s closest friends and neighbors stopped by to show her some love and to eat all of her favorite foods: mac and cheese, candied yams, collard greens, fried chicken, red velvet cake, and coconut and pineapple cake.  

During my recent war against clutter, I found a birthday card I made granny when I was a little girl. Although I made the card more than twenty years ago, its wishes still hold true:

Dear grandmother,

I wish you a Happy Birthday. Since today is a special

day for you, I have a promise to make and keep. I

promise to improve in my behavior and math. I wish

you this birthday, and many

more.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                            I made this poem

May your heart be as light as a snowflake,

May your troubles dissolve like them too,                 

And a snowstorm of good wishes,                                   

I’m hoping may fall upon you.

As for my behavior and math, some things never change! Happy Birthday granny poo!

I love Bravo’s Real Housewives of Atlanta, despite the fact that only two of the six cast members (Phaedra and NeNe) are wives and NeNe is the only “housewife.” Not to mention that it is both comical and astounding in that “what is the world coming to” sort of way how the term “housewife” has taken on a new and ever-changing definition that encompasses everything from a wife who does not work outside the home, to fiancé, girlfriend, even mistress, and ex-wife or baby momma of a professional athlete – irrespective of whether the woman actually works. Be that as it may, I tune in religiously every Sunday night to be entertained by all of the melodrama and tomfoolery that is The Real Housewives of Atlanta.

Never to disappoint, last night’s episode was full of high-octave drama and we almost saw NeNe strangle Kim – again. Despite its entertainment purposes and scripting, the RHWOA has a few things to teach us about friendship, love and money.

“Haters” Are to Dreamers What Kryptonite is to Superman

We knew that the peace between frenemies Nene and Kim couldn’t last for too long. Old habits die hard, and NeNe’s habit of going off on Kim reared its ugly head like weave tracks on a windy day. When Kim pointed out to NeNe that she and Kandi were coming to Miami to work rather than to only hang out with the rest of the girls for Cynthia’s bachelorette party, NeNe loudly told Kim that all Kim does is go out and sing one song, that she doesn’t consider what Kim does to be “work,” and that Kim is only fit to be second-best to Kandi. During an interview with producer Jermaine Dupri that had aired the previous night, NeNe poked fun at Kim’s late start in the music industry with her single “Tardy for the Party,” which Kandi produced. To say that NeNe’s behavior was disrespectful, low-class, hateful, and indicative of a very jealous and miserable human being is an understatement. Kim may not sound like pre-crack Whitney Houston (heck, even Whitney doesn’t sound like pre-crack Whitney), and Kim may be a little (okay, maybe completely) tone death. But, 98% of the “artists” we hear on the radio wouldn’t have careers if it weren’t for auto-tune and tracks, and the other 2% who can actually sing are grossly under-promoted and underappreciated. More importantly, Kim is living her dream, she looks good doing it, and she has fans. So, here are some important lessons for all of us:

 1) Anyone who belittles your dreams and what you are doing to pursue those dreams is not a real friend. Such a person is not worthy of your attention, conversation, time, or friendship. Run away from them as fast as you can, like Don King runs from a comb! Such people can only do one thing for you: drain you of positive energy. Let them go, and wave at them when you reach the mountaintop.    

2) Do not piss in the gardens of other people’s dreams; it’s not nice to litter. Honesty is not always the best policy and you do not always have to say what’s on your mind. I can guarantee you that the Earth will continue to rotate on its axis around the sun if you choose diplomacy or silence over honesty and hurtful words. The phrase “keepin’ it real” should be changed to “keepin’ it classy.” What your momma and granny told you as a child has not changed:  ”If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything at all.”   

Love Does Not Pay the Bills

The wedding and financial woes of run-away bride Cynthia and her fiancé Peter also provided much food for thought. After “loaning” Peter a lot of money for the restaurant he owned, Peter revealed to Cynthia that his restaurant wasn’t doing well. Although Cynthia had given Peter a lot of money, she didn’t know anything about the financial health of the business and just blindly handed over her money to Peter. Peter subsequently told Cynthia that he had closed his restaurant and that he had no idea where they were going to get the extra $20,000 they needed to pay for their quickly-approaching wedding. When Cynthia suggested the possibility of postponing the wedding, Peter told her not to panic. He got upset with Cynthia for asking him where they were going to get the wedding money from, told her he didn’t want to talk about the matter, suggested that there was no need for her to know how he would fix things since she wasn’t the one who was going to solve the problem, and then told her that this was the last time he was going to tell her anything because she doesn’t know how to handle bad news. Despite being able to “barely pay their bills,” as Cynthia put it, they continued to plan a big wedding they could not afford. In addition, Cynthia worried that the recently unemployed love of her life was not going to repay her. There are just so many things wrong with this picture, and Peter and Cynthia are perfect candidates for the Suze Orman show. Why make certain mistakes when you can learn from other people’s experiences?

1) Do not invest your money in new ventures without knowing the details. If you are going to pour a lot of money into someone else’s business and you expect to be repaid, take the time to research the health and viability of the business. Your bank account will thank you later.

2) Do not loan money to others that you cannot afford to lose. If you have no savings or are a couple of checks away from being homeless or destitute, keep your money to yourself.

3) Do not loan large sums of money to romantic partners before you are married. When it’s time to pay the piper, things will inevitably go wrong and become messy. You’ll either break up before the money is repaid, you’ll get married and then divorced without being repaid, or you’ll get engaged, the person will lose their job/primary source of income, and you’ll obsess about whether you’ll be repaid. You get the picture. 

4) If you do loan money to your significant other, then you should write a contract and both of you should sign it. The contract should spell out the terms and conditions of repayment, such as when the money will be repaid, whether it’s a “loan” or “investment,” whether repayment will be in installments or a lump-sum, etc. Judge Judy is not too kind to ex-lovers seeking to recover unpaid “loans,” so protect yourself.   

5) When the person you are dating is secretive and becomes defensive about money, particularly financial endeavors you have undertaken together, this is a red flag and you need to get gone like Jheri Curls and high-top fades. Marriage is a partnership in every sense of the word, including finances. That boyfriend who doesn’t tell you that the business you loaned him money for is doing poorly and that he’s going to close it, will turn into the husband who takes out a second mortgage on your home, maxes out all the credit cards, and runs the both of you into bankruptcy behind your back. 

 6) Live within your means, no matter the occasion. You do not have to be like the couples on Platinum Weddings or Bridezillas. In a rare moment of lucidity, NeNe said it best: “You can have your big wedding. Just have it next year.”  If you cannot afford to pay cash for a big wedding today, then have the type of wedding you can afford or wait until you’ve saved enough money to have a big wedding. If you are focusing more on the wedding day than on the type of marriage you will have, then you need to go back to the beginning and recalibrate your priorities.

Stay tuned for next week’s episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta!

I have come to realize that Black women are invisible. Because we are experts at multi-tasking, we have endured two types of invisibility. Despite the myth of the Black superwoman, we have not made ourselves invisible. Rather, this invisibility has been imposed upon us by others who cannot or simply refuse to see us. The first type of invisibility prevents others from discerning our differing physical characteristics and personalities, and would prevent them from differentiating us in a police line-up. The kind that, while annoying, is often unintentional and benign.

But, there is also an invisibility of a different kind. An invisibility that is more insidious, sinister, and intentional than that of the “all Black people look alike” persuasion. An invisibility that is more than a by-product of our culture’s habit of walking through life without actually seeing others. An invisibility that stems from others’ refusal to even acknowledge our presence or existence. An invisibility like the kind I recently experienced, albeit not for the first time.  

A couple of days ago, I attended a fact-finding conference at one of the government agencies that enforces anti-discrimination laws. The irony here is simply divine. As I walked into the reception area, a middle-aged White man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase and a manila folder full of papers followed me. During our elevator ride up, I had observed him and deduced that he was probably an attorney. Upon entering the reception area, I immediately introduced myself to one of the employees, informed her of my purpose for being there, and told her which investigator was assigned to my case. Afterwards, I sat down and waited for the investigator, my co-counsel, opposing counsel and the complainant to show up. The White man also sat down without ever saying a word to the receptionist, causing me to assume that he was there for the same case. Shortly thereafter, the investigator, also a White man, walked in, asked the White man whether he was here for the case in question, and then told him that we’d be starting soon. With my initial suspicions that he was one of the attorneys on the case confirmed, I realized that the White man who had walked in with me knew who I was, was there for the same case, and had never bothered to introduce himself.

Maybe he didn’t introduce himself to me because he’s shy or doesn’t like consorting with the enemy, I told myself. I stifled my impulse to turn to Mr. Quiet and tell him that he was wasting his time because his client had no case, and began reading a book as we waited. But, the investigator had also ignored me. I am sure he had been notified of my arrival, and yet he had not bothered to introduce himself or even acknowledge my presence.   

After Mr. Quiet’s client and my co-counsel appeared, we all went into a conference room the size of two small closets. Once we entered the room, Mr. Quiet walked over to my side of the table, introduced himself to my co-counsel, who was also a White man, and shook his hand. And then he went back to his side of the table without as much as a glance in my direction. It was official. Mr. Quiet was intentionally ignoring me. So much for my “he doesn’t talk to his adversaries” theory, I thought. I was the only woman and the only non-White person in the room, except for the light-skinned, bi-racial looking stenographer (whose behavior during the conference deserves its own blog post). It was quite clear to me that Mr. Quiet and Mr. Investigator had ignored me because I was Black, a woman, and/or a Black woman, and by extension, couldn’t possibly have any relevance or purpose for being there other than to take up precious oxygen. Perhaps they thought I was a secretary or clerk, rather than an attorney representing one of the two Respondents in the case. But even so, such job titles would not have made me any less worthy of respect. In fact, Mr. Quiet had engaged in more conversation with the male stenographer. You cannot make this stuff up.

What was even more fascinating was that I was also ignored by the investigator’s Black female supervisor, who came in to discuss a possible settlement. When she entered the room, she walked over to and shook the hands of both White male attorneys. When I got up to shake her hand, she ignored me and walked away. I didn’t even register on her radar until she wanted me to call a witness on the telephone! Not only are Black women invisible to some White people, but we are also invisible to other Black people as well.

Their rudeness, disrespect and lack of professional civility were both unfathomable and infuriating, particularly because I believed that I was the most intelligent person sitting in the room. How dare these ignorant mortals ignore me! (Don’t judge me. Call me arrogant if you will, but I have been called worse.) It was as if my presence was totally irrelevant and that I wasn’t even there. Did I mention that they had more to say to the male stenographer!

Despite my anger and indignation, the more important matter at hand was convincing the “liberal” investigator that my employer had not discriminated against its former employee. I did not wait for them to tell me it was my turn to speak; nor did I wait for them to ask me whether I had any questions, because they had already shown that I did not exist to them. I allowed the three men to entertain me for a while, as they argued about what questions were appropriate for the complainant to answer and whether the eastern and western parts of India are separate countries (I know. I wasn’t joking when I said I was the most intelligent person in the room).

“The eastern and western parts of India are located in the same country. Therefore, complainant cannot establish discrimination on the basis of national origin simply because his supervisor was from another part of India,” I interjected with my eye brows raised and a “Did I just land in Alaska, where being able to see Russia from your window counts as expertise in international affairs” look on my face.

Oh my God, IT speaks, their wide eyes and lips parted in mid-sentence seemed to say.

I then informed them that I had questions for the complainant.

“Ok” the investigator answered.

I calmly and very sweetly turned to the complainant and proceeded to ask him questions, seeking to charm and disarm the enemy. You know what they say: “Never trust a big butt and a smile. That girl is dangerous.”

Wait a minute. We’ve got a smart nigra on our hands, their faces said.

Gentleman, I too am America and I came to play hardball, my face said in reply.

During a recess, I started some small-talk with the stenographer who had recently graduated from law school. As we compared bar exam war stories, talked about his hatred of Oprah, and his disappointment with men’s selection of fashionable snow boots, Mr. Quiet suddenly thought I was worthy of acknowledgment and joined in the conversation.

My experience is not unique. Countless Black women can recall times when they’ve been slighted, ignored, or belittled. How many Black women remember people assuming they were the secretary, stenographer, court clerk or gopher rather than one of the attorneys working on a case? How many Black women have been ignored in meetings, talked down to, or had their judgment questioned and decisions scrutinized in ways that our male or non-Black counterparts have not? How many of us know the feeling of having to justify or prove that we know what we know, while being called confrontational or aggressive when politely demonstrating our expertise or telling folks to stay in their lane? 

During a moot court competition in law school, I walked up to the podium, laid my notes down and waited to start. Confused by the three judges who just sat there staring at me, I thought that perhaps they were waiting for me to begin. After a few more moments of silence, I introduced myself and began arguing my case. When I was done, an agitated competition judge (who was a White guy in his third year at my law school) told me that I “bordered between arrogance and confidence” because I had used words like “clearly” and did not wait for permission to speak before beginning my argument.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, particularly my fellow Black women, it is clear that life is not a moot court competition. Clearly, we cannot afford to wait. Clearly, we cannot afford such social niceties as politely waiting for our existence to be realized and our presence to be acknowledged. Clearly, we cannot wait for permission to speak or a jovial “Why don’t you tell us what you think” from colleagues and professional associates. You will shrivel up into a ball of anger, disintegrate into a bitter dust, or wait yourself right into insanity and oblivion playing the waiting game. Nor can we play the stereotypical “angry Black woman” routine, because that’s what folks expect. Instead, we must do the unimaginable. Be arrogant, be assertive, and be audacious. But, make your presence known and your voice heard in ways that matter.

To ignore someone’s existence is to underestimate their strength. To underestimate someone’s strength is unwise and never a good tactic when in battle. Black women, use your shroud of invisibility to knock ‘em dead. Folks may not shake your hand, they may not say hello, and they may not even ask your opinion. But, that’s OK. Speak up and be heard. Use their ignorance, racism, sexism, and even self-hatred as fire to fuel your own excellence. It’s easy to become flustered, angry, or frustrated. But, keep your eyes on the prize. Pick your battles wisely, and play your cards right. Remain cool, calm and collected. Take a deep breath, put your game face on, stand tall with your head held high, do what you came to do and do it well.

A friend asked me why I didn’t insist on shaking Mr. Quiet’s hand or introducing myself to him.

“Because I had something better than a handshake for him,” I replied. I intended to hand him his defeat on a platter, with a pretty smile and a fresh coat of Fashion Fair lipstick in the color Sultry.

When folks ignore you as if you are invisible, unimportant and irrelevant, put a pep in your step, grab enough confidence to reach the sky, pop your collar and say to yourself, Ladies and gentlemen, I too am America and I came to play hardball.   

“Every wooden chair must stand on its own legs.” – My granny

When I was in the ninth grade, one of my classmates called me almost every night so that I could help her with our biology homework. The problem was that my “helping” usually took the form of me simply giving her the answers. When my grandmother discovered the purpose of these phone calls, she got on the telephone and told my classmate that it wasn’t my job to do her homework and to not call our house anymore. The classmate obliged. Not only did she never call me again, but she stopped talking to me at school as well. And she managed to receive a passing grade in Biology without my continued help. You’d think I learned my lesson after that, but fast-forward almost twenty years later, and here I am again.

I have a colleague whom I’ll call “Jack.” After recently lamenting about how much work he had and how overwhelmed he was, Jack asked me if I could take over one of his projects. Is he serious or am I on candid camera right now, I thought as I laughed to myself. It turns out that Jack was serious, that he was unfamiliar with the term “time management,” and that he was suffering from the delusion that I was his assistant or subordinate employee. However, I couldn’t blame Jack for having so much nerve because he was a monster I had helped create and entertained for far too long. What started out as my benevolent intention to help a new co-worker evolved into daily tutoring sessions. These sessions ranged from me sending him sample letters to my re-writing a sentence or paragraph under the guise of flattery (“J, you’re the wordsmith. How would you rephrase this?”). I occasionally proofread his memos and even took over an important assignment that was due while he was on vacation, only to discover that he had placed my work product on his letterhead and passed it off as his own.  Not only was Jack a user, but he was an indignant user: a person so narcissistic and with such a profound sense of entitlement that he turned into a stalker when someone wasn’t readily available for his use. He’d email, call and text me all day, every day because he needed help with something. Despite his efforts at friendly banter, each interaction with him inevitably ended with “I need,” “can you,” “while I have you on the phone,” or “while you’re here.” And my favorite transitional phrase of his was: “not to cut you off, but….” Cutting me off was exactly his point – to cut me off so that he could get to the real purpose of his visit/call, which was to discover another way of avoiding work.  However, I found my inner “beotch” the day Jack asked me to take on this most recent assignment. I summoned my inner granny, albeit a much more diplomatic version, and politely told Jack “No.”   

Jack and Little Miss Bio are “users.” We all know people like them. That person who only calls you when they need something, or who always seems to need something whenever you speak to them. They always need to borrow your money, credit, couch, clothes, food, or even your identity. And then one day, you finally have an epiphany: the “I’ve been hoodwinked for the millionth time and I’m not gonna take it anymore” epiphany. Or, the “I’m tired of folks and I want my time and space back” epiphany. After all of your giving, you finally realize that your user is always a taker but never a giver. It becomes clear to you that your sole purpose has been to serve their needs. Like Jack and Little Miss Bio, many users are often very charming. But, that’s all part of their act to suck you in. Sometimes pity is also part of their act. Once you emerge from a fugue induced by their pseudo-friendliness or other acts of manipulation, you recognize a hard, unsettling truth: users are hustlers and you have been hustled – over and over again. Ladies and gentlemen, there is only one way to deal with users: just say NO. Cut ‘em off at the knees, nice and sweet.  

Granny used to always tell me, “Never esteem anyone higher than yourself.” Your time, feelings and needs  are just as important as anyone else’s. If you don’t work to preserve your own peace of mind, folks will steal your last good nerve. So, do not let people abuse you. It’s often hard to tell people “no,” because we feel guilty, don’t want to hurt their feelings, feel obligated to take care of others, or desire acceptance and friendship. Users may be needy, insecure, lazy, or incompetent. But, at the end of the day, you are not their therapist, life coach, personal assistant or mother. Nor are you a sanitation engineer, meant to clean up their messes. The user in your life will find a way to survive without your continued enabling, or they will drown trying. Practicing the art of saying “no” will spare you much drama, headaches and stress. And if your user really gets out of hand, then cock your head to the side, raise your eyebrow, and let out a “Hell No” for the road. If you say “no” enough times, they won’t come back, no more, no more. Hit the road Jack, and don’t ya come back no more!

Have you ever seen something or overheard a conversation so ridiculous and unbelievable that you just had to stop and listen, while pretending to be preoccupied with your own business? Well, my chance came last Wednesday night, on Thanksgiving eve. At about 6:30 PM, a man walked into my bank’s vestibule, passed the ATM machines and went directly to the bank’s inner doors. After he pulled on the locked doors, he let out a few loud sighs before calling someone on his cell phone.

“Yo, they’re like really pissin’ me the fu*& off right now cus they’re closed,” he yelled into his phone.

Clearly, you don’t visit the bank much, do you? Or else you wouldn’t be standing here at almost 7:00 on the night before a holiday, surprised that it’s closed, I thought to myself.

“Yea, the lady at the table is just lookin’ at me standin’ here,” he added.

The nerve of her not to open the doors just for you, even if the sign says they close at 6:00 PM. Read the sign and quit talkin’ so damn loud.  Mr. Loud Mouth was “pissin’ me the fu*& off” because he had interrupted my attempt to remember my account number.

Mr. Loud Mouth then called the bank’s “800” number for assistance, presumably so that someone would make the evil customer service lady open the door for him. But, tonight was not his lucky night because he had not mastered the fine art of using his Blackberry. So, he called on his lifeline again.  

“I’m mad heated right now. I’m tryna call the bank, but the number is spelled out in letters and my Blackberry doesn’t change the letters to numbers.”

Mr. Loud Mouth then called out each letter of the bank’s name to his lifeline on the other end, who told him the corresponding number. I was almost tempted to tell him to hold the “Alt” button on his phone while pressing each letter of the bank’s name, or that he could call the bank instantly by simply picking up the phones by the ATM machines, but I stopped myself from my bad habit of butting into random strangers’ business. Besides, when a woman told him he could just deposit his check into the ATM machine, he just looked at the woman like she was from Mars and he was constipated. After another five minutes on the phone, he finally managed to call the bank back and get someone on the line.

“Hi. I’m really frustrated right now because I showed up at the bank at 5:45 and the bank was already closed, even though the sign says they close at 6 o’clock. The lady inside won’t let me in. She’s just looking at me.”

Well, at least we know he’s very comfortable with talking about how he’s feeling pissed, “heated” and frustrated. And did he just lie and say he walked in at 5:45 instead of 6:30? Does he think they’re gonna magically open up the doors for him? Mind ya business J, mind ya business. By this time, I had stopped my own banking transaction and had given Mr. Loud Mouth my full attention, of course while pretending to fumble with the ATM machine.

“I need to deposit my paycheck. I don’t have any money, and I need to cash my check by Black Friday. What can you do for me?”

“Uh huh. The check is for $700. Is there any way it can be cleared by Black Friday? I need it for Black Friday.” Needless to say, he did not cash or deposit his check that night.

Mr. Loud Mouth’s conversation was troubling for so many reasons. First, not only was it clear that this man didn’t understand the basics of banking, but he clearly had never heard of check cashing places either. Secondly, although he said he didn’t have any money and only had his $700 paycheck, he did not say that he needed money to buy food to put on his table for Thanksgiving or money to pay rent that will be due at the first of the month. Instead, he was only concerned about his funds spontaneously and magically being available in time for “Black Friday,” the day after Thanksgiving and the most popular shopping day of the year. This man of meager means was practically begging to give his $700 paycheck away to retailers, all of whom have more money in the bank than he does. Call me presumptuous, but I’m pretty sure Target, Wal-Mart and Best Buy are on much sturdier financial ground than Mr. Loud Mouth. I stood there and thought, How sad and pathetic. But, I recognized Mr. Loud Mouth because he is a reflection of many of us. He’s the rule, rather than the exception. So many of us live paycheck to paycheck, are broke by the time payday rolls around, have more money stored in a piggy bank than in a savings account, and spend too much money on “wants” rather than necessities. Some of us may make more than $700 every two weeks, or we may make less. Some of us may be unemployed or underemployed. But, too many of us still live above our means. 

Retailers advertised many “bargains” and “good deals” this Black Friday and Cyber Monday. But, think of the credit card statements that will be waiting for you after the holidays are over. In this unstable and unpredictable economy, we would all do well to take stock of our financial health and futures instead of focusing on how we can spend our money in ways that do not add value to our lives and hinder us from reaching important goals. Living in the black is far less stressful than living in the red, trying to figure out how you’ll make ends meet or “rob Peter to pay Paul.”

This holiday season, I am reminded of my own financial goals, such as paying off debt, renovating my house, increasing my emergency fund, and saving to return to Paris. And then there’s always unpredictable expenses that get in the way of my goals, like the burnt out circuit breaker and busted hot water tank I recently replaced. But, I am also obsessed with books, lipstick, and taking cabs – small purchases that add up over time. I have realized that you can have it all, but not necessarily right now or at the same time. You have to set financial goals, map out a plan for reaching them, and sacrifice some things in order to obtain others. Alas, Paris will have to wait awhile. I will buy gifts this holiday season and live my best life, but I won’t go broke or into debt doing it.