Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (26 page)

Then something happened. I noticed that Rashaad did not appear to share my vision and my disgust. He was overjoyed just to see his father! I was so busy focusing on his father's outward appearance that I neglected to see what was really important about that day: a father making a humble effort to share an important day with his son.

As guests began entering the auditorium, I watched my parents go inside and told them to enjoy the ceremony and not to worry about me. I gave my son's father my ticket, deciding he really did deserve to be at his son's graduation, no matter what. Life had obviously dealt him a bad hand, and I decided not to make it worse. He took the ticket and went inside. At that moment, I recognized one of the school aides, who was collecting invitations and guarding the auditorium entrance. I asked if I'd be able to enter the school and watch the ceremony from the hall.

She replied, “No, but you can sit insidewith your family.”

“But I don't have a ticket,” I told her.

She nudged me gently and said, “Just go inside.” I thanked her quietly and went in. No questions asked, just feeling like I was being blessed. I was filled with pride as I watched my baby, looking all grown up, passing through this accomplishment.

After the ceremony, we went into the schoolyard for refreshments and awaited the graduates' arrival. We had planned to dine out, and I was anxious to get to the restaurant. I reluctantly invited Rashaad's father to join us, but he declined, saying he had made other plans.

Without warning, he turned to me, leaned over and kissed my cheek, whispering “thank you” in my ear. Although he just said “thank you,” what I saw in his facial expression was “Thank you for doing such a good job in raising the kids without me. Thank you for not making this difficult for me today no matter how I was dressed or what you were thinking. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this day.”

I said, “You're welcome,” and waved good-bye.

The stress had dissipated, and I felt as light as a feather. That moment filled me with a lot of hope that that one act of kindness could make such difference in our lives. On that day I had prepared to totally focus on Rashaad's needs and not my own. I decided to embrace the spirit of forgiveness by letting go of my judgment of his father and just celebrating the day. Apparently, he had come with the same intention. Rashaad was able to look off the auditorium stage and see his parents and grandparents there, together, loving him—regardless of what either of us were wearing or how we felt about each other.

Suddenly this day was not just about a graduation for my son, it was a graduation for all of us into a new era of healing. A celebration took place within my heart; knowing that peace between our families would ultimately come, and the cycle of pain would not be repeated.

Although he had already left, I sent a silent thank-you to him, too. Thanking him for joining me in taking steps to break down the wall so that there would soon be no more drama in our lives.

Patricia L. Watler Johnson

A Daughter's Forgiveness

Years ago Papa (my grandfather) lived by himself across town. During wintertime he would come stay with us, and when spring came he would go home. Well, one year he just stayed and made our home his home.

Over the years Papa remained feisty, going 'round and 'round with his grandchildren and sometimes with his daughter—mymom. He was still feisty long after his health began to decline, his body betrayed him and his mind began to forget the people who were closest and dearest to him.

One afternoon last December, I was visiting Papa and Mom. My son, Lil' Kevin, was outside playing despite the frigid winter air when I went into the house to get his football. Papa was lying in his bed where he had been for several weeks.

As I walked past the dining room table, I looked through the French doors leading into Papa's room and saw Mom standing at his bedside shaving his beard. For some reason, I stopped and watched for a few minutes unbeknownst to her. There was a gentleness in the way she looked at him and shaved the hair from his face that captivated me.

At first, I thought,
What a wonderful act of a daughter's love!
Then, stories and memories of the many trials and tribulations surrounding their father–daughter relationship flashed through my mind. My mom being so angry at Papa she couldn't see straight, eat or even mutter a word, or the times when she may have hurt his feelings and he definitely hurt hers. And as I continued to watch her gently shave him, I realized that what I was witnessing was a loving gesture of a daughter's forgiveness, a willingness to put right or wrong to rest for the sake of peace, love and sweeter memories made in the current moments.

It was Mom's love for Papa that invited him to visit, but it was her forgiveness that allowed him to stay. She didn't see him for the words he had said or the things he had done throughout the years. She only saw a soul who needed a home. Shortly thereafter, on a cold winter's day during a horrific snowstorm, Papa died with Mom by his side, having forgiven him and now forgiving herself for anything she may have ever said or done to hurt or disrespect him throughout the years. Now, the only thing that remained was love.

With a daughter's forgiveness, Papa didn't have to live alone. With a daughter's forgiveness, Papa didn't have to die alone.

With an amazing example of love, devotion and compassion, I have been shown how to live—and now, how to forgive.

Dawn Nicole Patterson

A Gift from Above

D
ipped in chocolate, bronzed with elegance,
enameled with grace, toasted with beauty. My
Lord, she is a black woman!

Yosef Ben-Jochannan

Black Woman

Your Presence:

At first glance in the morning, is the way I like my coffee— black and sweet. Up before me floating from room to room causing a reaction in me that only can be described as earth shattering. When I see you, I feel as if I am experiencing an earthquake when it's simply you making my liver quiver and my heart palpitate.

Your Smile, Your Eyes:

When you give me your smile it is so bright, it can light a room the size of a basketball court. At night, no lights are needed because your smile shines so brightly. When in the presence of others, your eyes let me know that I am your man.

Your Lips:

So sweet that all the chocolate on the planet could not match them, identifying you as a black woman, full, safe, and chocolaty. Your lips are sweeter than all the sugar canes in the fields of Lebanon. When my lips touch yours all sound around me dissipates and I float into a state of trance. The two of us are floating as if we are bouncing into galaxies way beyond our galaxy, looking for one to name after you, the black woman.

Your Arms:

The journey to your womanhood has developed arms that are often stronger than mine. When life is daunting for me as your man, you hold me with your tender yet stern loving arms. Your arms give to those in need a sense of hope like no other arms can. Your arms are the arms ready to hold the tiniest of God's creations in love. Your arms are the arms that this 6-foot, 2-inch man is looking, wanting, hoping soon to be held by.

Your Voice:

Your voice identifies you as a black woman and if listened to closely, it can move and give insight to the lowliest of spirits and heart of man. A voice that makes me—and others—feel wanted and needed. When words of wisdom are spoken to the world, people that come to know you look for the opportunity to be in your presence. It is a voice of comfort that makes the weakest of them all feel safe.

Your Mind:

You are so valuable to black men that many cannot and will not accept your God-given outlook. But for those of us who have understanding and are able to accept your beautiful mind, we sit on top of the world.With your mind you are a great complement to man, you help us move mountains and stand when we think we can't. Though we as men often forget, we must remember that God put you here to complete our minds through the power of you, the black woman.

Your Energy:

We understand that energy is the make-up of Almighty God, and we exist off that power, that energy. My black woman, you have that energy and took all of life's vicissitudes and turned into an expression of beauty just as God has intended. And with that energy you have transformed the lives of many.

My Request:

Thank you, God, for giving me this gift from above. I only ask that you give me as a black man the understanding, the wisdom and the strength so that I can love and accept all of the beauty that has been stored up just for me in the black woman.

Leslie Ford

Where Have All the Old Men Gone?

W
e must cherish our old men. We must revere
their wisdom, appreciate their insight, love the
humanity of their words.

Alice Walker

I don't know how it was in your neighborhood, but in the 1940s in Detroit the black neighborhoods were host to some of the most unique citizens in United States history— The Old Men.

It should be noted that not every old man was an Old Man. The rules for inclusion in the club were strict and rigidly adhered to. The gentleman had to be at least sixty-five years of age. In truth, this was one club where older was definitely better. He must have lived a fast lifestyle— a lifestyle designed to lead to an early grave and a beautiful corpse. It was also extremely important that he hold the reputation of having played fast and loose with women's affection all of his born days. Last but not least, it should be common knowledge that only the vicissitudes of old age had caused him to forsake his reprobate ways. I am pleased to report that in 1943, the west side of Detroit had a lively assortment of Old Men within its boundaries.

Mr. LarryWilson, better known as Gray Cap because he always wore a gray knit cap, was the leader of the group and set the style for the others. John Henry Lewis ran him a close second, and on that rare occasion when Gray Cap was absent from the fray, Lewis took command. All summer long Gray Cap and his cohorts would stake out a corner or storefront and open up shop for the day. Both residents and shop owners welcomed them, for they served as entertainment for the residents and security officers for the stores. Who would think of robbing a store where a gaggle of old men sat at rusty card tables and played checkers for hours on end blocking entry to all but the most determined customers?

When fall came, and the north wind began to nip at their heels, they would move their table and chairs inside one of the localmarkets, setting up business near the front door— the better to thwart the escape of any would-be robber.

Gray Cap was a stellar example of all that an Old Man should be. At last count, he had fathered at least twenty-seven children, only seven of them by legal wives. The mothers of the balance were an eclectic mix of old maids, young girls, love-struck matrons, ladies of the evening, and the confused wife of the pastor of the Gleaning Light Baptist Church.

While John Henry Lewis could in no way match Gray Cap's statistics, he did have one unique credential of his own. He was the only man in the group who had fathered children by two sisters who delivered their babies on the same day. All of the area pastors preached hellfire and damnation sermons on the subject, vowing that the church would live to see John Henry destroyed in a hailstorm of God's rage.

The men of the neighborhood, both single and married, held a grudging admiration for The Old Men. Although most of them had sowed their wild oats as youths, the pressure of marriage and parenting had caused them to mend their ways. While they publicly censored The Old Men for their nefarious ways, in their hearts they had to respect men who did everything the church preached against and still lived to tell the tale.

As for the ladies of the neighborhood, the very mention of The Old Men would bring snorts of derision from every female on the west side. From grade school girls to the matriarchs of the neighborhood, the reaction was the same. To quote our neighbor Mrs. Eubanks, “There will be a special place in hell for each and every one of them.”

As a fifteen-year-old female observer of the vagaries of life, I held a different viewpoint. If all the ladies in the area loathed and despised The Old Men, why didn't their actions support their positions? Curious to a fault, I set out to resolve the puzzle for myself.