Nana Is Mad!

 

Without a doubt, I wish I had the luxury of living out the rest of my years in Nana peace. It doesn’t exist for American Black Women. We live in fear that our children and loved ones will fall into the black hole of institutional racism and violence.

I live with Traumatic Brain Injury, which has taught me resilience and gratefulness.  I do my research before I shoot off my mouth, and I’m not satisfied until I believe my words will have an impact. Or at least I hope they do.

The Tears of A Black Nana.

 

Generational envy & hatred makes my Grandson and Granddaughter enemies of the state for no other reason than their skin color or the wave of their hair. This is why this Nana is willing to fight back with words.

My mother was one of 17 kids and my father of 12. I’m the firstborn of nine siblings but grew up with only two of my four sisters and five brothers. It’s only recently we became connected. I am grateful I got to know one sister before she passed on. 

And, finally, I’ve been married to a man from Sudan for over 20 years. A person I met on one of my adventures and who reminds me every day to never close my heart and accept that I also deserve to be cared for—something almost unheard of for Black women in America. 

 

Gloom and Doom? Not Always.

 

I’m a Nana, and I can’t stop asking the hard questions or looking for answers.  Now, it seems I can get away with making a fuss because, with my silver hair, I seemingly don’t pose as much of a threat. It could be there is still some status that comes with being an elder. So, if I have an opinion, I express it. 

 Nana got mad because no matter what she did as a warrior for change over her entire life, she saw that her Grandchildren would have to fight the same battles I thought we’d resolved. 

First, if I see something wrong, I’ll stand up and fight against it. If I have an opinion, I’ll express it.  Observe something wrong; I’ll stand up and fight it. And, finally, Second, if anyone troubles the waters, it’s probably me.  

And in conclusion, if people say, I’m blunt. I’d agree.  

A painful truth is better than a lie, even when it's about me.

I wouldn’t say I like secrets. Ultimately they serve no purpose. I will push against denied doors, and I won’t say, “That’s not fair.” That is unless I’m willing to do something about it. I despise dishonesty and feel angry that we fought for freedom, equality, and inclusiveness after all the years. I watch us sliding back into hate, distrust, and fear. 

Ma said I should be tough. I wish I weren’t.

My words have cost me friends, and family members.

 

From Ma, I learned there is no need to worry about things you can’t fix and to save your energy for those things you can.  Over the years, I’ve had to accept that some things are better left unsaid. Reluctantly, I’ve had to do that more and more.  But, I am my Mother’s daughter, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and showed me how to defend myself with style, grace, and words. 

She showed me how to fight.

As a divorced mother, she took hits for her five kids, mostly alone.  She was the pure example of an activist. She fought for us. 

Black Women do crack, and we pay a premium price. My mother died too young from breast cancer, diabetes, and heart disease. No kiddin’ stress is the number one killer of Black Women in America. I got a head injury and had a heart attack before the age of 65.

Even when I felt I wanted to close myself off from the world because it became too painful to me, her words have kept me going. “Never close your heart.”  I don’t always live up to those words, but I will give myself credit for at least trying.  

Like most women, too often neglected my wants, needs, or desire. But I'm still here. Being a Nana means feeling protective of my Grandkids because they give me a reason to stay on this messed-up planet even when I want to check out.

So, Why the hell am I here in Arizona?

I am an ocean girl living in a desert valley surrounded by mountains under a beautiful sky. My valley-bound ears are always blocked, that is, until I reach at least 4,000 feet. 

I take sky pictures and collect rocks and crystals. The best thing about Arizona is the sky and free fruit left hanging over people’s fences to drop off and die.  

At times I’ve cried just looking at it. I’ve chased cloud formations in my car, pulled over on the side of roads to take a picture of it, and plucked the sweetest tasting oranges from abandoned fruit trees. 

Hot! Hot! Hot!

It is that but, on the other hand, this place, Arizona, is one of the coldest, loneliest places I’ve ever lived. Even the most deserted dried up the desert in Egypt and Sudan have more vibrant and soulful human interactions and energy than this joint.  

Bold and Dangerous Risks

Drive-by and wave relationships are the norms. It’s easier to make friends with cactus, but the absence of community here reignited my desire to write.

I’ve soared and hobbled through rough and scary places, with a life full of zigs and zags, stupid choices, and time spent in horrifying darkness, overwhelming hurt, kindness, adventure, fear, heartache, love, and madness. I, too, have a story to tell.

I love hearing people’s stories.

To me, every person and everyone’s experience is of value. I’m curious to know who’s really behind that smile, external presentation, and mostly their words.

I strive to find common ground. I am open-minded and believe everyone has the right to be. I’m not always patient, but I’m willing to look at the entire picture.

I wish I didn’t know what I know.

I despise blatant ignorance and intolerance. I cry uncontrollably or laugh until I can’t catch my breath.  I’ve been close to the edge bunches of times, but, somehow there was always something or someone to pull me back.  I have been described as a tough Black woman. Did I have a choice? Those who are willing to look deep enough see the true essence of me—creative, kind-hearted, loving, and adventurous.  

I am not afraid.

Like a wildcat, I’ve managed to land on my feet. Meanwhile, I have a brain that works differently because of my head injury, bad knees, a worn-out hip. I was a professional Belly Dancer for 20 years. So, I live with a dented forehead, a damaged heart, and a small scar behind my ear.  But, boy-oh-boy, the stories I can tell.  

I will admit that I get tired of getting worked up about the same issues repeatedly, but then I remember my grandchildren; I hope to inspire them to find their voices and scorch anyone who tries to stifle their dreams desires.