A Letter to the Cops Regarding My Future Black Children

Dear sir or ma'am,

As I write this letter, note, manifesto, or whatever you want to call it, I am about as uneasy and shaken as ever.  There are so many emotions racing through my mind and ravaging my soul that I feel as though I may just fall out and faint.  But that’s not what girls like me do.  We stand.  We remain strong.  And we come to grips with the reality of triparte oppression juxtaposed with the benefits of education and socioeconomic status and abled bodies, and try to do something about it to make some kind of mark in the sand…if not, at least write out our sorrows.

Today, the topic of respectability politics rocked my conscience, as I was working on a sermon regarding domestic violence, cancer awareness, and women’s bodies.  I was grappling with the reality that many of us as Black, female, seminary-trained, ordained, and actively serving in some semblance of parish ministry find ourselves not wanting to use our voices to say something in defense of our own bodies, in fear of retribution and jeapordizing the status we have finally gained alongside our male counterparts.  Sometimes, we even fade into the backdrop with the men folk and try to do the same things, in the same ways.  Only later do we realize we get the same results that we have tried so diligently to fight against, as we were trying to climb up the proverbial and very real ladder to take our chance at striking a crack into the glass ceiling of opportunity.  We are the malignant cancer of horizontal violence, and radiation cannot cure it. Yet, I am not one of those women.  I do not want to shame them, blame them, name them, or claim that they are any less of a woman that I, because I feel my heart palpitating with the exact same concern…who am I going to make mad?  Who am I going to upset?  What am I going to lose? What will happen when I hit the publish button???

The only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I know I will have to answer to my own conscience, my future children, who I wish to make a better world for when they come, and my God.  The Holy Spirit also eases some of my trepidation in reminding me that I was formed to speak up and speak out; created to be assertive and bold; and called to say those things that everyone else thinks, but dares not say…all in the name of being respectable and politically correct.

While there is some truth in being careful about what you post, because it will follow you, I also know that I want this note to reach anyone and everyone that is a parent, grandparent, auntie, uncle, godparent, sister, brother, cousin, or friend to a Black child, and the officers that will be appointed over them to protect and serve their communities.  Simply, please don’t kill my child.  Please don’t assault my baby.  Please give them a chance at due process…not because they are innocent; not because they are absent of any wrong doing; and not because they have always thought before they spoke back to an authority figure…but because they are my baby.  Of course, I plan to train up my children in the way they should go because I want their days to be long.  Certainly, I will teach them how to respect themselves as much as they respect others.  In my house, we believe in spankings.  Where I come from, we say no to drugs, lude and licentious behavior, and bad attitudes.  But they may be at the wrong place, at the wrong time.  It may be an unfortunate opportunity for them to be made into an example, good or bad…please choose the good.  What I mean by good, is being an officer that keeps his/her cool.  An officer that sees past the heteronormative discourse utilized to stigmatize, immobilize, and traumatize Black, brown, and gendered bodies.  Everyone is someone’s baby.  Everyone is someone’s daughter or son.  No matter how much it may seem this child, teenager, or adult should not be loved because of the particular situation they may be in, or seem to be in…they were yet created in the image of God, and also in the image of someone who loves them.

I ask you, not because I am blazing #blacklivesmatter on my chest, but because I don’t want to see another child being dragged like a rag doll out of her school chair; because I do not want to see college kids accosted at an ATM; because I get tired of being followed around in the mall; because I have experienced being flipped to my head, and knowing nothing would be done; because Skittles and sweet tea aren’t worth dying for; because bumping gangsta rap does something for my Memphis soul, and all I wanted to do was hear that beat drop one last time; because I want to live and pursue happiness…the ability to love who I love; live where I want to live; enjoy good food, laughter, and soul stirring conversation with my friends; talk with my sweetheart until the sun breaks in the early morning; go to school and get an education; serve my country and have the time of my life; experience the American dream and buy a house with a two-car garage; make plans to start a family…wait…I did all that.  But will my children?

Will my children know the joys of young high school love?  Will my children know the fun that happens at prom?  Will my children have the opportunity to reminisce about the hot light at Krispy Kreme after cheerleading practice?  Will my daughter know what it feels like to pledge in a sorority?  Will my son feel the heat of the “burning sands”?  Will I pack up the mini-van and set them up for life on their own during graduate school?  Will I write them a check for their first and last month of rent?  Will I still defend them when their boss gives them an unworkable schedule?  Will I have the chance to tell let them know that I will still come and care for them during oral surgery; hold them in my lap, even though they’re too big; and fix them chicken noodle soup? Will I stand beside them as they take their wife or husband?  Will I see my grandchildren?

Yes sir.  Yes ma’am.  I know my education, socioeconomic status, military service, ordination, Gucci loafers, Prada purse, and soccer mom European car will never save me from detainment, questioning, or simply being pulled over for no reason.  However, I do keep my military ID on deck at all times.  I am sure you do not care, at first…but will you, at least care for my child?  For him/her to grow?  For him/her to have the opportunity to sing in the Angel choir…here on earth?  Please.  It may not be your child, but he or she belongs to someone.  They belong to me.

I don’t know the answer to these questions, but you do.  I know how strange my feminist, womanist, military, church, and not so close friends will think about such a plea.  There are many that do not understand my radical subjectivity.  I sometimes just figure they are apathetic and lazy.  Maybe they’re not.  Whatever the case, I know someone is going to judge me to hell and back for this note’s lack of intellectual adroitness; very few definitions; and not even the thought of making this make sense for the masses.  Someone is going to say be careful.  Someone is going to say you shouldn’t post something like that.  Someone isn’t going to understand the anxiety I have for my future child.  But you know what, I don’t care what they think…I just hope you do.

Sincerely,

An eventual mother at some point, concerned about her future Black children

No Time to Quit

From the time I was a little girl, my mom, aunt, and grandparents had me involved in a number of different activities.  In particular, I was a competitive gymnast and played the clarinet in band throughout middle school and high school.  God gifted me with the ability to be equally athletic and musically inclined, but much of that talent had to be taught and brought out with great coaching and leadership. No doubt, all of it had to be practiced and polished by my own inner push and drive.  There were times I got tired of working so hard and so long learning a gymnastics skill or a musical piece.  I wanted to quit a few times.  Twice, my mom let me.  She talked to me about it, and tried to get me to reconsider.  But there are some things you have to learn on your own.  Hence, each time I thought it better to quit and rid myself of embarrassment, pressure, or whatever else, I realized I was giving up on myself, and was not only giving in to fear or disappointment of something, but surely to failure…and that is my biggest fear.  Failure. I. HATE. TO. FAIL.  

Only three years ago did I incorrectly coincide wrong timing, space, place, and people with failure, rejection, and my inability to succeed.  I thought just because I was called to do something, it had to be RIGHT THEN.  There were a myriad of things I kept trying to do.  Each time I did not get what I was striving so hard to achieve, I found myself despondent, dismayed, and depressed about my future, and the way I thought it was supposed to be going.  What I did NOT realize was that I was changing who I was.  I was changing how I went about things.  And I was living in a way that was inauthentic to how Dianna Nicole Watkins simply just did stuff.  (I’m not throwing away my married, hyphenated name but proving a point lol).  The way DNW did stuff was bold and audacious; distinctive and atypical; suave and charming; unique and exceptional; meticulous and methodical…but always authentic, genuine, abrupt, unpretentious, and REAL.  I stopped doing that because [I believed] everyone else was succeeding under a different philosophical brand…I did not want to mess up my chances.  But…it almost ruined me.

  

Thank God almost doesn’t count! <insert praise hands here>

After living by someone else’s rule book for a few years, I finally came to realize that I had given up on who I said I was; who my family knew me to be; and how God had created me to live.  I was living into the failure I was trying so hard not to become.  Soon, I understood that the only time we actually fail is when we give up on our authentic selves, or what the Evangelist Right Reverend Apostle Bishop Dr. Prophet Parker Palmer calls “the sound of the genuine”.  I had to go back to my lessons of the Spelman College W.I.S.D.O.M. Center, and truly listen to my own voice…not one that was being shoved down my throat.  And that is when EVERYTHING started to change.

As we are moving from the hot months of summer (which really are NOT that hot…it is possible for the world to be hotter) and into the cool breezes of Autumn/fall/or whatever you call it in your neck of the woods, we have to be reminded of the new days ahead, and the new opportunities those days bring.  While we see the seasons are changing (and have our Allegra on deck!), we have to remember this is the time of year where we get to celebrate the reaping of the harvest!  That beautiful crop of blessing we have tilled for many seasons of praying, fasting, praising, worshipping, reading, meditating, professing, believing, and shedding many tears (some over years) is almost ready to be picked and enjoyed. 

But do note…this is also when disaster seemingly strikes.  This is the time when the fire gets hotter.  This is the moment when the devil gets busy.  This is the period where friends become few.  This is the home stretch where we feel as though we are getting winded and have nothing left to give.  This is the phase that can often prove to be heaviest and hardest on our body, our mind, our dreams, our spirit, and our faith.  This is the hour, instant, and occasion where we have no time to quit.  It is easy to get unfocused.  It is easy to misunderstand a “not now”, “not yet”, “not here”, “not these people”, or a “not this direction” to be rejection, denial, or the absolute end.  Not everyone is meant to help you succeed.  Not every place is created with you in mind.  Not every space will allow your spirit to produce its gifts.  We must invite our authentic self into being, and bring it into every aspect of our journey.  We must work toward finding the person we have lost.  We must allow God call our righteous and full selves to stand in place.  Likewise, I encourage you to do the same.  Live into what your genuine is and what it is meant to be.  You have no time to doubt [and listen to others].  You have no free spaces in your schedule to get distracted [and follow another’s road map].  You have no opportunity for doubt [and the need to live into another individual's testimony, story, and/or experience of despair and defeat].  That ain't your story, and there is no need for you to stick to it.  

For it is not how fast you run toward the finish line, but the form, fortitude, faith, fight, and refusal to fail yourself as you partake in the marathon toward your eventual destiny.  For you only fail when you live by someone else’s rule book; walk outside of your genuine sound; and find the time to quit.

“Whatever your hand finds to do, do with your might; for there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol, to which you are going. Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all."  -Ecclesiastes 9:10-11

Be Still and Know...

So, last week I talked about My Secret Place. For those of you that read it...no…I was not in my feelings or anything like that, but only describing how great my experience was when God found me in the middle of the wilderness.  Likewise, this week, I want to write a little more about what I learned in that place, and how God moves and what to do when it happens. It’s actually quite simple. Just. Be. Still. (Psalm 46)

For so many of us [or maybe just me] it is truly difficult to enjoy the art of being. In the age of doing and thinking, we forget to enjoy the journey; take in the laughter; celebrate in the sunshine; acknowledge the fact that trouble don’t last always; and remember to smile. Technology may be part of this problem, but in the end, we just get caught up with the next thing on our ever increasing to-do list.

I remember a time when I was taking classes at the University of Memphis after Hurricane Katrina took me away from my Fair Dillard in New Orleans, LA. If I remember the slogan correctly, Memphis said they were a school of “doers and thinkers”. What struck me as odd was the fact be-ing, was nowhere to be found, and while it made perfect sense to leave that out of a school slogan, I knew there was a message I had to learn. In fact, I am so perfectly punctual, proficient, and powerful at the job of doing and thinking that I do the most [yet I do accomplish EVERYTHING] and I think things through so well that time sometimes passes me by.

While it is wise to think things through before you act, and we should likewise celebrate when we are actively and passionately doing everything we can to succeed, it is important we do not forget to be in the midst of it all. The art of being is a difficult task to take up at times with so many distractions. Nevertheless, it is an extremely critical part of the journey we must come to make amends with if we are anticipating direction toward our eventual destination. In the age of social media, name it and claim it, and plain impatience, this lost art form has many students that do not remember its teachings until it is too late. However, the psalmist got it right, and heard God through cries of pain, terror, anguish, worry, and heartache. Be. Still. Know. I. Am. God. I actually have a friend that tattooed this to her arm. This was not a faddish fashion statement, nor was it something done on a whim. This was to be a constant reminder that “all things work together for the good of them that serve the Lord…” and that the one who formed us will never leave us, nor forsake us.

At times, I have to remind myself this…I even thought about copying her genius and getting it permanently inked.  But as the seasons change outside and the weather breaks, [staunchly represented with my allergies kicking up] I also have to remember that God moves in seasons, as well. The songwriter said, “He may not come when you want Him…But He’ll be there right on time!”. Granted, the masculine form of God is not my own picking, but whatever the case, I understand God to be on time…no matter what! My job is to be still and acknowledge the fact that I cannot “do” my way out, nor can I “think” my way out. So, instead of wasting my time; bringing about more heartache; and working myself into an unworkable situation, I sit back and force myself to relax. For in the midst of my prayers, cries, supplication, doubt, faith, worry, trust, insecurity, and belief in knowing that my God speaks…I can YET Be. Still. And. Know.  

My Secret Place

For the past seven months, and surely for the last three, I have been keeping a secret.  Not a dirty little secret. And certainly not an Xscape kind of thing where nobody has to know. Every night for sure, and in the day, as I can, I go to this secret place...of sorts. Right before I close my eyes at night and settle down to sleep, I go to my fantasy world, that was once a real place. I really have not discussed it with anybody, but everyone should know about it by the way I converse. It is a place that still exists in my memory, but I try to make it present, real, and kinesthetic in every way possible.  How do I describe it? Hmmmmmm

At church...deep into my thoughts

It is a  place between what feels like The Chronicles of Narnia and Alice in Wonderland. Just like in the movies and books (minus walking through the wardrobe or falling down the rabbit hole) it's a place I go to escape and live in a completely different world that only I know about, and can feel. It has familiar creatures; situations and challenges I must overcome; and countless adventure!

Each time I enter my secret world, I learn something new about myself.  I tend to gather more information for the next time. Yet, it is unfortunate when I have to depart. Sleep overtakes me, and a new day must be experienced...and I seem to move further away from the memory, the reality, and the experience...this is why  returning to the secret place is imperative.

I turn over to a slumbering husband who has to go to work in the morning. Then, reality sinks in and I think about how I should have gone to sleep hours ago so I could surprise him with breakfast. This secret is keeping me from being a good ole #southernwife SMH  However, I can and do cook...LOL :)

One of the first dinners I made after coming home from deployment...your girl can burn!

Needless to say, I have always had a vivid imagination. Just because I am 29 and married does not mean it is going to stop. So, I would rather not apologize, and go back to my daydream, because it is more fun. It has more intrigue. And I feel the passion within my person returning. I am revived. I am whole. I am at peace.

The secret place is this:  I am roaming in the wilderness by myself and led by my own choices. Like Catniss Everdeen, I volunteered. I knew it may be dangerous. No one told me I had to go. No one gave me a map, compass, survival kit, shelter, or company. I went because I wanted to. I left because I had to. The world was too cruel; too difficult; too confusing; too passion-less; too boring. Yet, unlike Catniss, I did not go to save others. I went to save myself.

In many ways, I see myself as Hagar. Living in captivity with people who use her for only what she can produce through her colored, gendered, and classed body...she leaves. She runs away with no desire to return. I'm talking about heteropatriarchial normativity here...not my family.

In the wilderness, which is my secret place, I end up doing much of the same thing. I meet God through my own theophonic moment. God finds me, and I find God. el roi, or "the God who sees" provides sustenance: food, water, family, peace, passion, desire, hope, and healing. During this journey I find myself also encountering the imago dei in others, at times experiencing prophetic dissonance and having to rearrange my stoic epistemological categories. Some ontological disposition ensues, but it is fun all over again.

Monday Fun Day at Souq Waqif!

This time last year, I was in the most magical place serving as an Air Force chaplain. Nothing was right. But everything was perfect. Sharing in the discovery of God's grace in the midst of hell and high water with family formed out of necessity was one of the sweetest experiences I have ever had. And while I am glad to be home, my secret is that it is still taking me a while to contend with what home now is. It is so different with how I left it. Loved ones are gone. Others are ill. Haters only skipped town to leave shattered glass, confusion, distrust/mistrust, and division. The world is even more evil than I left it.

So, at night, my imagination goes wild with random memory and recreating possibilities of those times lived in reality, but brought back in secret---lest someone think me crazy, PTSD stricken, and sad. No. I am not sad. But in secret, in that place is where I felt closest to God. Traveling. Wandering. Walking in the wilderness until God finds me. A breath of fresh air. The unfamiliarity of this world is gone, and I can breath again in the hot, humid, sand-filled air of another Arabian night.

Taking in the Arabian Peninsula and all that is Doha