A NEW SEASON

Spring represents new beginnings and renewal, and I feel that way for the first time in a while. I have to admit to myself that I have been depressed and wallowing in the past for far too long. Perhaps it is a place that all creatives must visit to hone their craft. However, it isn’t a place in which one can live. Existing in that sunken place was crushing to my spirit, making happiness something I vaguely remember. It was unfair to the people around me because they never got to see the real me. It also robbed me of the fullness of the present moment.

For me, constant comparison of what our family gatherings were like in the past (when my parents were alive) eventually led to not getting together with my siblings at all.

I know I’m not the only one this has happened to. So many families have grown apart. Brothers and sisters who grew up in the same households that were once As Thick as Thieves no longer speak to each other. Or siblings who are outwardly cordial while privately harboring resentment. Some members clique up and continue to have family functions while excluding others. Worst of all, some siblings are embarrassed by their families and where they came from, so they voluntarily exile themselves from their past.

I have had this conversation with friends about how, when the parents die, family ties and traditions are broken. We lament how painful these situations are and how our efforts to reunite the family have been to no avail. Years of this have left me unable to enjoy Thanksgiving without wishing I could replicate what my mother had. Thanksgiving will forever be her holiday, as it should be, and I’m now okay with that. Letting go of the desire has freed me to live in the present and accept it for what it is. I love my family, even though we're not as close as we used to be. I thank God for the parents he gave me and the wonderful memories that they provided. I hope to never forget the time and space we shared, but I must start living in the present for myself and the people who love me.

Like the spring season, this is a time for a fresh perspective on life. I could either keep looking back at the good old days or look forward and dream of the things waiting for me. I lost a home in the Eaton fires in Southern California. Contemplating the future can sometimes be overwhelming, but I look forward to creating something new and beautiful. I’m no longer looking back at a past that can’t be duplicated.

THE COST OF BEING STRONG

Something in me refuses to let me lay down and give up. Perhaps it was passed on to me by an unknown African who was captured, shackled, and placed on a slave ship. Or the African that picked cotton from dawn to dusk, or the one that cleaned the big house, wet nursed the Marse’s children, survived rape, beating, near starvation, and all the dehumanizing atrocities of slavery. For some Black women, our strength can also be a burden. When a woman has to be strong all the time, inside and outside her home, some of us lose the soft parts of ourselves. Every day before we step outside the safe havens of our homes, we slip on a protective armor that has become a part of us. Some of us are so intense in our efforts not to be pierced by the daily onslaught of racial bigotry that we forget to hang up our armor when we’re at home or in the company of friends.

I would describe myself as strong, opinionated, and loud. I have heard others say that I’m mean. People who don’t know me could jump to that conclusion if they were only looking at the mask I wear. My exterior may be tough, but not my heart; I think of myself as kind. There are times when I’m quiet and listen. I’m learning in my latter years the value of listening to what others say. I understand now that my opinion is not required on every subject. But my strength is something that I have carried with me for so long that I don’t know if I can put it down even to rest.

This belief or feeling that I must be strong in every situation is becoming too much to bear. My mind and body are telling me to slow down and rest. Many of my friends are dealing with health issues directly related, I believe, to being strong women. These women have been the backbone of their families, putting everyone else’s happiness and well-being before their own. They have given of themselves until there is almost nothing left to give, and still, they give.

If you are a strong woman who thinks you can’t stop being who you are, you don’t have to. Being strong is an asset, but you don’t have to be strong “24/7.” Create a place within your home where you can rest. Rest can take many forms. Writing, quilting, and reading are some ways I maintain my peace. Joining the gym, going for walks, and meeting up with friends are other ways to relax and enjoy life. Sometimes, I sit in the backyard and let the sun's warmth recharge my soul.

Being strong has a price, especially if you ignore the warning signs. Continue to be who you are, who you were built to be, but remember to care for yourself just as much as you care for others.  

BEAUTIFUL ALTADENA

BEAUTIFUL ALTADENA

I moved to Altadena about thirty-seven years ago. My son was just a toddler. It was there that I raised him and struggled to provide him with a suburban lifestyle as a single mother. I refused to believe that my circumstances would dictate how and where we would live. I bought my first home in Altadena before my son was two years old. It was a small two-bedroom, one-bath California bungalow with a small front porch, a large backyard, and a detached garage. I remember being unable to sleep the first night in my home as I stared at the ceiling, wondering what I had done and how I would ever pay for it. I would go on to sell that house and move a little further up the hill to a larger one. During the housing crash, I sold that home and bought three houses, two in Altadena and one in Pasadena. Years later, after my own financial crisis, I ended up with only one house in Altadena—my beloved home on Marathon Road and my house in Victorville, California. My son and his family were living at our Altadena home. His sons were slated to follow in his footsteps by going to the same schools, hanging out at the Altadena Library, and hiking the same mountain trails. My oldest grandson did get to go on a moonlight hike in Eaton Canyon once, but now I wonder if the youngest one ever will. In the summers, my son would bike on the many mountain trails close to our house on Olive and Poppyfield. He would be gone for hours with his friends (without a cellphone) on his bike, having what he called “an adventure.” How I could let my son roam the hillsides of Altadena with his friends for hours without worrying about him is unimaginable today. But, back then, Altadena had a small-town feel, and maybe I felt that way because it was such a beautiful place that looked nothing like South Central Los Angeles.

On January 7, 2025, the lush greenery of Altadena would be consumed in a burning inferno. My son and his family would leave their home with the clothes on their backs and a few other items. The next time I saw Altadena, the word devastation would be its most accurate descriptor. So great was the destruction that it looked as if Altadena was a war-torn country depicted on the nightly news. As my son drove down once-familiar streets, he would stop the car to look for some landmarks to orient us. We would stop in front of a pile of rubble; all that was left of the homes of friends or houses we once lived in. Brick fireplaces stood sentry over the charred remains of so many dreams. We fell silent as we passed a cadaver dog walking the incinerated lot of someone’s home.

When I saw what was left of my house, everything I had worked for lay destroyed in the ruin. At least, that was my initial thought. A few days later, after the shock of all I had seen wore off, I could see something new and beautiful rising out of the ashes. Although Altadena will never be what it was, it will be beautiful again.