On Giving Thanks

I was in the 7th grade and it was the Monday after Thanksgiving.  I don’t recall which period it was, but I was called to the office to go home.  Excited, I gathered everything I owned and sprinted to the office.  There, in the office, stood my father in his Naval uniform, stoic.  My pace slowed and the excitement retreated from my expression and I became a question. I knew something was wrong, but what it was, was lost on me. Slowly, I entered the office and he barely looked at me. Tense, like he was just trying to hold it all together. My heart wasn’t sure if it should stampede or not. Leaving the school, I followed through the office door, hallway and exit. To the car, his walk was determined and deliberate.  There, the silence was only broken by the engine starting.  I had never known my father to be this quiet; had never known him not to make eye contact.  The ride home was a conundrum.  My eyes, back and forth between my father and passenger window; my hands consoling one another, and my heart was a slow lonely metronome. 

Home was only about 10 minutes away, but the car ride felt like a lifetime. The garage door opened, he pulled in the same as always and we shuffled everything into the house.  I went straight to my room and sat on my bed; sensing it was the only place I could be. A few moments passed, and my father came to my room, leaned on my dresser and uttered, “My mom died”. The words slowly fell out of his mouth like he was trying to catch him before they came out.  I had never seen my father cry. I crumbled like a sand castle does when the tide rises. We cried there, in my room, we hugged, and allowed the sadness to wash over us.  Thinking of that moment is still one of the only things that brings me to tears. 

I had just spent Thanksgiving with my Grandma Daisy and now she was gone. I thought, “I just saw her yesterday.” I was trying to make sense of life and death.  I had never thought of life as so temporary.  My Grandmother was a giant to me! I didn’t know death could come without warning. It was my first experience with loss.

I don’t remember if it was during the funeral or after, but a decision was made, from now on, we would all get together for Thanksgiving. It was going to be how we all stay connected and how we pay homage to the matriarch of our family.  

For the last 28 years, we have kept that promise to spend every Thanksgiving together.  We have gathered in remembrance to break bread, share stories, and celebrate.  My grandmother has 7 sons, unfortunately two have passed, 11 grandchildren, and 2 great grandchildren.  There are spouses, cousins, and extended family who have joined our tradition.  We have traveled to 9 states.  We have rented massive homes and also crammed ourselves in rentals that could barely hold us.  We are determined to be together.  

For me, Thanksgiving is about family; it is about my Grandma Daisy and the mark she has left on all of us.  It is about tradition and ensuring her name and legacy live on through generations.  It is about gratitude, togetherness, and appreciation.  Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, not because of its origins, but because of what it means to me and my family.

Reckoning with Yourself, First

It has been an interesting time of life.  Seemingly, every week, there has been something for me to navigate emotionally or something that has required reflection. This last week was no different. I’ve spent countless hours thinking through what was learned, and sorting through themes, and lessons to share.  Navigating my feelings and emotions to ensure I respond and not just react in the moment. I’m not here just to tell my story; I hope these reflections help you feel more connected to yourself and the people around you.

A lack of transparency results in distrust and a deep sense of insecurity. 

-The Dalai Lama

When I say, this quote changed my life, it is not a platitude.  In 2013, I had the opportunity to see The Dalai Lama speak in person.  I took the day off and drove five hours to Atlanta with a friend who had an extra ticket. I am not sure what I was hoping to hear, but I was excited to hear something that would maybe take root, something I could bring home with me. The moment I heard this quote spoken, I knew it was for me.

I am a poet and spoken word artist. Back then, I was hosting one of the largest poetry slams in North Carolina, The Marquis Slam, and performing in poetry events nationwide. But, I was struggling with my craft.  Poetry has always been a huge part of my life. Introduced to me as a way to cope and as a way to process my emotions. It is incredibly personal and, at that time, I wasn’t ready to be that transparent on a stage in front of strangers and I definitely wasn’t ready for my story to be judged and scored. My writing became these thematic dramatizations of events I had been aware of but never experienced. I created this immense chasm between myself and the subjects of my poetry, which was the opposite of what it had always been. No matter how clever the metaphors I built were, it lacked authenticity. I was always telling someone else’s story and never my own. 

The quote forced me to confront the parts of myself I was trying to compartmentalize. I didn’t trust myself to war with my demons in front of an audience, and I believed my healing, and development as sacred, and not to be monetized for social capital or financial gain. I was writing for slams, and performances, no longer for me. I lost my way, and my connection to myself. Poetry had always been a gateway for personal exploration and for that to happen it had to be an authentic experience. 

The quote became the beginning of a poem called, Self. It reads like an internal conversation about not being honest with myself.  It was admitting to myself, “I am so close to broken, so fragile”, yet also, “...nothing but fearless imagination and all kinds of never quit- a hard glowing fist full of my grandmother's grace”. When I first read the poem aloud, tears crawled down my face. To say it was cathartic feels disingenuous. It was so much more; it was a moment of finally seeing myself in my entirety.  As if, I shed a mask I hadn’t even realized I was wearing. 

Writing that poem gave me permission to be authentic, vulnerable and transparent. It showed me how valuable my story was and still is. Poetry, once again, became a practice of processing and helping me understand my emotions. I’ve learned it is impossible to grow and to evolve without being completely transparent with yourself first.  This means being honest with yourself, being introspective, holding yourself accountable, understanding and communicating your needs, and being open to feedback and willing to self correct. Transparency is no skill, it is an ethic, a practice we must cultivate single everyday. 

In each of our lives, there will be moments to reckon with the parts of ourselves that we have hidden, or parts we are unwilling to own. We can choose to lie to ourselves or we can find the strength to be honest, and hold ourselves accountable, setting the stage for growth.  It all begins with transparency.

Remember, The Journey is the Destination