"I wonder why the obligation to declare one’s purpose exists at all" - T. Allen-Mercado

Upon my lifelong quest to discover who I really am, and in the aftermath of my most recent mental break, I read the Moms of Hue post (which I encourage you all to do) of my blog sister T. Allen-Mercado, and was moved into expression...

Tameka, I didn't know that we were allowed to wonder this or to even question it at all. So much weight is placed on defining one's life's purpose, building a career, living one's destiny. What do those things even mean? Ever since I was accepted to Cal, I have felt pushed and prodded to define my life's purpose, and before I was accepted to Cal, I thought I already had. I had always loved to write, was scolded by my grandmother for "never wanting to do nothin' but write", was exposed to journalism in school, and so that's what I wanted to do with my life back then. I wanted to become a journalist. I wanted to become an investigative reporter, a creator of "new media" before there was New Media - in an effort to show the world what good could be found in the inner city. To create a space for my own voice to yell out from beneath the concrete and be heard.

Now, with those demanding questions that you spoke of being hurled at me - So, what are you doing now that you've graduated? What can you do with a degree in Gender & Women's Studies? So, you wanna do social work? What kind of job are you looking for? You're not going to grad school? Why not? Administrative Assistant? Oh. - And the judgmental statements - $10 an hour is better than $0 an hour/ Did you think you were gonna come right outta college and be the CEO of a fortune 500 company?/ I thought you had drive and determination/ Your minimal salary requirement is too high. It all has shattered my self confidence and my self esteem, and ingrained in me that a life without purpose is a life that isn't worth living.

After revealing my lack of life's purpose and my belief that $10 an hour was not going to pay rent in a safe environment, I was dumped by the person that I thought understood my struggle. Not only dumped, but kicked while I was down... lack of drive and determination, remember? This morning, I found myself on a 24 hr crisis phone line, crying to a man asking me to tell him what was wrong when I had no words, feeling 5150ish.

I guess I say all of this to say that I hate the quest for the American Dream. Like your wondering about purpose itself, I hate the very fact that there is a quest for the American Dream because its just a trope to drive the world towards submission and homogeneity, and those who resist or get lost in the hype, go insane.

First of all, if you aren't a House fan, there is something terribly wrong with you. I LOVE this show! I can't recall when I was first won over, but House's sarcasm, brilliance, and the way that he interacts with his team is all priceless. Here's a man whose main concern is which ever questionable illness case file happens to end up on his desk and whose primary focus is to solve puzzles. He has no affection for anyone other than his boss Lisa Cuddy, and bestfriend James Wilson, and even then, its a dysfunctional "House" kind of affection that leaves both Cuddy and Wilson hating that they love him so much. To most of his patients and his co-workers, Dr. Gregory House is a straight asshole, but deep down, he's just a man who spends his days working toward not letting his pain overtake his passion. I know one thing, if I had a mystery diagnosis, I'd want the Vicodin popping, antisocial, self centered doctor on call.

My love for and understanding of how Hugh Laurie's character operates brought about an epiphany concerning my Ex. As time moves forward the term "Ex" may grow to be an inappropriate way of describing him, so I'm gonna refer to him as my Kipenzi (lover/darling) instead. My favorite word in Swahili is "kupenda" which means to love; I love him, so it fits.

Back to the ephiphany...

My Kipenzi and I met back in 2004, and since our first date, our relation to each other has been interesting. We had intelligent and meaningful conversation, many things in common and a genuine attraction to each other that transcended the sexual. He had goals and aspirations, as did I, and he was working toward making his dreams a reality, as was I. We could have made a great team, and I wanted us to, but each time we grew closer he'd pull away for reasons unknown to me.

Things continued this way for years. A triangle of togetherness-love-time apart. We'd come together time after time and for whatever reason just never seem to work out. We spent a lot of time together, but never truly knew each other, not the way that we should have. All due to inaccurate communication and old fashion fear on both our parts of getting too close. Just that simple.

How does House fit into all of this? Well, during our quest to make things work, I was in my own world and he was in his. Our birthdays are 6 days apart, so there are times when we are one in the same, which, as you can imagine, is a problem. I often felt that he was very self-centered and inconsiderate when it came to my feelings. I was emotional and he couldn't relate because he didn't handle his feelings/issues/whatever in the same ways that I did. I felt that I was playing the fool. That deep down, he was just like Miss J's dad in his thinking and interactions with me. Ironically, he felt the same way about me. That I didn't take his feelings into consideration, didn't really respect him and his unique personality. Turns out, that just like Dr. House, we were both fighting day to day to not let our pain overtake us.

He was a gunshot victim at age 15, and as a result, he lives in constant physical pain with a bummed leg, just like the cynical Dr. House. As my Kipenzi and I came back together recently to work on "us", his improved self was a bit of a shock to me. I wanted to know what was really up with this newly sensitive and highly compassionate Kipenzi. According to him, this side of him has always lived within. Really? I have to say, I liked it. As we started to court each other and get to know each other as we should have years ago, the epiphany hit. What if, like Dr. House, my Kipenzi was just a man who'd been shaped by his physical pain? Like House, my Kipenzi has been shot, relies on pain killers to dull his pain, walks with a distinctive limp, and despite how he comes off to people with his attitude and guarded nature, he really is a great guy. I can admit that I have been shaped by my mental pain. I'm still in the beginning stages of this epiphany, so for now, my Kipenzi and I are taking things slow. We know what the fast paced leads to. Perhaps things will evolve differently between us this time around.

Miss J: Why aren't you gonna wear granny's coat?

Me: That's not granny's coat. I already gave it back to her. That's my coat.

Miss J: When did you get that coat?

Me: I've had it for a while, I just don't wear it.

Miss J: Why?

Me: B: Because its too big.

Miss J: Well, maybe when you get bigger you can wear it.

Me: I don't wanna get bigger, I wanna get smaller!

Miss J: Smaller? Like a kid?

Me: No, I wanna lose some of my pounds.

Miss J: Well, you need to call right now.

Have you ever been on the phone with someone, and right in the middle of your conversation, right when you are in mid-sentence, the person you are talking to becomes engaged in a-whole-nother conversation with someone else? And I'm not talking about the usual, "YOU BETTA PUT THAT DOWN, RIGHT NOW!... I'm sorry girl, now what were you saying?" Oh no. I'm talking about a full fledged conversation with another adult! That C, that somehow always wiggles its way into the dialog between A & B. Well, this is what happens everytime I'm on the phone with my grandmother. Never fails. I'll be pouring my heart out to her about something and either at the point where I am really thinking she's feeling me or the point where I'm expecting her to reassure me, she chimes out with something about a computer, a pen, a "fill in the blank", which is usually directed at my granddaddy. And its not one or two words, its more like 3 or 4 back and forth sentences. Sometimes I feel like asking her if she can politely ask him to shut the fuck up until she gets off the phone. And then I wonder if he even initiates the interruption. Maybe she zones out way ahead of time and is relieved to have him come in the room so she can entertain herself. Maybe she's tired of hearing (or not) me talk about my issues. Hell, maybe she just isn't interested at all or maybe what I have to say just really isn't all that important to her.

It reminds me of the day that I called her after my dad's doctor informed me that he was dying. It was unexpected news. Not because I didn't know he was dying, but because I wasn't expecting him to be near death at that particular time. When I had spoken with him two weeks earlier he didn't sound like he was in the best shape, but he told me that he was fine and would be released from the hospital the next day. Now, some doctor was telling me that his complications were too severe for surgery and that his only option was to be taken to hospice and to be made as comfortable as possible. I was shaken by the thought that I'd have to deal with a 4th death of an immediate family member within a 3 1/2 year period.

I called my grandmother and I tried to get the words out. I managed to tell her that I had gotten some news about my dad, and that he was doing really bad, and that I needed to go see him, but I was constantly interrupted due to her ongoing conversation with a machanic. I waited on the phone for a couple of minutes while she carried on her conversation, before I suggested that maybe I should call her back. She agreed that, yes, I should call her back.

I can't even explain how I felt. Not having anyone else to confide in. Having the one person that I thought I could confide in not realize that I was in distress and really needed her in that moment. Growing up, I went unheard. The expression of opinions/thoughts/feelings by children are often viewed as back talk, so I stopped speaking out and just internalized everything that I ever felt or experienced. As an adult, I still feel like I go unheard, especially by the people that I want to truly hear me.

That's how it is with my grandmother. Its not like she's this little old lady who has selective hearing. She's a fully functioning 69 year old who could pass for a 39 year old. I expect her to be present during our conversations. I expect her to recognize when I really need her emotionally. I expect her to make me feel like what I have to say matters. All without me having to request that she be an active listener. Am I expecting too much?

No signaling, no frantic waving of the hand, no warning, just a sudden swerve to the right... right in front of my car.

Me: Wow! You fucking idiot!
Miss J: Whoa... How do you know it was a boy?
Me: I didn't say boy.
Miss J: You didn't say "dude"?

There use to be a point in time when Miss J. couldn't quite understand words or road rage. It seems that we have now entered a time of selective hearing, which worked out well for me in this case. We have surpassed the days of her yelling "BITCH" from the rear window like a vicious little poodle.

I can't stand when people decide to get behind the wheel without actually having read the driver's handbook. One wrong move, one stupid mishap and a life could be lost. I try to be an extra careful driver, especially when my daughter is along for the ride. I don't "drive Miss Daisy", but I don't embody Danica Patrick either. Its all about obeying the rules of the road that have been created to protect our lives and the lives of others. Its about being vigilant and using common sense. I encourage all of us to be cautious drivers.