Days after my 10th birthday, my dad told me that I had a sister. He told me her name, her age, and her phone number. At 10 years old, I made the call, and shocked the hell out of her mother. I was excited then, and had mixed feelings later. I had always wanted a sister, as being an only child can be a lonely experience. But how could I have had a sister who was 4 years older than me? And why did her mother have my last name? My parents were married. Too much to put together back then, and lost opportunity to ask questions today, since my dad has passed away and my sister and I separated shortly after we met. I've thought about her, and our lost opportunities, for the last 16 years. I've often considered trying to find her, my efforts going no further than a general search of Facebook and Myspace. I've often wondered if she knows that are dad died, if she'd be interested in knowing that she's an aunt, if she thought about the bond that we attempted to create back then, and if she'd be interested in a do-over.

My social networking searches turned up no results. And then I searched again using the yellow pages, and then one site after another until I got a hit. My search spit out a name, an age, 3 known cities, and 1 address. I could have found my sister... again, after 16 years of being separated. But there is something keeping me from taking the next step. I could purchase information that could potentially be her's or I could make the short drive, and knock on a door that could potentially be her's. I guess I am still processing the information. Replaying the reunion in my head. One day. One day.

Somehow, each year is always like the last when it comes to "remembering" my mother. Whether it be her birthday or the anniversary of her death, I'm always left feeling a certain way, a way that in no way involves closure. Out of all the dates and all the loved ones, her dates are the ones that are forever etched in my mind. July 2nd, June 5th, and today, May 31st. I can still remember words and actions, and reactions, yet, I still can't remember her voice or her smell - those things aren't brought back by time or through photographs - apparently, neither is healing. I don't really know when I'll ceased to be affected in this way.

For the first time in a long time, I was able to take some flowers up to the cemetery on one of her actual dates. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't cry. Not because I no longer needed to, but because I had Miss J with me. It was a very quick visit, I couldn't risk losing it in front of the baby, she wouldn't fully understand, or maybe I'd like to think that she wouldn't understand so that she wouldn't be left with the task of comforting me. I was once comforted by a complete stranger on one of my cemetery visits, although I'd much rather be comforted by my grandmother, but she refuses to visit the my mother's grave with me. I try to understand why.

There isn't anything left to say except that I am affected the same in year 18, as I was in year 1.

When you lose your parent(s) before you have formed your own identity, do you ever recover?

"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.

Its so easy to forget days and dates, birthdays being no exception. Yesterday was my dad's birthday. Perhaps I didn't remember because I am wrapped up in myself, or perhaps its because he's no longer alive. I never remember that date either. Subconscious erasure? Perhaps.

Now ain't nobody tell us it was fair
No love from my daddy cause the coward wasn't there
He passed away and I didn't cry, cause my anger
wouldn't let me feel for a stranger - Tupac

I still feel Pac on this. The entire time that I knew my dad, he was in and out of jail. As a child, I had shoeboxes full of cards that he'd made me, letters he'd written me, all full of the same words. Promises to stay out of jail, reassurance that he loved me. He had a problem with following through though. He'd get out, visit me once or twice, and then the collect calls and letters resumed. This routine was one of normalcy. I was never the little girl, looking for daddy and his love. I knew where he was, and I learned early on how to interact with him from that place. As I got older, and matured, I also learned how to provide counterarguments to his "I'm gonna stay out this time". I didn't have time to hear that shit, because deep down I knew that he'd always be in. During his periods of extreme illness, I always feared that he'd die in there, and be buried - unmarked- in the prison grave yard. Luckily, it didn't happen that way.

Truth is, he gave up, and I was mad as hell. He sat there in the hospital, suffering from cancer, arguing with me over the phone about how he could smoke cigarettes if he wanted to, about how it didn't matter. That's what he told me. The daughter that could hear in his voice that he was short of breath. And that's the last time I spoke to him. I had told him that I'd be to see him on a Saturday, but he didn't wait for me. He left me, just like she did! He left me on a Friday, without the goodby I felt I was entitled to.

Obviously, he is entitled to a special place within my memory. Happy Birthday Leslie. If only you would have trusted that I could have, and did love you.

The non-stop and the fast paced. That was life's course today. I devoted some time to getting a few things done. I managed to complete the first steps in applying for another job. A much better position than the one I would have settled for. My Kipenzi showed me that he was on Team Barbara by generating some leads for me. I really appreciated it. I don't exactly have a specific direction that I am heading toward career wise, but from the information I gave him about my likes/dislikes and will/will-not-do, he was able to find me something that I am comfortable with. We'll see what happens.

The rest of my day was spent laughing with friends, which I really needed. We now have the 411 on what happened to Miss J's grandmother, and luckily, her boyfriend was charged with her murder. I hope that he is prosecuted and gets the punishment that someone would deserve for senselessly stabbing someone to death. Her funeral service will be on Thursday and I haven't shared this information with Miss J yet. I had her try on a new dress that she has in her closet, and when she asked where we were going, I told her that I would tell her later. I don't know why I always do this. I'm always nervous about telling her that someone passed away, even though, each time, she handles the news far better than I think she will. I know that she will handle the news well, but I guess the whole process of explaining to her that her dad's mother died is a little weird for me. I will probably have the talk with her tomorrow when we are settling into our after school routine.

Like many, I too, have gotten sucked into the drama that is The Real Housewives of Atlanta. This is the only reality show on my guilty pleasures list. As much as the ladies leave me scratching my head most of the time, they also humor me, so I've been hooked since the first season. I was disappointed to learn that DeShawn Snow wouldn't be returning for the second season. Her mellow lifestyle was a breath of fresh air as far as reality tv goes. If only all viewers felt the same way.

Enter: Ms. Kandi Burruss, the newest addition to the bunch. Because of her short tolerance for hot mess, she is the woman that I most admire on the show. I'm just a fan. What's not to love about her? She's an accomplished singer, songwriter, and overall business woman. Not to mention, she has been a single mother for most of her daughter's life. She puts it down in a real way, taking care of business for herself and her family. She's quite the execumama if you ask me.

During this season, she has been trying to "fly above all the haters", while doing what she does best. But where there is perseverance, there will also lie challenges. Kandi has been dealing with her mother's contempt of her fiance, the transitioning into the Housewives pack, the loss of her fiance's nephew, and now she is in the mists of dealing with an even greater challenge. The unexpected and untimely death of her fiance, A.J.

My thoughts and prayers go out to her and her daughter, because this is also a great loss for her, as she will have to face not having a father for a second time. I was shocked and speechless as I first learned of this tragedy on Facebook and read the report. It made me revisit my own fears of introducing someone into my daughter's life, then losing them tragically. As I mentioned in another post, my Kipenzi has a dangerous occupation, which has dangerous consequences for himself and those who love him. As with all who work in law enforcement, he puts his life on the line everytime he reports to work. I used to find myself thinking about this constantly. The worry of him being harmed does not consume my thoughts like it used to, but its still a very clear and present realization.

I do hope that Kandi has a strong network of support at this time, and that this loss does not scar her daughter in a way that can't be repaired.

What began as a year of happiness and hope, is dwindling into one of despair, ugliness and loss.

We all knew that sadly, Patrick's days were numbered, but it doesn't make losing him any less painful. Its the way in which he was lost that is so painful. Cancer is like a superbug. It strikes and destroys, without any prejudice. It is resistant and unforgiving.

I can't even say anymore about it at this point because its a subject that cuts far to deeply...

This is one of my favorites from Michael Jackson, along with Scream, Jam, Remember the Time, and the list goes on and on... right over in my bTunes... and that doesn't even cover the scope of what I love about the King of Pop. I remember watching the movie Moonwalker (which people are now trying to cash in on over at Amazon!) over and over throughout my 5th grade year because my teacher was very big on music and performance arts back then. We sat in front of the tv in awe and I remember even borrowing the movie from my teacher because I loved it that much.

I can also remember ordering Michael Jackson magazines and taking out all of the posters and covering my walls with them. And this comes from someone who was born in 1984! That's the beauty of Michael's talent and influence, it transcends time. His music has remained relevant and with each new generation his legacy strengthens.

We love you Michael for sharing your gift of entertainment with us. You will be greatly missed.

May 31, 1992. The day I lost my mother. My, how time does fly. How could it have been 17 years ago when it still feels like it happened yesterday? I will never forget sitting in a chair in the living room of my mother's apartment watching the paramedics carry her from her bedroom into the living room to be placed on a stretcher. I will never forget my family sneaking me into my mother's hospital room and sometimes having to argue with the nurses "this is her daughter, she needs to be with her mother". Rules are rules, no children allowed on certain floors, but I always got in. I will never forget the pain on my grandmother's face and the tears in her eyes as she came out to the waiting room and simply said, "she's gone". As I sat on my aunt's lap, I didn't know what that meant. I was only 8 years old. I didn't know the pain and tears that my grandmother had that day were the expression of a mother's loss of her first born, and I didn't know that I too, would feel similar pain, that would be shown in expressions of my own.

I will never forget the small funeral home that held my mother's body. The little place that sat right on the outskirts of my hood. I will always remember walking from my house to that little place and sitting with my mother as she lay in her casket. I will never forget the chill of her hand as I stroked a scar that lay there. What I do not remember is the warmth of her breath, the sound of her voice or the happiness of her laughter. I can't even remember the smell of her fragrance. Perhaps 8 years old was too young for me to know that I should tuck these things away deep in my memory. Perhaps I did tuck them deeply away and pain does not allow me to retrieve them. I don't really know, I just know that I do not have access to them anymore and I wish that I still did.

Unless you have lost a parent as a young child you could never understand that experience. Its not the same experience as growing up with an absent parent. With an absent parent, there is always the possibility of that parent's return. No, the death of a parent is truly a life changing experience, on so many different levels, and it is one of those events in life that shape your very existence. Or at least, it has truly shaped mine. As a child, I questioned God daily about why my mother wasn't allowed to exist. About why "I" had to be drastically different than every other 8 year old that I knew. I can't say that I got an answer to that question, but I did gain more understanding over the years about the time that my mother did exist.

Although I have been missing and grieving my mother for 17 whole years, in a way she is still with me. After her death her energy was still with me for a while. Her cigarette smoke would surround me, my touch-lamp would flicker. But then those things stopped and I felt that she had left me indefinitely. Indefinitely, until her cigarette smoke surrounded me again during a lecture at Cal, and nine months later I gave birth to a little girl, on the same date that my mother was buried.

Time flies, wounds remain fresh...

Mama,

I love, miss, and still long for you.

If only I could remember what your voice sounded like when you used to call me by my nickname,
If only I could remember what your laughter sounded like when we used to play the Nintendo,
If only I could remember what your skin smelled like when we used to lay in your bed together,
If only I could take one more late night trip with you to the store for corn dogs and fudge brownies,
If only you could be here to do all of those things, and so much more with your granddaughter...

For now, I will cherish what I do remember about you,

Like, the way you held my hand as we walked to school in the mornings,
Like, the way you passed down your intelligence and beauty to me,
Like, the way you made sure that I would be taken care of,
Like, the way your hand felt when I said my final goodbye,
Like, the way you loved me more than you loved yourself.

17 years and counting... I love, miss and still long for you.

Love,
Your BoBo

I don't know about you, but I am really fed up with crime in general, but especially crime against women and children. I can only hope that one day, we will be able to send our children out into the world without the fear that they will never return. And trust those who are suppose to be officially trustworthy to provide love and care to our children instead of harm. My heart goes out to the family of Sandra Cantu and to their entire community because they have now experienced the unspeakable.

I am personally having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that the accused holds an important position within the church, but then again, I do think that many of us STILL are in denial that within all of us lie demons. We can not hold people up as deities when they are but flesh & blood, just like us. Not to say that we should have to go around with our children tied to us 24/7 or that we should be looking over our shoulders and watching our backs at every turn... but should we?

What are your thoughts?

Since the day that I found out, I have been trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Miss J. I think I have been mostly worried about creating a certain level of fear within her by revealing to her that her friend has died. A sadness or panic that would somehow change the way she functions in her day to day life. However, I've come to realize that I am mainly projecting my own sadness and reaction to this event onto her. So, last night, with my grandmother there for support, I put those fears aside, grabbed Maria Shiver's What's Heaven?, a Goodbye booklet that the kids created for each other upon graduating from Preschool, and had "the talk" with her about Zach's passing.



I just came right out with it and told her that he had died. She asked why. I told her he got hurt in an accident. She wanted to know why the doctors couldn't help him. I told her he was hurt too badly and that most of the time doctors can help people when they get hurt, but sometimes when people are hurt really really really badly, the doctors can't help them. I told her he went to go live with Jesus now, then asked her if she remembered what Heaven was. She said, "in the clouds, like where my other granny is?" Then she wanted to know why he'd have to go there, and why granny had to go there, and I just told her it was granny's time to go live with Jesus.

We read the Goodbye booklet, going to the page that Zach created for her, and reading his message to her, "To: Jalia. You're my bestest friend ever!" followed by a drawing of a heart with an arrow going through it. She seemed content with it, content with the happy memory, but a little sad at the same time. I think the ideology of happy memories is what made it a bit easier for me to talk to her about this difficult subject. I was able to give her the truth, which I think is very important, and ease her mind and provide comfort by redirecting her mind to happier times and situations surrounding Zach. She is a pretty strong girl, I could even go as far to say, she is a bit stronger that her mother in certain areas, so I had an idea of what she'd be able to handle when it came to facts or details and what she could not.

I asked her if she'd like to go say goodbye to Zach on Saturday, and she first said that she wasn't sure, then asked where we'd say goodbye at. I reminded her of how we went to a church to say goodbye to her granny, and that the same would be happening for Zach. Everyone would go to the church to tell him goodbye. She then became sort of excited at the thought of "going to the church" because that would require going to the store to get new "church shoes" since her's no longer fit.

I do not yet know if we will be able to make the trip since its 6hrs away down in Southern California. However, with everything in me, I want to make that trip. I want to be able to say goodbye to Zach, to have a sense of closure for myself, to show support to the family as I don't know if any other "Cal family" will be able to attend, and to provide Miss J this final opportunity. Again, I think attending would be more for my own healing than for hers. I will have to make a decision today because I would want to leave tonight as opposed to tomorrow since the service begins at noon. I wouldn't want to spend 6 hrs in the car and then have to get right out and attend the service. I would want both myself and Miss J to be well rested and prepared for the day. I am giving myself the next 6 hours to come to a decision.