I’d never forget that day I told my momma I hate her. If only we could reverse our words. I wish every single day I could take those back. Damn…
I never truly understood the love of my momma… until I became a momma. Now to all my male readers, I hope by this point I haven’t lost you. (I know it’s Super Bowl Sunday but bare with me here!) I hope you haven’t stopped reading this love letter, because this one’s for you too. Your momma is that same woman who taught you how to feel about women, how to nurture them, their sneaky ways and how to decipher the games that women play. Believe it or not, if you’ve had the gift of growing with your momma, she was indeed your first example of a woman. She was the first woman you felt, externally and internally.
Whether your momma is here with you or not, whether she gave you up at birth to a foster family, or she seemingly chose her boyfriend in the place of you…your momma loves you. It doesn’t matter if you’re the first born and you consider your life a screw up among the rest of your siblings, or you’re the middle child that the world never seems to give its due attention…there is nobody in this world who can take your place in your momma’s heart. In her eyes, you’re that same baby she struggled to potty train, eat vegetables and pass math. And you only get one…
Let’s take time to revisit your life before you had one. The nine months it takes to carry a child are some of the most grueling times of a woman’s life. While the experience can be one of God, beautiful and incomparable to any other, there’s the heartburn, the swollen ankles, and the hourly mood swings that drives everyone crazy. Point blank, being pregnant is hard. And being a mother is even harder. Yet, when something goes wrong, it is the mother who is to blame. And when times get tough, it is our momma we usually call on.
You see somebody started this wack rumor that once a child is 18, the mother’s job is done. Needless to say, there is not really much truth in that. Once a momma’s child has reached the level of adulthood, there is no letting go. A mother never lets go. In fact, my grandmother would always say, “they’re born and they lay on your knee, when they’re grown, they’re on your heart.”
Today’s momma start as young as teenagers, even young as 15. Motherhood in our society has become the result of irresponsible flesh, the flesh that had no business engaging in baby making in the first place. Trust me, I know…I engaged at fifteen. And by the age of 21, I was somebody’s momma. And now, I get it. I wonder sometimes how I was even motivated before my daughter, Sara. I thought it was crazy how people would have kids and then talk about how their motivation went out the roof. But now I see. And if you’re somebody’s momma, I’m sure you do, too.
Something that I think we’ve all forgotten along the way, is that our mommas are only human; just like the rest of us. See being from a family of six siblings, I thought for a long time that my OG had super powers. How the hell do you grocery shop and cook for that many people…everyday!? I figured it had to take some real powers to raise six children. But truth is, it wasn’t her internal power; we, the children, were the power. And once I gave birth to my daughter, I stopped giving myself the credit. She was my drive, she remains my drive. YOU are your momma’s drive; regardless of your age, how many times of day you two may talk…you are the driving force in your momma’s life. And if she’s not here on this earth with you, she still lives in you.
In everything you do, praise your momma. She’s made many sacrifices for you. And no, I’m not talking about the kind of sacrifices that landed her with the dishes and you with the early bedtime. I’m talking the sacrifices that has allowed you to take your next breath, step your next step. The love that has allowed you to enjoy the joys of the world; because she gave you life, honor her. Don’t wait for Mother’s Day to value her.
When Tupac released Dear Momma, the world couldn’t believe he blamed his momma for “turning his brother into a crack baby”. Yet, in his words, she was still appreciated. So regardless of the pain and disbelief your momma may have displayed to you, there is no greater love, no greater strength.
I challenge you, males included, to tell your momma, your OG, that you love her today. I challenge you to reflect on all the sacrifices she makes for you… to this very day, and thank her for those sacrifices.
And here’s the greater challenge….imagine your world without your momma. Now, some of you don’t have to imagine; this has already come to past for you. But if your momma is still here, force yourself to think about life without her…that thought should make you feel something; act on it.
Love you…and I especially love you, MOMMA,
Vee
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
My Attempt to Spread LOVE
In my first love letter to you, I want to deal with why I’ve decided to spread love to my audience in hopes to reach the entire world. So let’s start there, shall we.
The black family: and no, I’m not a racist… Not anti-white, just pro-black. The separation of our families have destroyed our communities, tainted our babies and made future generations damn near die off. How have we turned into a people that once fought for basic rights and now abuse those same rights? The whips on the backs of our ancestors have not given us reason enough to love our black faces, our black women, our black men. And just like slavery, our souls have been sold. No price tag, no refund.
So, how did the destruction of our black families begin?
Answer: The head of our homes are no longer the head. When drugs were placed in our communities (and notice that I said placed) our families were never the same. It made our brothers and sisters territorial over areas that were once shared. You see, word must have gotten around that due to revolutionary groups like the Black Panthers and other street gangs, that we knew one thing: how to organize. So a strategy had to be put in place to disorganize us, separate us. And so it happened.
In the 60s and 70s, weed was the beginning of a new trend for our black mothers and fathers. The smoking of it, the dealing of it, the lies it told. It was a movement that moved us farther and farther from each other. And it worked…
The 80s, the decade of crack. The crack that led our black men behind bars, our mothers strung out and our children lost. And, we’re still lost. Several families had lost their leaders, their fathers. Without the father leading the household, homes became single-parent homes, or even no-parent homes. And that manifested into generations of lost families, utilizations of complicated systems (i.e. welfare and the development of the projects) and communities of pain and neglect.
In the 90s we were so distracted by the Hip Hop movement and the cross colors that we were too far gone to even recognize that our families were gone. Our mothers, and sometimes fathers, were alone raising babies. The hearts and souls of our parents were lost in the cracks of concrete, the same cracks they desperately searched for their next high. The love was lost. And then we slowly turned on one another. A people who once stood firm against oppression began to live oppressed and apart. We began to distrust our neighbors, our friends and even those in our own homes.
And if you’re one of those lucky babies from the 80s, from a solid home, based on value and self-love, consider yourself lucky. You’re among very few.
So you see, my intent to spread love, as cliché as it may seem, has an underlying purpose. It is my desperate attempt to save our generation, reconstruct our families, challenge you to think of how this all began, and how it just may end.
If you don’t believe that our families are broken, let me convince you. Notice how small our families are getting. During the 40s and 50s, families averaged between 5 to 9 kids per family. Now, it’s rare if a black couple produces more than 3 kids. Our generation, literally, is dying off as it shrinks into hopelessness and disparity. Now, our women and men are not in their necessary roles, and this has damaged our youth. Women have taken an independent stand, a stand that says to hell with our black men, we can do it ourselves. Our men have crawled behind this movement and hide behind the shadows of social disorder. And all this happens as our children watch. And as they watch, they follow suit. They have become the results of broken history and painful lives.
And of course the violence, the violence that has turned us against one another and has caused other ethnicities to criticize and judge who our people once were versus who we have become. We kill each other more than any other race. Our children are not safe at school, in their neighborhoods and not even in their own homes. And for that, their futures are unpredictable battles that they fight day by day. Battles in which they hope to win, if they make it out alive.
So this first letter to you is simple. It’s to say first, I’m aware of the happenings of our families, I see it, I study it. And most times, it brings tears to my eyes. The pain that I have for my generation is unexplainable. Our families are broken We’re dying off and those who are wise enough, those who know the history and can retell the history, are of old age and soon to leave this earth.
So I’ll tell it. In every love letter to you, some easy to read, others not, I can promise one thing…honesty. I will not lie to you about what’s happening. But first, we must stop lying to ourselves. Being honest brings us one step closer to renewing our generations. So let's be honest with where we are, so we can get where we're going.
Love you,
Vee
The black family: and no, I’m not a racist… Not anti-white, just pro-black. The separation of our families have destroyed our communities, tainted our babies and made future generations damn near die off. How have we turned into a people that once fought for basic rights and now abuse those same rights? The whips on the backs of our ancestors have not given us reason enough to love our black faces, our black women, our black men. And just like slavery, our souls have been sold. No price tag, no refund.
So, how did the destruction of our black families begin?
Answer: The head of our homes are no longer the head. When drugs were placed in our communities (and notice that I said placed) our families were never the same. It made our brothers and sisters territorial over areas that were once shared. You see, word must have gotten around that due to revolutionary groups like the Black Panthers and other street gangs, that we knew one thing: how to organize. So a strategy had to be put in place to disorganize us, separate us. And so it happened.
In the 60s and 70s, weed was the beginning of a new trend for our black mothers and fathers. The smoking of it, the dealing of it, the lies it told. It was a movement that moved us farther and farther from each other. And it worked…
The 80s, the decade of crack. The crack that led our black men behind bars, our mothers strung out and our children lost. And, we’re still lost. Several families had lost their leaders, their fathers. Without the father leading the household, homes became single-parent homes, or even no-parent homes. And that manifested into generations of lost families, utilizations of complicated systems (i.e. welfare and the development of the projects) and communities of pain and neglect.
In the 90s we were so distracted by the Hip Hop movement and the cross colors that we were too far gone to even recognize that our families were gone. Our mothers, and sometimes fathers, were alone raising babies. The hearts and souls of our parents were lost in the cracks of concrete, the same cracks they desperately searched for their next high. The love was lost. And then we slowly turned on one another. A people who once stood firm against oppression began to live oppressed and apart. We began to distrust our neighbors, our friends and even those in our own homes.
And if you’re one of those lucky babies from the 80s, from a solid home, based on value and self-love, consider yourself lucky. You’re among very few.
So you see, my intent to spread love, as cliché as it may seem, has an underlying purpose. It is my desperate attempt to save our generation, reconstruct our families, challenge you to think of how this all began, and how it just may end.
If you don’t believe that our families are broken, let me convince you. Notice how small our families are getting. During the 40s and 50s, families averaged between 5 to 9 kids per family. Now, it’s rare if a black couple produces more than 3 kids. Our generation, literally, is dying off as it shrinks into hopelessness and disparity. Now, our women and men are not in their necessary roles, and this has damaged our youth. Women have taken an independent stand, a stand that says to hell with our black men, we can do it ourselves. Our men have crawled behind this movement and hide behind the shadows of social disorder. And all this happens as our children watch. And as they watch, they follow suit. They have become the results of broken history and painful lives.
And of course the violence, the violence that has turned us against one another and has caused other ethnicities to criticize and judge who our people once were versus who we have become. We kill each other more than any other race. Our children are not safe at school, in their neighborhoods and not even in their own homes. And for that, their futures are unpredictable battles that they fight day by day. Battles in which they hope to win, if they make it out alive.
So this first letter to you is simple. It’s to say first, I’m aware of the happenings of our families, I see it, I study it. And most times, it brings tears to my eyes. The pain that I have for my generation is unexplainable. Our families are broken We’re dying off and those who are wise enough, those who know the history and can retell the history, are of old age and soon to leave this earth.
So I’ll tell it. In every love letter to you, some easy to read, others not, I can promise one thing…honesty. I will not lie to you about what’s happening. But first, we must stop lying to ourselves. Being honest brings us one step closer to renewing our generations. So let's be honest with where we are, so we can get where we're going.
Love you,
Vee
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