Let Me Get Out Your Way

When I was a little girl - I used to try to disappear, to be invisible, unseen, unnoticed, unheard, un - un.

My naive little self thought that if they didn't see me, the monsters who lived and breathed fire, they wouldn't hurt me.

Most of my growing up, a full decade, I was afraid.

Petrified, even.

Survival meant being nice, kind, quiet, compliant, nondescript, absent from any "prettiness" that they said was my late mother whose face I carried.

How could I be the incredible shrinking girl and stay in a corner until it was safe to use my voice, my words, to protect others so they would never feel that heart-thumping-heat-filling-terror.of.existing.

As we enter this season of Lent, the discussion very often among those who practice this season of contemplation, confession, and contrition is about what one is giving up - a pleasure or activity; we often don't discuss what we are taking on for righteousness and justice.

Let me consider this as I mentioned as the start of this muse, the ways that many try to erase themselves so they are not in the way of others deemed more important. This, to me, is antithetical to the very existence and call placed on us from the brown-skinned, son of a teenage mother, born of parents without a home and had to work with their hands, from a place that no one considered any good could come from. To me, we were called to shake things up, to not just go with the status quo, to wonder, and to question. And like him, to be daring and confident to ask the why questions in the process of figuring out how to meet the social needs of the people who eventually flocked to him.

We are in changing and often, troubling times.

Just yesterday, during a celebration of the Super Bowl champions, someone thought it was in their right to wreck havoc in that space. Gunshots rang out. My older sons and nephews were there. My middle son's military training kicked in and he got the family out safely.

What parts of humanity was missing in the soul of the shooter that took innocent lives and injured children?

How much are we unseeing people that they would take this extreme to try to be seen?

How much are we unhearing when people cry out?

How much are we unknowing what is glaringly obvious?

People need to get in the way.

Get in the way of economic injustice and oppression.

Get in the way of racial and ethnic injustice.

Get in the way of gender violence.

Take a risk and speak.

That is what I think we are called to in these times and something I have taken to doing more and more. I only have this dash and it is incumbent upon me to do all I can, all the while I can, in all the places I can, for all the people I can.

Sometimes that means speaking when I am petrified.

Sometimes that means writing when I know some will be offended.

Sometimes that means being present and a witness.

Whatever these forty days lead you into, let it lead you into more than just giving up a sweet treat or caffeine, let it lead you into considerations for humanity. We are all we we have - together.

Hannah's Song

We came together last night and sang Hannah's song. Family from California was in town, it was the night before Aunt Hannah's Home Going Celebration. We met at my house late in the evening to fellowship, remember, hug, eat, and laugh. Thom felt the love in the room and I'm sure his mom would've appreciated us doing what she did all her life - love. Aunt Hannah was a gracious woman. Her gentle spirit, sparkling eyes, and constant smile will be remembered. She has left us physically, but never spiritually. The laughter was like music in Thom's ear. For the first time in weeks I saw my cousin relax. He has been in a tornado for the past four weeks from his mother's diagnosis to her death. Even in her final stage, Aunt Hannah was granted her desire. She asked to not suffer long when it was her time to go, she had been a caregiver her whole life and I'm sure her prayer was for her son. In the last days of her life, she still greeted well wishers with a wa...

Brothers, Can we Talk?

I'm a Black woman, born of a Black woman and a Black man. When my mother died, it was my father who nurtured me and instilled in me a sense of pride of self, of my race, of my abilities to do whatever I put my mind to do. He never imposed limitations on me as a Black woman. The only caution he ever gave me was to not burn my candle at both ends and to be mindful of my health, I am an asthmatic. He never stopped me from trying anything and always encouraged me. Daddy was a strong Black man who introduced me to Shirley Chisholm when I was a little girl. He reminded me of the fortitude of my late mother's quest for gender equality in the workplace and of the namesake who marched at Selma. He is the one who gave me my pseudonym, Tayé. Daddy was a strong tower of empowerment and fought all the way to his last breath for social, gender, and racial justice. It is in remembering my father this morning that I'm asking the brothers, can we talk? What is it, especially those of my g...

Ashes to Ashes

This is Ash Wednesday. For a lot of Catholics and Anglican Christians, it begins the holy season of Lent. We remember we are but dust and to dust we return, ashes to ashes. It is a somber reminder of our humanity and the finality of life. We are a mere breath. Today, as a Hospital Chaplain Resident, I am imposing ashes on patients, family, and staff. It is a visible marker of a shared faith and belief. We look with anticipation to the finished work of salvation on the cross and in eager hope of the resurrection. As my day progressed, I noticed how much hope was in the eyes of the ones giving and receiving this reminder of our existence. It was both a somber moment and a joyful moment. Two things can exist at the same time. Like the world we find ourselves in. Even as it seems like the darkest, certainly the darkest I’ve known in my six decades on this earth. Completely imperfect as a nation, there was still a glimmer of light until the nightmare became reality. We wonder abo...

The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

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