Internal Truths, Outed

Questions: How is one supposed to be truly empathetic to situations that one has experienced yet received no empathy for? What possible excuse could there be for turning a blind eye on unacceptable human behavior, at any time? Who actually has any right to demean or diminish the value of any human, especially based on the fact that all humans have the exact same internal working parts and makeup that defines the species? Most importantly, has the United States of America totally lost its mind, literally, lost it?

These questions stem from a numb feeling in the pit of my soul. Lately, I’ve hesitated to comment during several political and social conversations because I questioned my emotions, or lack thereof. I would leave these debates and discussions both sad and mad, both angry and confused, both sympathetic and indifferent. These drastic extremes in what I was feeling made me question my heart, mostly because I consider myself a lover of people. I live a life of service and take much pride in my secret missions to make people’s days brighter.  The daily task of maintaining a clean spirit has become a necessity and ritual for me, for over 30 years now. And most recently, I’m surprised to find myself feeling what I consider mean. Why do the stories of all the foul accusations and convictions regarding men in television and film harassing women cause mixed feelings for me? Why did the heinous act of 9/11 and other terrorist undertakings make me shuffle through various states of consciousness? Why do amber alerts cause tears of misunderstanding for me? How come I detest black history month? I have searched my heart, I have even questioned my mind. So how do I explain to myself what I’m going through? As the answers became clear, the tears fell in droves and my heart sank to my feet. 

I did a DNA test last year and found out that I’m 49% West African and 50% European. Wow, what a shock because I have always been a black woman in America, period. Because in this country, if you look it, you are it; one drop in what may be a bucket full of white makes you some version of “colored.” And I looked enough like a black woman to not ever be thought of as anything other. Truthfully, I am very glad about that. However, being black in America is different than being black anywhere else. I remember my son joking with me the day after I got my test results. Late that evening, he asked me if I felt different, learning what I had after so many years of being told I was black and Native American with just a splash of German. I snickered and told him, “I tried using my white privilege all day today and that shit didn’t work.” We both laughed an empty laugh. The profound truth is that racism is definitely America’s birth defect. It has always been there and it most likely will always be here. We just find ways to deal with it, to live with it, just like an actual birth defect of a person. So, you may wonder how this links to all that I’m experiencing. Well first-off, to hear mostly white women tell of the recent burst of inexcusable sexual advances men made upon them is kind of a slap in the face, especially because these men are being held accountable, losing their jobs and legacies, being convicted, and some are even forced to apologize. I remember the stories my grandmother told me when I was a little girl about black women being raped by white men, the stories most people know to be true about the way female slaves were treated during a time that still has never been apologized for or even acknowledged for its severity. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people say that black folks need to let go and move on...really? How on earth am I expected to dismiss hurt that runs through my veins, through the genetics of my family, and now conjure up understanding for the movements that don’t include “us.” There has been a #metoo campaign for centuries, unanswered, uncared for, unimportant, in the eyes of this country. I studied in West Africa in my early 20s, at the University of Ghana in Accra. Every single day was either extremely joyful or terribly hurtful for me, no middle ground. There were stories that explained the thorough beauty of who I am and painful accounts of what was taken from me, without choice. These are just some of the reasons I battle with the handling of new cries of pain and mistreatment of these women. And though I find it unfair to minimize the legitimate damage done to anyone that is violated, I can’t help but recall my own reported harassment in the corporate world back in 2000 that was rejected by the district manager and swept under the HR rug only for me to learn after quitting and sacrificing my career, that 2 years later the same district manager was fired for sexually harassing his assistants over several years. No one bothered to make amends or even acknowledge my truth. Yet, on bended knees, I find myself praying for justice for all, for finding understanding beyond my known ability. 

Nine-eleven was a horrific act of cruelty, without doubt. I remember everything I did on that day. Recalling the pain for every victim, the nervousness of what may happen  next, the fear for my child’s future and the future of this country was overwhelming. What vexed me more about this calamity was President Bush saying he couldn’t understand who would do this to America; giving the advice to continue to move forward in our lives as “normal.” Who would do this?! I was shocked by this question mainly because I know America has chosen to act harshly at times throughout history and claimed lives that it may not be able to explain. There’s a real arrogance about chanting “God Bless America” versus “Peace on Earth.” Then, there began to be many other “terrorist” acts that slowly scared me less. Again, I questioned my humanity. What was wrong with me? The tears didn’t fall, I wasn’t afraid of Muslims the way America wanted me to be, and I surely wasn’t going to stereotype anyone because of where they were from. You see, I come from a race of people that have been terrorized for centuries. From the literal capturing of people, good people, on their own soil, to the shipment of them as merchandise, black people have been terrorized non-stop in this country. To ask for understanding of another’s trepidation, taking history into account, is like asking me to lovingly embrace the person who brutally harmed my very parent or child. I could never lump all Muslims in one basket mostly because I detest that being done to my culture. From my childhood to now, I hate watching the news because America is the queen of branders. This country has stigmatized black people as ugly, lazy, mean, dishonest, scary criminals and thugs. My first thought has always been, “if you were scared of us, you should have left us where we were.” We were fine.  Even further, “whatever problem you have with us, from the inside out, talk to God because he made us beautiful, just like I thought he made you.” I knew from young that all the images I saw on the news, those same crimes and issues were taking place within other cultures, they just weren’t being broadcast. The repetitious visuals seemed aimed at keeping the association of fear peaked and the “branding” that most black people were monsters at the forefront of everyone’s judgement, even other black people. Surprisingly, an opposite effect resonated in me. I learned young that there is good and bad in everything. Moreso, there are good and bad people in all cultures, religions, jobs, schools, governments, hospitals, everything. What hurt is that the child in me understood that but a 360 year old country had not. Or did it, which is actually worse. That’s when I realized that I live in a place that has just as many freedoms as it has holds. Holds on people and situations that it makes by choice to negatively brand, whenever it feels like it. All of this stands true for police brutality as well. Technically, the bad guys of the police force are just a legal gang that protect wrongs instead of protecting people, all people. To watch unarmed black men be shot down and killed without cause, by the people our taxes pay, regardless of color, makes it terribly hard to stir compassion for a slain officer. What is wrong with me, again, I’d think. But I couldn’t distinguish the heartbreaking tears from the pissed off tears. How do I walk right into the Capitol Building during a House or Senate gathering and ask them all why police have guns instead of tranquilizers? At least this way you’d get a chance to realize the kid had candy in his hand, not a gun; and a life is spared, a mother can still hug her child, just like that officer’s family can still love and hug him. In a conversation with an English woman, she pointed out that in London police carry bully-sticks and the entire approach is different because there is no option to shoot anyone. The situation must be approached by officers with the mindset of not arroussing anything further; with the mindset of finding a resolution. America must realize that from its forefathers to its current justice system, they have set the example to be violent and unfair. If we do as our fathers taught us, we have learned to rape, beat, and mistreat each other. Now the “parent” has the absurd nerve to want to punish the “child!” Daddy, I’m only following your lead, why are you upset with me? I’m confused.

I’m fairly sure no one understands why amber alerts make me queezie. Keeping it all the way real, the first person I think of, everytime my cell phone frantically signals an alert, is Emmett Till’s mother. I’m sure she would have loved the right to send some form of signal out when she couldn’t find her son on that sinister night. I think of the separation of black families, just out of spite, that deserved diligent searches through the night. I think of the husband who never saw his wife again, of the parents who never impacted or saw their child grow up, of bonded siblings being torn apart. My heart bleeds to think that no one cared about the long-term damage and that it happened over and over again. No matter how or why, it was okay in the eyes of most at a certain time in history; another clear indication that black people didn’t and still really don’t matter to so many in this country. While I love all children (my work on this planet proves that), I wonder how certain races of children, of people, are in any way more important than another. That historical mindset of inequality is exactly what fuels me to love everyone I can because I never want to impose hurt in the mind, body, or spirit of someone else. As a little girl I would say that I wish we all walked around inside out, with our organs showing and the veins full of blood and tendons and ligaments all seen. That way, I imagined, no one would notice anything besides the fact that we were all human. Then, once we got to know someone on a more personal level, we could whisper directly toward their visible eardrum, “I’m black.” Of course that would be revealed after respect and concern were apparent; after examples of love had been displayed plainly. I’m getting better with amber alerts. I’ve made a habit now of stopping, no matter what I’m doing, and praying that whoever it is, is safely returned without lasting scars. 

Every black person is supposed to honor black history month, right? Actually, I feel like we’re supposed to be thankful for it. To quite the contrary, I am appalled by it. Just like I find it humiliating to have black awards shows. Let me explain. Why would we need a black history month if this country just always told about the great works of all cultures, all the time. And please let the record show that while Martin Luther King Jr. was indeed a great man, there are so many other black people who did amazing things that merit appreciation. Year after year, school children are told the stories of Dr. King and Rosa Parks, giving the indication that only a meager number of black people have been great; like it’s difficult to find others to study. Why not honestly share the positive contributions of all people: black, native american, mexican, asian, white, whatever the color, race, or religion of a person. The same holds true for awards shows. I remember wanting to jump through the television when the Oscar protests were happening a few years ago. I heard people defending the Oscar’s with, “...well, there’s the NAACP awards, and the BET awards…” I laughed figuratively because “we” wouldn’t need a separate ceremony if television, film, music, and other arts were equally judged and acknowledged. This year, the 2018 NAACP Awards ironically fell on King’s holiday. I attended and it was a night of sheer grace. I wondered how Dr. King felt looking down from what I believe must be a very high seat in the sky. He must have thought that was the best birthday party thus far; we all did. As I smiled at all the conflicting sentiments I’d been having, I looked into the crowd of accomplished, determined, motivated, beautiful black people that filled the room and imagined Dr. King smiling intensely as he proudly chuckled, humbly muttering, “Black lives are mattering up in here tonight.” 

It would be too much like right to simply be truthful about this life, huh? Sometimes I find it amazing how history can be written distortedly, as if no one was there to witness and experience its reality. C’mon America... start to heal yourself; "want" to heal us all. That sincere plea feels like an impossibility, and that’s a palpable shame. This country attempts to be the moral compass of the world yet it’s slanted definitions of right from wrong cause it to be the laughing stock. Think of this commentary as a nudge from a real friend instead of an insult. You know, the kind of friend that can tell you your breath stinks and you take a few mints because you know they mean you good. Stand up to those that make you believe you’re better than or immune from the damage of deception (stop lying/omitting truths). One of the most truthful cliches of all times best fits this concluding juncture… “The truth will set you free.” And that is said with sincere compassion to the country that claims freedom to be its mantra. And in the words of Kimberly Mitchell, “You can’t be it, if you aren’t it!” 

written by Kimberly Mitchell

When we are being tested and tried in life, what we think we know about ourselves can come into question. Several years ago, I was going through the absolute toughest situation in my life, thus far. The unexpected tragedy swept me off my feet and, for a brief time, I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. Yes, my vision was blurred. Yes, my body was weary. Yes, my heart was broken. Hope was my lifeline while despair knocked on my door everyday. 

Seeking help in a multitude of ways was instrumental in this battle. It was a blessing to have the love of family and friends, but I also needed empathy from others that had walked in my shoes so I began attending a few local support groups. There were so many different kinds of people, all with various circumstances. The common ground was that each of us was watching our loved one fight for their life. We would share our stories and our frustrations, looking to each other for advice and understanding, just to make it through the day.

During one of the meetings, it must have been obvious that I was having a more than usual challenge. I had been attending for several months at this point. My personality is very upfront and generally positive, no matter what my circumstances are, so the participants were shocked at the gloom that I carried into the room this particular day. True concern for me was well-received so I decided to attempt expressing everything I was experiencing at that moment. After sharing my feelings vulnerably, a woman said, “It’s okay Kim. We all get lost sometimes. You’ve just lost yourself in the mix of all that is going on right now.” My response to her was this:

“I feel like I’m literally outside of myself; like this situation has cloned me. I look like myself, just a little tired and slightly heavier, so the people who know me best just think it’s stress. But it’s more than that. It’s like I can see the real me just a little ways off in front of me. I keep calling her name, “Kim, wait!” But she always glances back with skepticism and scurries forward a bit faster. Sometimes it seems I get closer and she’ll arch her back to be a hair ahead of me...like she’s saying, “uh un, you’re kinda messed up right now, need to get it together some before you jump back in here and do permanent damage to us.” As awful as it feels to have myself running from me, most of me knows she’s right, that she’s trying to save me from myself right now. But even when I find comfort in that truth, I’m constantly keeping an eye on her because I’m thankful that I can still see myself! My biggest fear is that she’ll turn the corner and then I may truly lose myself (I cried hard).  I can’t lose my-self!!!”

Hearing my reality, in my own voice, feeling all of my emotions, opening up completely to strangers, all were acts of trust. I decided to trust what I was feeling, whether I liked it or not. I chose to share my thoughts and emotions, which released so much of the pressure that was bottled inside of me. Ironically, others in the room began to reflect on their situations and a full-on conversation ensued about the difference in being side-tracked and being lost. Through life’s trials and tribulations, it’s important that we check in with ourselves, honestly, to assess where we are. There may be times when we are incapable of doing this, so I believe it’s critical to always have someone, a doctor, a spouse, a good friend, or even a support group, that you are totally honest with.

When our eyes are opened to the reality of a situation, we are given the chance to mature. As difficult as it may be, we are fools not to take heed and try to make adjustments so that we can avoid redundant lessons. The blessing in me going through this situation was that I learned to chase my high self whenever I’m feeling low. Inevitably, we will all have moments when we are down. I have learned that my head can never fall too low so as not to keep, at least, a faint eye on the positive, powerful, beautiful me that sometimes gets distracted. Yes, life throws blows our way that hit us hard, knock us around for periods of time, and before we know it, we are not the self we may have worked so hard to maintain or become. However, this life is about change, and growth, and progress so it is virtually impossible to “stay the same.” When we are outside of ourselves, that’s fine. Just pay close attention to the lesson at hand so that when you are ready to enter your own skin again you return better, smarter, and more resilient because life surely promises us adversity. These challenges show us what we are made of and can continuously build our faith in the fact that all things do come to pass. The question is, do we completely lose ourselves every time we face struggles? Or do we take time to understand that the human in us is imperfect for great reason. Having individual setbacks and issues is not the actual problem we should worry about. Not doing anything about our issues...now that’s a problem. Always keep in mind, the person in the mirror can be exactly who you choose to make better as long as you are forthright with each other. That can be easier said than done but it’s worth every inch of all the effort it may take. There’s a famous quote that says, “Difficult roads often lead to the most beautiful destinations.” Maybe there is a paradise right around the corner from wherever you may be.

written by Kimberly Mitchell

It’s not by coincidence that so many people are committing suicide nowadays. We sit in front of the television when the news flashes the next celebrity found dead, mouths open in disbelief, because we assumed they were living in bliss with their hit movies, chart-topping songs, long money, and glitz and glamour. Even scarier, most of us either knows someone directly, or maybe two or three degrees of separation away, that has successfully committed suicide. I can admit to getting far too many calls from loved ones, crying validly on the other end, that someone dear to them is gone, by their own choice. Each time my heart bleeds a little more. Not ever am I in judgment of them. As a matter of fact, I immediately begin to pray for that person’s soul; I immediately begin to pray for myself. Reality is, no matter of race, creed, income, upbringing, marital status, or anything else, we all have private pain, about something, or things, in our lives. Having that pain is real but how we choose to deal with that pain is an entirely different story. Dealing with our private pain can literally be the matter of life or death.

The last call I received was about a guy I knew informally for 14 years. A mutual friend called to say the fellow went to the gun range, checked in at the desk, went to his stall, and blew his brains out! Not long ago, my best girlfriend texted me a picture of two women, one of which I hadn't seen since grade school, both smiling. I remembered her face soon as I saw it. The next text read, ‘her husband killed them both then shot himself in the head.’ I’ve gotten a handful of calls over the past five years from one of my dearest male friends who has unfortunately lost several people to suicide. This last person decided to end his life at his father’s grave site. Before that, he lost a friend to a relapsed overdose. And another friend of mine grieved someone that shot himself in the head and was found dead by his family, floating in their backyard pool. Ten years ago, a 15-year old kid in the suburban neighborhood we lived in hung himself in the basement closet with a belt, leaving a note that he’d done it because he thought his dad would be really upset about the first C he got on his report card. Then there’s the mass heartbreak of Robin Williams, Cory Monteith, Amy Winehouse, Whitney Houston, and my sweetheart, Michael Jackson. My true first thought and question is, “were there signs?” From every personal conversation I’ve had, the answer has always been, “yes.” So when is the right time to take those signs seriously?

Identifying pain starts with identifying love. Love (noun) – a profound, tender, passionate affection for another. We all want love on some level, we all need it to some degree. Some folks are pleasantly satisfied with the love of their spouse, immediate family bonds fulfill others, some have long, meaningful relationships with platonic friends that are invaluable, an artist can find true security in their talent, others may be complete with a spiritual love, a child can bring extreme adoration to many, there’s even the person who is filled to capacity with meaningful success. In turn, self love is projecting that same affection on ourself, for our self, about our self. Love of self, with nothing attached to it, is critical. How many of us can truly admit that if we have nothing at times, no one else for periods in our lives, that we still feel loved? I had a student once, I was her tutor. She was only twelve and a true tomboy. One day, out of nowhere, she was gliding gracefully in a manner I found delightful. I stopped our lesson to inquire. She beamed and said, “I like a boy in my class.” She went on to describe him and tell me how smart and funny he was. I loved her energy. I smiled back hard because I can remember the feeling of new, young love. It can still be refreshing, if and when we let it. So, after she went on and on, I simply asked her, “What’s the main reason you like him?” Her eyes looked up and to the right and with rosy cheeks she softly answered, “He makes me happy.” My smile grew from the inside. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper from my notebook. I took my pen and wrote in all capital letters, HAPPYER. She quickly corrected me and said, “that’s not how you spell happier?!” Still smiling, I took my pen and put a box around HAPPY.  I looked in her eyes as she paid full attention to me and said, “oh sweetheart, HAPPY is a one-person job, but please feel free to choose those that are your ER.” She hugged me so tight. I couldn’t charge for a portion of the session because we talked about the day-to-day task of maintaining our own “happy.” I told her to start now, to spend time every so often first being honest about what she can work on to better herself, then double or triple that list with all the amazing things she can think of that make her wonderful and yes, that make her happy. 

In my opinion, some forms of depression are an imbalance of self-recognition. Again, we all have shortcomings, trauma, heartache, maybe even regrets, but on any given day there are a ton of blessings that make each of us unique and good. Most often, folks just think these things trivial, like the bend of your finger, the blink of your eye, a sneeze, when a cut heals, extending your arm, the glide in your walk, the sound of your voice, that you have a voice, hearing, touching, and on and on. Moreover, what things make you smile: the sound of children laughing and playing, nature, good music, beautiful people, tasty food, a certain color, waves on the beach.  Yes, on a low day we could write a healthy list of what we wish was different about ourselves, our lives, but more times than not, we can easily put that list to shame if we take time to count each and every blessing, which we usually take for granted. That “good list” could take a lifetime to write. That “good list” is healthy understanding and acknowledgment of who we really are and what truly makes us happy.

On the contrary, certain measures of self hurt can tip the scale and lead to detrimental actions. Hurt (noun) – a blow that inflicts a wound; bodily injury; the cause of mental and emotional pain. We have to be very careful of how we hurt ourselves. There is no avoiding hurt at times, in love, in business, friendships, physically in sports, etc. However, there is serious work involved in recovering from hurt so it doesn’t get infected and fester. Like a physical injury that has to rest and heal and get a little therapy to get somewhat back to normal, so do the emotional tolls of life. Some of my girlfriends tease me because they say I take way too long to jump back in the dating pool after a relationship ends. Well, there’s no set timeframe but there is the authentic assessment of whether I still feel too much pain for the next one to stand any chance. See, I think love is the biggest risk we take as humans and for the one time it may work, it’s the chance I want to keep on taking. What I don’t want to do is move too fast and inflict barriers that cloud my vision. Hurt can portray blanket, false impressions that are mostly only relevant to a particular relationship at that time in our life. The layering of unhealed hurt can prohibit us from recognizing the next good thing, when we see or feel it. Not long ago I wrote “People rarely disappoint us. It’s usually our own unrealistic expectations that let us down.” There is a fine line between what may have actually occurred and what we tell ourselves; another form of self hurt. As humans in a face-paced society, it’s challenging to not want to clean the cut, grab a band-aid real quick, and keep it moving. Sometimes that’s fine but you can’t put a band-aid on a serious injury like a broken leg or a broken heart. And far too many times, the band-aid is in the form of a toxic person, a harmful substance, and even worse, suicidal thoughts.

After each phone call I’ve received of someone’s fatal decision, I spend a little time paralleling my life, my ups and downs; my shortcomings, to what could have possibly been so bad in their life. The truth is, finding something that hurts beyond belief isn’t tough. So again, I’m not hypocritical about that awful feeling that can seem hopeless. But where my heart tares is in those 1-2 seconds right before they pulled the trigger, stepped off the stool with the noose on, took too many pills or hits. After the call about the guy who went to the gun range, I found myself walking around my house repeating, “It might have all worked out. It might have surprised you that soon everything would have worked out.” 

My spirit gets low, at times, like everyone else. Once I was date-raped and the whole depiction in movies of “washing him off” didn’t work. There was no instant scrubbing of my mind, him looking at me the way he did; no way to immediately forget how forceful he was, how he didn’t use protection and that I was in a healthy relationship at the time; how he took my power in those moments. After the shower that still left me feeling dirty, I was crying and subconsciously found myself looking at medications in the cabinet. I quickly assessed that I was considering something stupid. I was only 24 years old at the time but I picked up the phone and dialed 911, asking for a hotline that could help me through this tough time. The woman stayed on the phone with me for five straight hours, long enough for my boyfriend to travel from New York to where I was in Philadelphia, in the middle of the night. I’m thankful for that woman. She didn’t know me personally but she heard my cry, realized my pain…and acted on it. Even still, I had to go through an instant and long term healing. I had to remember who I was and how much I loved my self. No matter what else he had made me feel, I never allowed him to touch what I knew I meant to me. I tell students all the time, “On your worst day you’re fabulous, but only if you really know why.”  

So, call and make plans, right now, to visit with someone you care about. The technological advances of today keep us apart. We text our “I love you’s” with a cute emoji, no vocal or physical attachment to make it real.  Start leaving a voice message before choosing to text, then text ‘check your voicemail from me.’ Sing someone a song, even if you aren’t a good singer, rather than forwarding the video of the song that made you think of them. Find creative ways to make someone smile and you will smile too. We don’t have card parties with the family on Fridays anymore, dinner at the same table each night is rare, and kids getting together to walk to the store or ride bikes seems obsolete. I really miss those times; I miss the frequent interaction that accompanied those events. Seeing people, face-to-face, is much more effective in determining how they are doing than letting them tell you. So when someone you care about is acting differently or talking sketchy, act on it. Nowadays folks are more inclined to gossip about erratic behavior than step in with concern and courage. My feeling is, I’d rather over-react than under-react. This life is much more about the unexpected than the expected so remind yourself and others often that life is full of surprises, both good and not so good. Anything that we go through can possibly be reversed, but not death. Death is the most final of all things. Our daily challenge is to make the best of this life and never give up! And what a challenge that can be.

written by Kimberly Mitchell