Category: Medium

Deidrick

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Part VI: Getting ready to be a father

Photo by Jessica Thomas via ReShot

I get a text from Iesha’s mother at like midnight telling me to get down to Mercy City Hospital, and all I could think of were Iesha and the baby. Are they aight? Are they okay? I was tearing up so badly; I had to take a roll of tissue with me to the car. I put the key in the ignition and turned right. The car purred — started up with no trouble, and the sheer sound of it, for some reason, made me believe — all would be well.

I guess I don’t have to tell you; the car is mine. I love it! My homie Amar’s Uncle Khalil was true to his word. When I’m not hustling to take Iesha to her rec classes or to the ice cream shop to work, I am running errands for us and driving myself to and from work. These last few weeks have been so busy, I barely had time to breathe. Iesha’s been rippin’ and runnin’ too, doing far too much. I’ve told her on more than one occasion, “Babe, you’re getting too close to your due date to be doing all this. Let someone else lighten the load for you.”

But Iesha is stubborn, and she thought she could work here, study there, and hustle here without any of this catching up with her. My phone dings and there’s another text message coming in from Iesha’s mother, and I pull over to the edge of the road, away from traffic to read what it says.

“She’s five centimeters dilated — contractions every ten minutes, lasting about 45 seconds. This baby is probably coming tonight, Deidrick. Where are you!?”

Tonight?! What am I reading?! TONIGHT!!! Not tonight. We still have so much to do. She hadn’t even had the baby shower — that’s next weekend. The apartment won’t be ready until Thursday — it’s Monday. She’s only seven months now. Will the baby be okay? Why is she coming so early?! What are we going to do?

Man, listen . . . I hustled so fast those last four blocks to the hospital, it’s a miracle I didn’t get pulled over by the cops. I kept seeing Iesha’s smile flash before my eyes — like the happiest memories of her were loading up in my brain, and I felt like I was in the matrix or some shit, ya know?

I pull up to the parking deck, grab the entry ticket, find the closest parking spot on the first floor, and hustle to the side entrance of the parking deck to get to the main entrance of the hospital. At Mercy City, you sign in with the receptionist, give the party’s name you’re there to see, and then after scanning your driver’s license, you’re given the room number and if available, a hospital volunteer to usher you to their room.

I told the receptionist I didn’t need an usher — I knew exactly where I was going. I spent so much time in this hospital as a kid, I could map it with my eyes closed. Guess I didn’t tell you this, huh? I have sickle cell anemia. Iesha, as far as we know, is not a carrier and doesn’t have the trait. So, we should be in the clear with our little one. I think she’s just ready to enter this world — ready to give her Mommy and Daddy some work to do.

The last time I had been hospitalized was about four years ago. I don’t miss this place — not one bit.

When I step into the room, I notice Iesha strapped to some sort of device, wailing and screaming. I guess the damn contractions were getting the best of her. My girl has been telling us since day one . . . “I don’t want any drugs.” And I’ll be damned if she wasn’t keeping her word. She handled each contraction like a trooper.

I had to slide some hospital gear over my clothes, and some shoe covers, too. The cover on my head looked funky and out of place. I settled in next to the hospital bed and held Iesha’s hand. Her mom was talking to her, telling her to breathe through each contraction just like she had learned. She was squeezing the hell outta my hand, man. I can laugh about it now because it’s all said and done, but I was scared as shit that night. Scared as shit.

Two hours later, we had a screaming baby, who was letting the world know she was alive. She was 4lbs, 11oz, amazingly so. Iesha’s mom said, “Lord child, had you carried this baby to term, she would have been at least seven pounds.” Iesha was a week shy of being eight months pregnant. We’d made it close enough to a “safe place” for the baby to survive on her own outside of the womb, but you know . . . all precautions had to be taken. Her breathing was a little labored, but she was calm otherwise.

No real causes for alarm, they said.

She spent nine days in the NICU, her weight fluctuating, but she was eating and sleeping normally. On her last day in the hospital, me and Iesha walked up to the NICU and sat and took turns holding her — loving her — letting her know who Daddy and Mommy were.

We both decided she would be Aida Miracle Miles because here she was — our little miracle.

I’d known this day would come, so I was ready, but I wasn’t ready too. If you dig what I’m sayin’. But man . . . I take one look at Aida and another at Iesha and I can’t stop smiling. My two girls — my world in one room. I love them so much my heart explodes at the thought of losing either of them. I am a father. A father . . . I am someone’s father. I don’t think I’ve ever known this kind of happiness before.

So look, that’s all. Stay safe out there, man.

*This concludes the Deidrick series. Thank you so much for reading.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V

I Understand True Love Doesn’t Sleep

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A Prose Poem

Photo by Dasha Pats via ReShot

The day of love approaches — savored lips flaunt in the midnight air — an enticing invitation for feelings swaddled in blankets too tight for release.

I have my ways, I know. You tell me this often, and I do hear you. I do. But I find my ways to be risky if I veer too far away from them — they’ll find me. They’ll seek me out.

And once I’ve been repurposed and re-homed, they will betray me. You have been my ruin for different shades of many moons — I want out.

I understand true love doesn’t sleep, but this feels like death — pre-meditated. I don’t remember signing up for this. *“You were light, but you were never my sun.”

I gave you a place at the table of my world — you sopped at every morsel, buried your woes at my feet. I welcomed the torment. I opened my door to the revolution and it struck me without warning.

I am burned by the light of a star.

Here . . . there are scars that refuse to heal. Here . . . there is pain that continues a cycle. Here . . . there is a heavy cross to bear.

I am broken from carrying it.

I wait for you — afraid that if I move forward in time with someone who walks on high heels and flashes deep dimples in my direction, I will fall and won’t be able to stand and steady myself in an upright position. She makes me weak.

And while the lovers of this realm ululate at the sight of a full moon on a day more special than your favorite sin, I will bite my tongue, don my adulting garb, and thank God for the new pair of balls I’ve grown.

I don’t believe in true love. I did believe in you.

I don’t anymore.

*Taken from the indomitable Sarah Doughty.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

We Are the Village

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And we must protect it

Photo by Heather Wilson via ReShot

I live on the third floor of a building with old, young, and the in-between gathered up to call this place our home. A neighbor of mine, who lives on the first floor, has three children — all under the age of five. She has been blessed with two handsome little boys and a precocious little girl with big, bright gray-green eyes. I know all of them. I’ve watched the boys grow over the last two years and while the oldest has calmed down, the middle son is still hyperactive, escapes his mother’s grip, and makes the area in front and behind our building his hiding places.

I have seen her chase after him with the youngest bouncing gingerly on her hip and the oldest advancing toward her van, attempting to open it as if he has no patience for his younger brother’s shenanigans. I have watched her load them all into the vehicle on her own, with a lovely smile plastered across her face as I yell out, “Hey there! Y’all good?”

She always responds with, “Morning. Yes, ma’am. Have a great day.” She doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t look for it, but I am a part of this village, so I help when I see the seams tearing. She has my attention.

On a cold winter’s day, with snow falling down in thick, beautiful flakes, I was coming up the stairs leading to the front of our building to gain access to the street. My morning and afternoon walk with my dog is when I see her most. She had the youngest on her hip, had already strapped the oldest in his car seat, and was calling out to the middle son to direct his little body to where she and his siblings had been.

Undeterred and happy to dance around in the snow, running from one end of the length of our building to the other, I called to him — he ran to me. With Jernee scooped up and carefully placed in my left arm, I guided him toward his mom. He is not vocal — not by much. He utters a few words here and there but is still developing his voice in this world. His energy, though, is undeniably sound. My mother would venture to call him mischievous — not bad, but curious and willing to test the waters.

Their lives are orchestrated by her.

I used to say to myself when I saw her, “She has her hands full.” But I realized after more time looking out for all four of them when they’re outside and I am approaching — she will direct the oldest to get the youngest while she chases after the middle son, and does it all in stride.

This is a never-ending job, one she has perfected. You may read this and wonder, “Where is the father?” When they first moved in, it was her, the two boys, and her boyfriend (their father). This is a quiet space and his presence was certainly heard. Whatever their reasons, they split up, but he comes to get his children or she takes them to him like clockwork every other week.

They’re making it work.

At first, when the young man left, I noticed how hard it was for her. With only the boys to look after, she would have them up, fed, dressed, and ready to venture out for their day. As her belly began to mound, chasing after the two of them was not a task, I could tell, she wanted to endure.

As the eldest of seven, with five brothers and a younger sister, I know the exhaustion of running behind and attempting to catch toddlers. It’s not something I wanted to do much of when I was younger and I was just their sister. I cannot imagine attempting to gather the energy while with-child to corral two quick little ones to do what you need them to do.

She did it, though — day after day.

As time passed, I noticed a pattern — a design, or rather a life-plan for her as she raises her children. The oldest is now four and runs to me to say a quick “Hello” or to dote on my dog, Jernee. He is better at helping with the younger ones and has his “listening ears” on most days now. The middle son still carries on without a care in this world, but I can tell he is protective of his younger sister, who is walking now and getting into everything. She has a fear of dogs, so she waves shyly in my direction if Jernee is in tow. However, when I am alone, she races toward me to hug me at my knees.

She is instilling in her children proper manners, love, empathy, protection of one another, and endurance. This has all been orchestrated by her, and it is working. The beauty of watching its progress is not beyond me — I get to witness it daily upon my interactions with them.

This is my village, and I will protect it.

Being the unit that we are here in this building and in much of my neighborhood, we look out for each other. My neighbor, upon unloading the kids and groceries from the van one night, dropped her debit card and receipt onto the pavement leading up to our building. I spotted it that night while walking Jernee. I rapped at her door. The young man (the children’s father) answered as he was caring for them while she was away. I let him know where I found it and he gave it to her when she returned later that night.

Recently, she thought she’d dropped her keys on the ground after getting them all settled inside one night before a heavy snowfall. The next morning, with the iced-over inches of snow covering our breezeways and every inch of grass in front of our building, she stated to me, “I think I dropped my keys out here. This is going to be a mess to get through.”

Envisioning her out there trying to dig through the hardened snow with her gloves, overcoat, and body triple-layered in warm clothing, I said to her, “If you can’t find them, let me know.” I was racing to get back upstairs to start my workday, but all I could think about was her finding those keys.

That evening after work, I saw her coming toward the building and asked after the keys to which she responded, “Oh my goodness! They were in my purse the whole time!”

We laughed and I said to her, “Thank goodness, because I was going to come back down here with the shovel and we were just going to dig for them.” I have no doubt, if she could, she’d do the same for me.

The village is supposed to rise up and make sure everyone has what they need. It is supposed to provide care, comfort, love, and discipline (whenever necessary) to ensure each of us can endure. It is not within me to stand idly by when my neighbors need help — never has been. I hope to get to see two more years of these little ones growing up before I leave this apartment complex. And until then, this is my village — I must protect it.

Shouldn’t we all do the same?

Originally published in Age of Empathy via Medium.

Deidrick

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Part V: Iesha talks about the future with Deidrick

Photo by Cassandra MCD via ReShot

I never envisioned my life to be mapped out this way. Of course, I am certain not many teenagers do that — map their lives out ahead of time. I had been living for my parents, attempting to appease them. Then . . . Deidrick came along, and I began to live for myself — to experience joy — pure joy. He makes me so incredibly happy. I know what you’re thinking, “You’re young. You have your whole life ahead of you. Deidrick may not be the last guy you date.” But I don’t want to be with anyone else. I know who I want and he is that person.

I look down at my stomach and I feel the life growing inside me — our child — I don’t want anyone else. We will move into our own place soon. He saw to that. He’s been on a mission to get the things we need most and every time I try to offer help financially for these things, he puts a hand up and says, “Babe, I got this. When I don’t have it, I’ll let you know.” I’ve stepped back and I love watching him in action — watching him work for our good. A car soon, followed by our own place. I am absolutely baffled by the sheer existence of this in my head.

In a couple of months, we’ll be on our own — truly on our own. I would be lying if I said I was not frightened. I have fear. There are some doubts. But I get to do this with my best friend — my child’s father — hopefully, one day, my husband. When I think of my life on these terms, the fear subsides. Who will our little one look like? How will she sound? Will she want to learn how to speak both French and Diola along with English? Will she be a pescatarian or vegetarian? Most importantly, will she be healthy — happy — satisfied with her parents?

I have these thoughts — these worries — these things that pop up in my mind as minor stressors, but then I think about who I get to share this next phase of my life with, and I don’t feel as burdened by my mind. Deidrick has a great head on his shoulders. He’s strong-willed, a hard worker, intelligent, has our interests at heart, and loves his parents. I could not have asked for a better person to venture out on this journey with — he’s a God-send.

My parents think the world of him. My father, Oumar, in his thick Senegalese accent, says this about Deidrick: “This boy, I like. He’s smart, wants to work. I don’t worry about you nearly as much as I did when you first told us of your pregnancy. Stick with him, Iesha. I feel good things about him in my heart.” And if my father feels what he feels about Deidrick, I can’t be on the wrong path. My mother, Fatou, dotes on him. She and Deidrick will sit in the family room and have hours-long conversations while I entertain my dad and younger siblings. I have two little sisters; Khalia and Maya.

I will miss getting to see those two little silly ones every single day. I adore them. They have so much potential and Khalia is nothing short of a genius. She’s already being scouted by universities because of her test scores and the advanced learning courses she takes at her school. She’s only twelve! Maya is fourteen, and while she’s also intelligent, she doesn’t go above and beyond. She does what she needs to in order to toe the line in academia and get by. I don’t think she has any interest in school at all, but she knows that an education will provide her with the things she needs in life, and living under my parents’ roof, an education she will get.

I have been getting rid of a few things — things I no longer need — to prepare for our move. My mom and Maya have been helping. I do a bit of “spring cleaning” every other weekend as I tire easily these days. So far, I’ve boxed up most of my books, camera equipment, clothes, and shoes. We’re not hiring movers, no . . . between my father, Deidrick’s brother, uncles, dad, and cousins, we will not need to hire anyone. Deidrick’s mother is planning a baby shower for me in a month. I love her. She is truly like a second mother to me.

She has already been out and about buying clothes, diapers, bottles, etc. for our little one. My mom has been on a mission as well. We already have a crib, car seat, and stroller. This little one has a village awaiting her arrival and a daddy who would give her his last and more. She is loved by the ancestors and is prayed over and cared for daily.

As I get myself together for the transition of leaving home and venturing out on my own, I carry less weight. Knowing that I will not be alone is one of the key factors which I believe will help me grow without debilitating fear. Next weekend, the car. Deidrick and his uncle Rick got everything sorted out and the car will be ours. Two weekends after that, our own place.

I look to my future and I see Deidrick’s smiling face and the image of our baby girl being held in his loving arms. And well, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Take care.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV

Sassy

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Photo by Justin Helmick via ReShot

Musical Selection: Mac Ayers|Waiting

Flash Fiction: Narrated by Kay Bolden

Sassy, Narrated by Kay Bolden

I didn’t wait on anyone — I saw my chance and took it — wasn’t sittin’ ‘round here lookin’ for no man to come with me or make up his mind. Dro had plenty of time to figure out what he wanted to do. All that time he wasted tryin’ to figure out what he wanted to do lifted me up and placed me in this position. I’ve been a cosmetologist and nail technician for twelve years here in Gainesville, Florida. You know what’s up — home of the University of Florida, and while I love home, it’s time to move on.

So, when I got the call from my girl Terri down in Lafayette, Louisiana, tellin’ me to come through, I jumped all over it. She’s got an extra booth since one of her girls quit a week ago. My only concern is gaining a profitable clientele, but she assures me her spot is conveniently located, and I shouldn’t have any trouble. She’s going to hype me up and pass out my business cards before I even get there. I had a small box of 25 sent to her. I’m no stranger to makin’ moves here in Florida . . . I’m sure I can do what needs to be done in Louisiana, too.

The moment I knew I would move — my knees shook. It wasn’t the same kinda nervousness I had back when I opened my own shop, no . . . it was a different kinda nervousness. The kind you get when you know something bad is about to happen, but you just can’t place your finger on it. The day after I accepted the job offer from Terri, the area near my shop up to a half-mile radius flooded. My knees started shaking three days before it. I had a lump in my throat when I saw the damage to the shop — to the stores nearby.

I couldn’t swallow — couldn’t breathe — twelve years of my own hard work, blood, sweat, and tears met its end this way. The bad things that happen seem to always make a path for good things in my life, and I took that job offer as a new lease on life. Shiiiitttt, I had great insurance on the shop, flooding included, but there’s nothing like watchin’ your baby deteriorate right before your eyes.

I had a small place. Four booths. Three nail tech stations. One receptionist’s desk. A break room in the back. We were a family. The day I had to tell the girls I would not be rebuilding crushed me. I kid you not — saw my soul raise up outta me and take a solemn bow. They all understood. We cried for what seemed like hours, cleaned up what we could in the shop, and moved on into the thick, black night of Gainesville.

Photo by Marko Klaric via ReShot

Of course, I opted not to rebuild. I made the arrangements with the insurance agent to have the place cleaned up, and I hired an inspector to clear the space for resale. The money I pocketed after everything was complete, is my nest egg for Louisiana. Who bops his ass over here as soon as things are final and my new life is underway? Dro . . . with his fine ass, but I can’t have him in my life anymore — weighin’ me down. I need this move in the worst way. I have my bags packed . . . my belongings in my home boxed up, and my donations pile neatly stacked by the door.

My place in Lafayette is much smaller than my house here. It’s a two-bedroom, one and one-half bathroom shotgun home, complete with that Lafayette charm and New Orleans flair. I’ve toured it online hundreds of times, and in-person once. The moment I laid eyes on it, my whole body sun-beamed. I was filled with such light and positivity. I can see myself living in it for many years to come.

We had the conversation . . . you know, the “this ain’t workin’ and we know it” conversation. And as much as I felt myself breakin’ right before him, it had to be done. I’d spent four years with him — preparing a life for us, and even now . . . EVEN NOW . . . he is still up in the air about things. Well, he can go on and keep bein’ right on up in the air — he can get stuck there for all I care. I sure as shit don’t have any extra parachutes. I’m flyin’, baby, and I know where I’m gonna land.

The moment my flight touched down at Lafayette Regional Airport, a breath of fresh air swept through me. Terri travels often, as she has clients who come from all over to get their hair and makeup done at her shop. She is well-known in many cities. My girl is doing — has done big things. Before I boarded, I could enjoy the airport’s business center and the restaurant & lounge. Usually, when I am visiting Louisiana, I fly into Baton Rouge, but since Terri has thousands upon thousands of miles and clients with big names — Lafayette, it is.

I’m here . . . I can’t believe it! I’m here. Everything I’ve worked for, all I’ve done — the loss I’ve experienced, has prepared me for this new adventure. I am finally here!

Louisiana, get ready baby, Sassy is in the building, and I ain’t waiting anymore!

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

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“Tell me why have I been waiting all of my life?” — Mac Ayers

What About Love? Is There Anymore Left in the World?

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3 Micro-stories about 3 LGBTQ children

Photo by Daniel TrutaI via ReShot

It is my birthday. I am five. Mommy throws a big party for me. No one comes. I eat my cake in one of the corners of our living room — tears fall. I don’t care, anymore. I don’t care. Mommy says she’ll always love me — she’ll always be there. I know the love of my mommy. I don’t of anyone else. I want to. I really, really want to. Right now would be a good time.

Photo by Monica G via ReShot

I cherish this picture of my brother and me. It was so long ago. We were inseparable. I remember the day I told him I was bisexual just like it was yesterday. The look on his face crushed me — the words that left his mouth soon after will always haunt me . . . “You’re no sister of mine.” It is a reminder of the love I had and the love I lost. I didn’t know one’s heart could break more than once. And now, I know.

Photo by Mohmmad Hilmi via ReShot

I am “It” to people. “Is it a boy?” or “Is it a girl?” No one thinks about me as a person. My family is ashamed of me. I hate feeling what I feel, but I feel what I feel, and I can’t stop it. I love my sister’s clothes. I love my mother’s dresses. I like having my hair teased and feathered. My brother kicked me in my stomach the other day — that was followed by a swift punch to my nose. I’m gaining thick skin from all of this — thick skin. It’s the reason I can still smile.

“Young people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, or questioning (LGBTQ) enter the child welfare system for reasons similar to those of other children and youth — that is, their birth families cannot provide a safe, stable, and nurturing home. In some cases, families reject, neglect, or abuse young people when they learn that they identify as LGBT or are questioning their romantic/sexual orientation or gender identity. According to one study,1 about 26 percent of LGBT 2 youth are forced from their homes because of conflicts with their families of origin over sexual orientation or gender identity. Physical violence is also a concern for LGBTQ youth.” —Youth.gov

Author’s Note: We must come together as one — if not for ourselves, for the children of this world. They need us. But we are often too blind to see this. I pray this will change one day soon.

Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.