I Hate Guns

I saw him pull it out from his waist band and point it right at another little boys head.
I know both of them.
I see them in school, the park, the gas station.
I expect a lot of things from those two... but this was something that sent chills down my spine.
The next words that came out of my mouth weren't loud, they weren't shaky... they were soft, stern... more serious then any of us were used to.
Then I drove off.

My mind couldn't get off of what I had seen... what I can't unsee from years past.
So I made my way back through the familiar streets, squinting hard and looking for little silhouettes.
This time there were more of them.
"Aye Ms. Chloe!"
All of them climbed into the van but I meant business so all but the one who knew why I came back hopped out and waited on the sidewalk.
Again.
My voice was softer than normal... but it felt strong enough to count.
He should never have to be told the things I told him about being a young black boy in this world.
It is not fair.
And I hate that this is something I had to be part of.
Bad choices. Unsafe choices. Impulsive teenage games.
Those are amplified 100 times over solely based on the color of his skin, his gender, his neighborhood, his friends and family... I'm sick just thinking about it.
He hung his head and said "okay... I'm sorry."
And he shifted it from his waist band to his backpack before he walked home.
Suddenly I realized I hadn't actually taken a breath in over a minute and inhaled quickly.

All I needed to do was drop a shirt off that got left in my car.
I walked into the house unaware of the discord.
Christmas Tree half decorated, half still in the box.
Family meetings aren't a foreign concept around here... Dalton Court is no exception.
"Ms. Chloe I just don't know anymore... I just don't know."
She shared some hard truths about the ones I've known over half their life.
I wasn't surprised.
Disappointed maybe, never surprised.
I did the only thing I knew how to do... but this time I found my voice get soft again, serious.
I told them two stories about me going to visit a kid in jail and of course... my least favorite. Being young black boys in this world.
Bad choices. Unsafe choices. Impulsive teenage games.
Those are amplified 100 times over solely based on the color of their skin, their gender, their neighborhood, their friends, and family... I'm sick just thinking about it.
They were all quiet, emotional, still.
We hugged and wiped the tears and I told them I loved them.
I walked down the stairs and gasped for air again just like before.

I don't do well around guns.
Think what you want about them... shit you will anyway.
But if another innocent (I say this meaning anyone) is senselessly killed by one of them...
I truly believe I won't be able to properly take in oxygen.

They don't know about the time I saw that man laying in the street bleeding out.
They don't know about the dealer who invited me in with one sitting on the table.
They don't know that I refuse to let my father tell me where he keeps his, or it would be long gone.
They don't know the funerals I've been to.

But they know their own pain.
Their own nerve-racking testimonies of who, where, and when.
The first shot rings in your head forever.
Now we sleep through them like suburbanites sleep through grasshoppers.
Waking up to the news from the street.
Hashtags and crying mommas.

Instagram and lunch time conversations will have you thinking this is the greatest gig out there.
And it is.
But I learned early on that my tendancy in wanting to prove people wrong about my kids and their families, matched with peoples inability to listen to the hard stories, only victories, keeps me from speaking on the poorly lit reality we are in.
Don't tell me you can handle it.
Don't tell me I'm being unsafe.
Because one of those isn't true.

I was recently asked which super hero I would be... I gave a sweet answer at the time, but if we are being honest, I am Black Widow most days.
The one who somehow got chosen to be on the team of fighters/heroes because of her toughness.
A group of people that run straight into the fire.
A girl who can talk down the big scary green guy from destroying everything around him.
She is the one who reminds the rest of the guys to be themselves... heroes, when things get tough.
Not to mention she's pretty badass, with a heart in there somewhere!

I'm well aware these won't be the last conversations I have with my boys about guns or poor choices.
I'm also well aware that I was built to walk into those fires, even if it means I have to hold my breath.
Because I am no super hero, but this is our reality.

#23

the following is an excerpt from a late night journal entry:

“last day of 22 feels. 

I finally know whats it means to be confident and secure in who Chloe Paige is. 

This is my greatest personal victory within myself. 

Mind, body, and spirit, I do not need songs or presents or attention... 

that’s my everyday on this earth really... 

this day is more for me to remember who I am. 

What I believe. 

And check myself, to see if it was my last year, did it matter. 

Never in a woe is me way. 

Never. 

But in a “God, it’s me... the one you told to step away from the fake love and self hate. 

And into your arms. 

Yeah it’s me. 

I’m here to do your will for another year. 

Hope I make less mistakes this time around.” 

It was hard for me to admit that he didn’t need me to be a little girl anymore. 

He needed me to be a woman. 

A woman for other little girls. 

A woman that didn’t leave. 

A woman who loved herself. 

A woman who knew what it felt like to destroy her body in order to feel. 

I hated, I hate.. that I had to share my pixie dust. 

That I had to grow up. 

But I love what has been given to me because of it. 

I sob because I don’t deserve it. 

I weep because I feel all the lives that don’t get to live to 23. 

I celebrate because maybe, while I’m 23, people will see Jesus 365 more days because of me. 

Much like low income indie films with sad endings, I will turn 23 and then the rest of the work week will ensue.

And more birthdays will pass and the sun will rise and fall each day and no one will see the significance I see in this.

I won’t waste 23.”

I could tell you how 22 was different.

Just as I predicted it would be.

I could tell you about the milestones, the thousands of miles traveled.

But this story is more than those that happened on a timeline or in an airplane.

I could tell you about the love I didn't know would impact me like it still does.

No degree, or surprise visit could compare to the acceptance of me.

My heart has been refined.

My eyes no longer shy away from the truth that is 'I'

I owe 22 that much.

Even if it did take almost all of it.

I think I'm ready now.

Watering the Grass

I recently found out that my being here, in this made up role, is the reason our beautiful blue prints have a lot more scribbled ink on them.

The unfortunate unleashing of who gets what and who wants what.

The battle for me was costly.

And we feel the constant pushing on those bruises daily, but he knew this would be true. 

Maybe not as ugly. 

But He knew.

I wasn't supposed to know.

I was so caught up in a world that had turned rose colored to even see it.

These sort of things don't pass by me easily.

But this one did.

And I cry often.

Months and months went by.

More people told me how great I was or how "we are better now."

I chalked it all up as bullshit because they hadn't met pride face to face like I had before.

Humility is a dream.

And my dreams look more like nightmares these days.

So forgive me when I don't receive your, self demoting, Chloe promoting, 

find God in here somewhere cause it seems right, praises.

Even the good ones must fail in order to learn.

She says the grass looks greener where I stand and I can't seem to prove to anyone that my kids haven't had grassy front yards their whole life.

But we look like more fun.

We look less like work and more like family.

Put us in a picture frame and hang it on your fridge, I would.

We look like all the little children of the world.

You know it. 

The cartoon drawings of the brown, black, yellow, red, purple,

 kids holding hands around a blurry globe.

We are those little children.

And the grass has never been green.

But we choose to water it anyway, because that matters.

I will never be able to unfeel those bruises.

I cannot unsee the battle he went through.

Because just like that grass, I keep watering me, and made up a role that matters. 

Post Card Love Letters

I find it hard to explain you to people

How at any given moment our connection is stronger

Like a homing device, we always find each other

Miles and miles traveled 

Sleepless nights

Early mornings

Countless cups of coffee laced in conversations

New skylines and familiar front porches

Yeah, I have a hard time explaining you to people

How you see me for the first time, every time

You make me brave

Like how sidewalks kiss the bottom of my dirty vans as I trek through dark alleyways,

You also kiss my soul with your billboard wisdom and welcoming signs

You have taught me what desire looks like

What grit and hard work can become from the ground all the way up to the penthouse floor

I miss you, but I must visit others and gain experience from them

Similar to forbidden lovers, distance is part of the process, 

but you are home

There are many "yous"

And only one me

Constantly breaking off pieces of me and scattering them out like bread comes

I inhale you deeply, only choking a bit this time

I never want to close my eyes with you, I fear I will miss just a moment,

and that would be too much

I find it hard to explain the back and forth 

Time differences

Skyscrapers

Freeways

None of them can keep us apart too long,

a few bring us closer together

If I am Peter Pan

You are Neverland

And will will Wander - Lust forever

I hope you are well while I am away

Post card love letters feel silly

but they do the trick

White Flags on a Wednesday

Just realized when I went to reach for my white flag, I had already used it to dress wounds from earlier today. 

Of course.

Of course the first day of November, fresh out of the October season, had to show out. 

With its post Halloween candy comas, full moon vibes, and rain that never let up.

On a Wednesday, of all the days!

Wednesday tried to break us.

Tried to.

On days like today, 

where kids bring guns to school

the fights never seem to end

and you have to ask too many people where kids have been 

because they keep moving or lying about it

when the world is suffering 

loudly

constantly 

and you have a sore throat.

On days like today,

when the visits to safe seem too normal

when the office doors stay shut

when the parents don't know how to set an example

when self doubt and exhaustion come without warning or welcome.

On days like today, 

we take the small victories.

And we cry.

Small victories feel so big in a world of heartache.

And we need them.

Like new faces becoming familiar faces.

Brothers who apologize.

And choose love.

Men in the gym encouraging your boys to work hard, take care of themselves, and save money.

Kids who remind you that your windshield wipers needed to be changed a year ago 

and make the cold and rainy trip to the Auto Parts store with you.

When quiet car rides turn in to venting sessions and somehow

I get to be the one on the other end of them.

my heart is hurting from the battle fought today,

my skin is still cold from standing in the rain, talking kids down from a rough place.

but I already used the white flag to bandage the wounds,

because I know better than to ever throw in the towel on this life.

especially not going to waste a resource on giving up, 

when it could keep me alive for a much greater battle later on.

Deep breath.

Wednesday tried, but didn't win.

Starbucks: It's Okay to Be

I've been to Starbucks more in the last month than I have my whole life.

Me... in a Starbucks. Consuming their coffee. 

Spending a God awful amount of money, on a drink that take three years to order.

Throwing away their plastic cups. 

Listening to their sometimes okay, sometimes what the hell, music.

Almost dying from the taste and enormous amounts of sugar within this black tar. every. single. time. 

But.

There's always a but...

Each and every time I come in here, something profound happens.

Right before. During. Or right after.

I hate it.

I love it.

I love to hate it.

My community driven, homegrown, grassroots, fair trade, everyone knows your name... and your life story... coffee shop, just doesn't always work for others "schedules."

Or maybe I just don't want to be known today while I respond to e-mails. 

Maybe the constant "we are best friends with everyone in here" mentality is actually more overwhelming for my meeting... and the American way of faster, no eye contact, consume garbage and repeat method really is something I could consider. 

I mean come on... who has the time to ask what the cute and personal wifi password is for each and every coffee shop that promotes ending sex slavery and hiring boys from the neighborhood to learn business skills and a self sustaining trade that will never die as long as hipsters and sleepy moms exist?!

If you drink Starbucks each and every day, I am not here to attack you.
Consider this a personal opinion, not a judge of character.

I actually envy the mugs for each state you can buy... and those little cups at the end of the summer season, so bright and cheery? I adore those!
Until I turn it around to look at that price, and of course, the green lady herself... the symbol of all things Starbucks.

Anyway... back to the profound things that are happening around this place.

The conversations.

The relationships.

The meetings.

The questions being asked of me, and by me.

I remember things here.

I dream here.

People share things with me here that they may not somewhere else.

I almost forget how much I don't fit in... do fit in, because I am sure that what is happening in those moments, or hours, is something that shouldn't end until it absolutely has to.

I remember him outside of a Starbucks last summer.

He looked like a superhero.

My superhero.

A superhero that had been beaten with his own kryptonite. 

We were both wrong about what happened next.

It still tastes bitter, like the stagnant coffee in the trash cans on the sidewalk,
days after being thrown out.

I remember middle and high school meet ups with my people, where we talked about our dreams and boys that shouldn't talk to our friends and how the Church was really lame most of the time.

We knew back then that 4 walls didn't make Jesus love us more or less.

But we had to wait for the grown ups to catch on...

Still waiting.

I remember interviews, letters written, emails that could change the future, all within a internationally known coffee chain.

I'm thankful.

This coffee is still gross.

But I'm willing to live in both worlds.

I have been living in both worlds.
I remember both worlds here.
I remember real things in this pre-packaged, plastic, bad tasting environment.
And I don't know why.
But I'm unsettled by it just enough to think about it out loud.
To ask myself
 how in the world I got here,
and how it's okay to
be.

The Best Family We've Ever Known

There is a verse in Isaiah 61 that says, “They will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated; they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations.”

 I've heard this chapter read out loud for years. I've seen it posted in program brochures, and in Urban Youth workers ministry websites as part of their mission statement and values regarding the investment into urban Youth. This chapter, and this line in particular has been a charge, the call, and road map in how I handle myself in urban Youth work, but also encourages me to know that what I see in my babies, God has already watch play out. It's already been written in the palms of his hands.
And I am blessed with the ability to watch them grow into the very people He had created them to be.

Maseterpieces.
Leaders.
My Brothers and Sisters.

Last night we celebrated at our annual banquet, all of our initiatives under Lexington Leadership Foundation, and the happinings revolving around each. I'm the most thankful for an opportunity to work for a family in Christ, not an organization or non profit. It truly is a family. Encouraging and loving and supporting one another in all aspects.

Last night we reminded 9 of our beautiful young people what Isaiah 61 says about them being oaks of righteousness, how they will wear crowns of beauty, not of ashes. We presented each of them with Emerging Leaders Awards and applauded where they've been, and where they will go, and how nothing will stop them from being a light as long as they or I can help it.

There are a lot of things I could say about them, to them...
But I cried enough last night.
What I will say though, is how incredibly proud I am of my siblings.
And how flipping lucky I am to call them family.

One of my brothers told the guests at our table this is the best family he's ever known. I held back my tears but nodded in agreement saying, me too kid, me too.