And We Will Live

Your favorite fairy tale growing up probably involved a prince saving the princess.

Maybe it ended saying, "Happily Ever After." 

Or maybe you are the young feminist that liked more of a heroin that held her own... 

saving the people she loved most. 

And the music was triumphant in the background. 

Bump that.

I knew early on, no one was coming to save me. 

I also knew that "saving the people I love" would end up killing me before I did any real good.

And that music in the background? 

Yeah... it's trap beats. 

Making references to the very things causing harm to the people I love. 

But here we are.

Here I am.

Always coming to this white screen after a long stint of time spent in the world. 

I come here when I no longer feel. 

I come here when I fear that my words are being swallowed up by darkness... 

the opposite of a happily ever after.

I know death.

I know threats.

I know crying voices on the phone.

And I am tired. 

Tired of coming home to explain myself. 

Tired of explaining everyone's actions. 

Black. White. Brown. Blue. 

Perhaps if we had a panel...

Maybe we should strip away more rights...

Include those that have prior experience in life or death situations... 

Bump that.

I intimidate people.

At least that's what the people tell me whose friends won't approach me first.

"Good." I laugh it off...

I didn't know I was supposed to be Miss America in the grocery store. 

I've separated myself from a lot of people recently...

Maybe we drifted apart.

Maybe I wanted it this way. 

"Chlo... you know those dudes are a distraction anyway." 

My high schoolers are smarter than y'alls relationship counselors. 

I tell them, "You right... it's just me and y'all." 

But when you see me, doing my thing, unapologetic... and you feel threatened... don't be, 

Use that as motivation to do exactly what you want to do, no apologies. 

Then you will understand why I will never have that taken from me. 

-

I've had a hard time falling asleep this past month. A hard time getting out of bed. 

Things that have been long awaited, are just out of reach.

It has taken every ounce of my being not to yell, kick, scream, cry, and curse everyone out.

Forgive me... I probably just need sleep, or a cookie. 

There are just some thing that I cannot seem to find patience or grace for anywhere. 

I don't want to be like that anymore.

But there is no hero to this story. 

No white horse. 

No triumphant music.

It's my tribe, me... and a lot of trap beats. 

We will live in a story full of happiness, and unfortunately, a lot of darkness too. 

We will fight everyday to thrive in a place that doesn't believe we can.

But it is our story to tell.

And we will live. 

IV XXII

Currently wishing I had something profound to say.

Wondering if the last two days will be engraved on my heart anymore than the last 8 plus years.

I've been told not to take it for granted.

There haven't been any tears this week.    Just a lot of sweat and maybe even a little blood.


There is still much to do.    Always.

You would think, after all this time.


But of course, I am built to finish a job that is set out before me.    Help those in need.

Do first.   Feel second.    Even when the second comes in heavy, and lingers.

                                                                              -

Then I was the last one.

And the silence gave me such peace.     I moved about the building one last time for the day, turn out the lights, throw away the trash.

I let out a sigh of relief.     Because for the first time, in what seems like forever, I was home.

And the significance of locking the door behind me... hit me like a ton of bricks.

Write It Down in 20 Minutes

Write your thoughts for 20 minutes... go

I've been nervously picking at the clear coat on my nails for over a week now. 

I turn right on Mulberry now, instead of Codell, just to make sure the sign is still in the yard.

I wake up 30 minutes earlier some days to make it through a circuit or two.  

Other days I swallow hard and peel myself out of bed - even though my body feels too heavy.

The days on the calendar keep passing me by in slow motion, until I open my eyes a little wider, and realize I've been going through landmark type events and all the emotions come at the same time.

I've done a lot more listening and reading to other peoples thoughts and experiences recently.

Not as if I didn't do that before... I've just made more room in the margins for it altogether. 

The rain finally stopped today.

For how long... I'm not sure. 

I saw the sun today, and my skin started to dance.

This feels real.

I have to woo important people sometimes... in order to remain relevant, and on the front lines. 

It doesn't exhaust me like it does some people. 

That doesn't negate the fact it truly is exhausting. 

The kids spent a good amount of time in my parents house the last two weeks.

The silence doesn't hurt them like it has me... and that moved me.

People have their favorites... that's cool.

I'm usually still immature enough to wish I was their favorite.

At least that is what my friends tell me. 

I don't disagree though.

I found a place that sells coffee and books and refuses to be gentrified by those around it.

A place that doesn't deny its culture, or have really loud pop music playing or baristas that should just stop talking.

A place that cares about its neighbors, not the status quo or who is driving in for a latte only to comment on

the "crime in the area." 

Then I over heard they are having a hard time staying open and have until March to figure things out.

Isn't that how life goes?

January + 2

It was before today when I thought there is no escaping it. 

News Channels.

Social Media.

Coffee Table Conversations.

Then it becomes your reality.

And you wonder how you got so lucky to see another day.

I remember walking down the path he led us on, for what seemed like an awful long time, because the bus couldn't get through such a narrow and muddy foot path. This isn't where she and her brother lived the last visit made to Bolivia. When I saw the structure she and her family lived in...
Her brother was quite the show boat and eased the hurt I had within, almost like a nauseating feeling slowly subsiding through distraction. "I am blessed." I heard it being translated behind me. And that is when I wish I knew God like she did.

I've known tear drop tatted, gang and brotherhood branded, men who would drop dead if they didn't hold the door open for a lady, or push her chair in at the table. Never speaking to me as if I was less than them, never leading me to believe their past was as dark as it truly was. "You don't know my moms." They would say. They, the ones with blood on their hands, and regret in their eyes, knew better than to disrespect their mothers and not be gentlemen. Back then I am sure I assumed how they must feel lucky to be alive.

It was June. And anyone over a certain age had sat around a patio table in the backyard. Old friends catching up. Once neighbors, now just kids swimming in a pool while their parents talked war. I can't help but think this was our own little version of Gone With the Wind in modern times... imagine with me. All us kids had ever known of our fathers pasts were military related stories and "we never had that!" remarks. That was their "cul-de-sac" bond before we ever made it to the suburbs. I remember their dad pulling out a camera and playing back a scene caught from a firefight that made the wives jump and cover our eyes. "Yep. Sure saved a lot of asses that day." Everyone cheered. I guess I was thankful too...


I'd like to be honest here and say, a lot of people blog to share their lives with other people. Which I believe is great. But I also think they are hoping for a guttural, emotional, active response to those shared pieces of their lives. The edited versions. The ugly parts they are willing to share. And the wins they can't let you miss. I get it. But I can't help but tell you I don't give a damn about who reads this, who doesn't, if it's shared, or if it collects dust till the internet archives shut down. I live my everyday life in story book form. Partially because I truly believe I am Peter Pan incarnate. But mostly because I live a life worth reading about one day. Not a Biography about me... hell no. An indie film / gopro style / collection of moments. Where Humans of New York meets Humans of Woodhill. You feel me? Doesn't matter.

I wrote for myself in January. 

I wrote about the hardest things I have ever written about. 

Chicken scratch.

3am.

Run-on sentences.

Story form.

Poems. 

I read prompts to guide me.

Some days I just wrote about how every day in January felt like 10.

I didn't want to share it. 

I still don't.

But what I feel like needs to be said is... in the midst of my heart breaking, constant set backs, horrible communication, misjudgment, exhaustion, no direction, and an overwhelming feeling like a fog inside me would never be lifted... in the midst of that, I still celebrated the lives of the ones I have here with me. I cheered on at ball games, choirs, spelling bees, in the classroom. I included my own blood more. I took my own health serious. I hugged friends. I read some good books. And I never stopped telling our story. Our story of resilience. Of perseverance. Of patience. Of how it isn't luck we are alive - but a beautiful challenge. Because too often we look at a casket and think of what they could have accomplished, or what they achieved, and mark the whole life as just that. How dare we. It wasn't until several close to home school shootings, bomb threats made to a school while we were in it, and an accidental school lock down, that I realized those people didn't think they were lucky to be alive either. They were in question of their lives each and every day because of what they had been through in poverty, prisons, gangs, black or brown skin, war, constant threats being made to their lives and surviving wasn't luck, it was God. And they were going to honor every breath he allotted them. Until it was taken by whatever force that should come.

January felt like a constant threat on my life. Not in the same way I felt laying on the ground under a table praying my babies in the auditorium were okay. More like when a bandage has absorbed so much blood it no longer has the same effect to the wound than a freshly tied bandage would. The very things I thought would last, sustain life, and push us into a new season, were some of the very things that stunted healing, caused pain, and inflicted more grief. There wasn't any point in sharing details of the wins or losses because nothing flowed. Words felt boxy when this season just needed to settle somewhere. People who know families like the ones I do life with know what this January felt like. Just 31 more days tacked on to 2017. And no one needs to dwell on things like that. But if we didn't grow from a season like this one! Where the vines that choke out any fruit are finally cut away, and life can continue again in that tree. That is what I feel we will eventually move toward. Where the vines will be cut away, water and sunlight will pour into our roots, and fruit will be the focus again.

remember how this felt

I was doing so well before the crash -
the converging of truth and memory -
the colliding of recycled heartache and the never ending taste of forward thinking -

I'm not the type of person to remember a date on a calendar and the events that took place.
Instead, I remember seasons, broad feelings, I can picture the importance of a memory as if it were another person sitting at the dinner table... but never just a significant date. From year to year I can recall the season I was in, and then look at the present time to identify the changes, or stagnant waters, within my own soul.

Physically, Emotionally, Mentally, Spiritually.

I am almost always met with warmth, joy, sunlight, and in very Chloe fashion, "started from the bottom" plays softly in the background of those thoughts. Only on occasion do I feel cold when I look back to past seasons. Rarely do I feel like I moved backward or just sideways.

But like I said, I was doing so well before the crash.

01/?/18

Resistant.
Reluctant.
Fog.
Melancholy.
Anxiety.

Perhaps if I would have worn a different dress, read more books, talked less about rap or food deserts, maybe if I would have saved money, planned this more in advance, made more lists, cared less of what everyone thought.

Here I am.
Reading Strategic Plans, contemplating what turn I made way back when.
Breathing in and out to a forgotten rhythm that reminds me of that way back when.

Today I woke up with swollen and hazy eyes.
Passing the same corner day after day, even years later, still stings.
Reminds me of my humanness.
I can feel what I felt then, now.
Combine it with what I feel now, and the impatience is strong.
I know what this week is in another city.
And the darkness tells me it's shameful to long for one place, when the prayer I prayed for years, is finally tangible in front of me.
Reminds me of my selfishness.
Managing to acquire frequent flyer miles, all across the globe, without leaving my parents house.

I said above I was doing well before the crash -
I'm not sure what I meant by well, but I do know this ship didn't pack a single life preserver, or rescue boat. It's just me and my doubts out at sea... and we know how that went for those dudes in the Bible.
I have been caught between the greatest miracle of my lifetime and absolute human sin.
Isn't that how it goes?
At this time, people older than me explain how to handle life differently than them.
People my age fake it till they make it... whatever "it" is.
And all the sweet but sour ones, younger than me, remind me that both being prepared and having the time of my life is crucial.

There is no white flag here.
No goals set. Yet.
No crazy, dark espresso epiphany, hiding in the depth of an old theology book.
This. This is just another day on the calendar I won't ever pick out of a lineup of important dates.
But I promise you, I will remember how this season felt.

A Risk Worth Taking

I walked out of Henry Clay High School for the last time this semester. 

I had the same feeling with Crawford Middle School yesterday.

And Frederick Douglass High School two days before that.

The feeling of any season coming to an end is always tough for my heart to sift through.

Adding up the lessons learned... the hard way, all of the laughter or tears that were had over time.

Even when I think about the absolute worst days, I get a little emotional we made it to this point.

I'm tougher today than I was on August 16th, 2017.

Several schools had no idea, that when I sat in their offices, and told them what I thought could happen if we joined forces, exactly how big of a risk they were actually taking on. 

But they figured out pretty quick I think. 

We all did.

Through growing pains, new schools, referrals, requests, full moons, and lots of e-mails, we made it through 4 months of crazy. 

And at the end of it all, someone a lot more important than me leaned over and said,

"You are a risk worth taking."

 

And that's how I feel about my kids in these schools. 

The kids that came, were there for a reason.

A reason I can't really explain, I just know.

I don't care about numbers much. 

What I do care about, is what we will do now that we know where we are struggling, and how each of us will move forward in order to be the most successful versions of ourselves.

But we needed to get to know each other this semester. 

We needed to gain trust.

Take a couple losses and celebrate a few small victories. 

I think we did that.

Deep breath. 

The real work begins now.

                                                                              -

Much like how these schools took a risk on me, the 2nd fam took a risk with me too.

In some ways it's full circle.

In other ways... it's a fresh start. 

What I do know to be true is, making disciples is the most important thing I could be doing as a Child of God. 

Loving Him and His people. 

Showing them how to live, leading by example. 

And let me tell you what... there were a lot of moments my example was the worst to follow and they knew it.

Other days weren't all that bad, and we found ourselves asking some really good, vulnerable, tough, questions. 

The family grew, much as families do... even though ours has a tendency to want to stay tight knit and approval based only (I am a guilty of this myself) we handled the growth well.

I honestly can't imagine what life would be like if they weren't in it.

Awful I would assume. 

So I am forever thankful. 

For their annoying, dramatic, loud, attitude filled, big hearted, always laughing, keeping me in check, selves. 

And that when I am all of those things listed above... or worse, they still put up with me too.

Soon, a new adventure begins at 422 Codell.

Where we will take the much needed risk of choosing, loving, and living life with some of our favorite little humans.

But for now, today starts a season of planning, evaluating, and hopefully some rest for all of us!

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.