A Debate with Mommy: God, Please Clear Up the Saints’ Sinuses

A Daughter’s Reflection on Faith, Healing, and Not Losing Yourself

“Smoke and Mirrors” by Danielle Joy Mckinney

Recently, my mother and I got into one of our debates. She’s been letting me debate her since I was a child, back when I argued that Versace was spelled Versawchee and Virginia was spelled Vagina. I clearly struggled with V words. Instead of silencing me like some parents and teachers do when raising an opinionated girl child, she indulged me, probably enjoying every second of the “this little girl thinks she knows everything” show. God truly blessed me with a great mother. I’ve been lucky enough to find that same joy and cackling spirit when my goddaughter wants to spar over whatever her 15 year old brain can conjure up.

With age and a little life under my belt, our debates have moved from surface level spats about spelling to deeper conversations about human behavior and morals.

The Debate

Me: It’s not fair for a man to enter into a relationship broken, with addiction, or carrying unresolved trauma and then dump it all in a woman’s lap to carry. I wish they’d stop doing that. Women should not have to fix a man and traumatize themselves in the process. It’s not fair.

Mommy: A man needs a woman as his helpmate. It says so in the Bible. Men are weak and women help them become men. You’ve never been married. This is how it works.

She sends me every time with that line. When she starts a sentence with “you’ve never…” I know we’re right back to “this little girl thinks she knows everything” territory. And for anyone who grew up in church with Bible-toting parents, don’t they wear you out with a scripture reference for everything under the sun? I know it’s not just me. Can we have one simple conversation without a KJV reference sliding in? I’m not saying all the time, just sometimes. No? Can we at least come up out of 1611 and sprinkle in a little NIV? Not happening? You’re probably right. Alright then, let’s press on.

The Reflection

God, please forgive me, but can you Mucinex these human interpretations of the Bible that give poor behavior, inflicted suffering, or flat out abuse a free pass? Clear the saints’ sinuses so they can breathe in a little common sense and empathy.

I never again want to be in a relationship that leaves me traumatized because my partner entered it broken with no personal attempt at repair before or during the relationship. And I don’t want anyone else, friend or foe, to have to go through that either. The way the world heaps responsibility and blame on women is beyond strange. Is y’all ok? Is y’all cool?

I will never forget how people blamed Megan for being shot by a man she was intimate with. They were up in arms that the state pressed charges and that she had to testify in her own case. Called her a liar. Because she didn’t disclose who she was sleeping with? Since when does anyone owe the public a copy of their roster? Not to mention she was protecting him, like most women do, until she could not. And the passes some folks want to hand out to Robert Kelly and Sean Combs are ignorance at its finest. Tell me you hate women without telling me you hate women.

Now, I do believe that in relationships and marriages, women and men are called to support their partners. I just don’t believe that being a helpmate requires suffering as a prerequisite.

That debate made me think about who I was before I entered a relationship with someone who came in broken. I was in my early-ish twenties, and I loved that girl. She was kind, fun, social, fearless. She wasn’t closed off or apprehensive. She wasn’t even looking for love. She was flirting on BlackPlanet, catfishing on AOL Instant Messenger, gallivanting around Syracuse University like graduate school was undergrad all over again. She met a basketball player at a random party, didn’t think much of it, and six months later it was “will you be my girl?” in the Facebook DMs.

Somewhere along the way, that girl dwindled. She sank. She hid. She became a shell of herself. The relationship dragged her mentally and drained her spirit.

When the relationship ended, it took years to get back to level ground mentally. And no one should have to lose themselves for the sake of love or some twisted interpretation of biblical alignment. Help yourself by doing the work before you enter someone else’s life. Understand that you are not the only person in the relationship. How you move, what you say, how you treat someone, it all matters. People underestimate how fragile the mind can be. The strongest and most confident people did not get there by accident. They got there because they protect their peace like it’s gold.

It is not another person’s responsibility to fix you or unpack your trauma if they are not licensed to do so. They can support you while you do the work, but you have to choose healing for yourself. Prayer is powerful. Scripture can be grounding. But therapy is not a lack of faith. The same way you see a doctor for your body and still whisper a prayer in the waiting room, you can sit with a licensed professional and ask God to guide the conversation. Both can coexist.

Years have passed since that relationship. I have become fiercely protective of my mental space now. Maybe the saints would say I blocked my blessing once or twice. Maybe. But if I sense even a flicker of chaos or unhealed wounds being placed at my feet, I will not entertain it. I did not guard that early twenties version of myself well enough. I owe her better.

I’ve made a commitment to myself that I will not prioritize someone else’s healing over my own ever again. I can love you, support you, and pray for you, but I will not lose myself trying to save you. They say that’s why some of us geriatric millennials are single now. OH WELL!

These days, I actively seek the joy of peace and wholeness in all my relationships both romantic and platonic. And I choose these relationships with an open heart and eyes and with my head on a swivel.

I want the joy of peace and wholeness for you too, friend. You deserve.

Asé.

Why You Ain’t Kiss Me on My Volar, Bruh: A Call to Action

 From Page to Screen to Real Life: Let’s Make Every Kiss Legendary

I love a good romantic kiss written in literature, captured cinematically, and of course experienced personally. Channel your inner Erykah Badu with me:

“I want somebody to walk up behind me and kiss me…
ON MY NECK…
and breeeeaaaaattthhheee…
ON MY NECK…”

In recent years, I’ve felt this urge to write romantic love with kisses and heightened intimacy in some of my short stories. I’ve been reading more Black romance novels too because ain’t nothing like a good steamy love scene. Authors who can make love scenes amplify off the page flawlessly without visual assistance? Real MVPs. Some of these written romantic scenes lack cajun seasoning.

I live for when a closed-off Justice melts into her first kiss with Lucky in Poetic Justice (1993) and won’t ever forget it. And I vow one day to kiss in the desert with a USPS truck in the background, okay? Kisses wrapped in prose like Nina and Darius had in Love Jones (1997). Baby, remember when Nina took a stab at nibbling Darius’s ear? I yearn for a Chi-Town love full of smoke, an Old Fashioned, open mic nights, and poems directed at me. Minus the sprinkle of toxicity, of course.

I believe kisses get better with time, right? No more slobbery, stale breath first kisses like I had in middle school. Yes, in a sauna at a house party. All the 13-year-olds crowded in there taking turns. Baby, at my age now, I want an angel kiss, the eyelid kiss like that iconic moment between Amanda and Graham in The Holiday (2006). Kiss my eyelids gently, my love, without wiping off my soft glam.

One of my favorite cinematic kisses is the volar, inner arm, kiss. When I started this new season of Bridgerton and saw Benedict Bridgerton kiss Lady Silver’s inner arm I screamed. I was instantly reminded of all those inner arm kiss moments like: Kaz kissing Noni’s inner arm in Beyond the Lights (2014), Darius kissing Nina’s inner arm in Love Jones (1997), and Michael kissing Mae’s inner arm in The Photograph (2020). I immediately called my ex, we’re still really good friends, and said, “Why you ain’t kiss me on my volar, bruh?” To which I got, “Your what? Cynthia, please.”

And kissing while crying? Quincy and Monica’s complicated, messy, beautiful crying kiss in Love & Basketball (2000) hits different. Honestly, I could go on and on about iconic kisses in cinema for days. Black cinema specifically has had some top tier moments.

Though random at the onset, I feel like this post is a call to action. Authors, I need more expansive kisses in literature and screenplays. Directors, I need you to direct these kissing scenes like your life depends on it. I want goosebumps. I want to weep like Jesus reading and watching the character’s love story unfold. Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I’m calling for everyone to lean in for a unique and passionate kiss so full of love, so full of intimacy, so full of I am here and I ain’t going nowhere, and so soul-stirring that no cinematic capture could ever do it justice. Forget the roses and the candy. Let’s get some real, “devour me”, heart-chakra-exhilaration kissing going on this Valentine’s Day 2026.

Huddle up. Hands in. “Kiss me like ya mean it on three.”
“ONE… TWO… THREE… KISS ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT!” Let’s go!

Happy Black History Month!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Let me know how it all goes.

Asé.

Seek 2026 Ah-Ha Moments: No Formalities, Just Conversation

 Unlearning Formal Prayer and Building an Honest Relationship With God

The Conversation by Romare Bearden

It’s Day 15 of fasting. The halfway mark. 15 days behind me and 15 days in front of me.

To all my fellow theater lovers: this is my Act II. In general, you know how this goes. After intermission, you walk back into the theater after enduring the long bathroom line, grabbing a refill in that 16 oz souvenir cup you paid almost $50 for. If the show is good, you can’t wait to see how the characters overcome whatever obstacles they’re facing. If it’s bad, you’ve just finished talking yourself out of leaving early and are now hoping you don’t fall asleep and get caught snoring by the person sitting next to you. Act II is generally shorter and moves a bit faster than Act I because it’s time to wrap this thang up. My Act I of fasting has been really good. Hard but good. I’ve been taking my time with myself, discerning which thoughts no longer serve me, and growing more confident in my relationship and communication with God. Confident enough to have candid conversations with Him.

Being raised in church by a father who was a deacon and a mother who was the church secretary and director of youth programs, church was my life. Literally. Any day, any time, you could find me there doing a myriad of things. The formalities of prayer are ingrained in me. My mother did not play about teaching my brother and me how to pray or how to speak in front of a congregation. Those formalities worked not just at our church, but at any Black church. I was great at it. Became a wonderful little orator. I’d pray, speak at churches, compete in oratorical contests, and win. Church folk would say I was the next Barbara Jordan. I was programmed to pray in the acceptable way. It’s been indoctrinated in me, even today. “First, giving honor to God…” If you know, you know.

When my mother dropped me off for my freshman year of college, she left me a letter. I saved it but can’t find it now, and I really wish I could. In it, she wrote: talk to God daily. When you’re walking to class, down the street, or on the train, talk to God.

Huh?

I was so confused. How exactly was I supposed to talk to God while walking down the street or across campus without seeming schizophrenic? I couldn’t ask her what she meant because when I woke up, the letter was there and she was already at the airport heading back to DC.

I learned quickly that it was time to build my own relationship with God and understand that what I’d been taught didn’t define that relationship. My parents gave me a glimpse into their relationship with God, it was now my choice to forge my own. I decided to do that, I needed to let go of the formalities. I wanted a relationship where I could go to God about anything and have an open and honest conversation the same way I do with the women I call my best friends. I also wanted a relationship where, when I had questions or was upset with God, I could just tell Him how I feel and know it would be heard and acknowledged. That is not easy. Unlearning what’s ingrained never is, and I still struggle with it. But this style of communication has made me a better communicator in all my relationships.

I’m always confused by why people don’t attempt to talk through issues with friends or loved ones, especially when they say they love them. I’m not saying every relationship deserves continuation, but many times folks are quick to reprieve without even attempting to salvage what is salvageable. We’re living in the cut people off generation, and honestly, that’s weird to me because true love ain’t that easy to toss away. Now, I haven’t always been this way. I used to be over it when relationships needed repair. But I attribute the very personal relationship I’ve built with God as the template for the communication style I want with the people I love.

During this fasting season, I’ve been actively listening to what God is saying back to me. In human relationships, dialogue is often instantly reciprocal. With God, I find I have to be still, silence the outside noise, silence my inner monologue, listen, and discern, and that takes time and quiet space. I’ve adopted this listen more than you talk mentality in my everyday life, too. Sometimes we talk too much and don’t really hear one another. We are quick with replies and rebuttals but miss the understanding and growth that come from active listening, with ears, mind, and heart engaged. I’ve learned so much over the last three years by being quiet and listening. So much. It does make people uncomfortable, though. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “Why are you so quiet?” Because I value understanding and intentional speaking, and you can’t truly have either without a moment of silence, reflection, alignment, and then response. Society celebrates fast talking and talking about nothing. In my silence, especially in the entertainment industry, I’ve learned that if you use flowery language and make people feel good, you can sell water to a whale. But when you really listen, you realize many folks aren’t saying anything of substance or anything beneficial to the task at hand. I’ve found this style of communication, instant reaction without reflection, is the onset of discord every single time. I’ve witnessed it firsthand in countless scenarios. I want a lasting and fruitful relationship with God and lasting and fruitful relationships with my friends and family. So I’m intentionally strengthening my communication with God, trusting that He’ll help me navigate life and relationships with others.

On Day 14, the devotional focused on the fruit of the Spirit.
Galatians 5:22–24 (NKJV) says:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.”

The journaling prompt asked: What is a fruit of the Spirit that doesn’t come naturally to you? What are some changes you can make in your daily routine to spend more time with God?

Now listen. If you, like me, saw long-suffering and immediately gave a bombastic side eye, I feel you. We are a work in progress, boo. It doesn’t help that some folks believe suffering is the primary way to get to God, as if it’s a rite of passage. I did a little research so you don’t have to. Biblically, long-suffering, makrothymia in Greek, means having patient endurance and self-restraint in the face of hardship, provocation, or offense, mirroring God’s own patience. Oxford clarifies, having or showing patience in spite of troubles, especially those caused by other people.

So baby, those grudges my mama says I hold?
She ain’t lying.
And they are not the fruit of the Spirit.
Again boo, I am a work in progress. 😂

Seriously though, I strongly believe to truly bear the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control you have to have healthy communication. Open and honest communication with God, myself, and my people is important to me. Its as essential as that breathing I’m struggling with. 😂

Here’s to the journey of prioritizing effective communication and active listening for all of us as we navigate this thing called life.

Talk to y’all on Day 30.
Hoping you and your family are safe and warm.

Asé.

SEEK 2026 Ah-Ha Moments: I am NOT Breathing!

It’s Day 8 of fasting for me. I’ve joined Alfred Street Baptist Church on their 2026 30-Day Seek Fast.

A part of the fast includes daily devotionals and journaling as we stay in communication with GOD, and I wanted to periodically drop some ah-ha moments here on Blogspot and Substack. Staying consistent with my prayer life and my writing life, in tandem with one another, is very important to me.

Something I’ve realized during my daily prayer and journaling is that I am not breathing. I am constantly holding my breath, and then I get to a place where holding it becomes too much and I find myself gasping for air. We gotta breathe to live, so what in the world is going on here?

I know a doctor would point to my weight as an obstruction of breath. Doctors equate weight with everything. Health issues caused by obesity are real and should be taken seriously; however, society’s hatred of a bigger body is unwarranted, and the bias is very real. Trust me, I’ve been a plush doll since I was a child, and I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone to the doctor for a routine visit and walked out mentally drained, feeling like a fat failure. My body and lungs, in their current state, are generally healthy. So I should be able to breathe freely while doing common tasks. No strenuous activity is happening. Yet during my prayer and journaling time over these past eight days, I’ve realized I’ve been holding my breath while praying. Why? Even writing this blog entry, I’ve periodically held my breath, realized it, and told myself to breathe—to start the engine again.

I first realized I do this a few years ago when I visited First Corinthian Baptist Church in NYC. I was living in Washington Heights, took the bus to Harlem, and walked into a church full of warmth and community. When I sat down, the service began with one of the preachers saying, “Let’s breathe together,” and they led us in guided communal breathing. I burst out crying because I don’t think I had been breathing correctly my entire trek from Washington Heights to Harlem to my pew seat. My lungs were craving full expansion and air intake.

I realized my mind is sometimes so crowded that it doesn’t make room for my lungs to have permission, for their moment of stillness, to expand in the vastness of the earth and feed on the sustenance they get from the air. Just like my mind needs peace and stillness, so do all the other organs of my body. And when the mind is in overdrive with anxiety, grief, deadlines, thoughts of lack, ridicule, grudges, worry, overconsumption, fear, opinions, judgment, preconceived notions, trauma, triggers, negative self-talk, agitation, and anger it can’t tell the rest of their organ and muscle homies (that we have the luxury of housing and caring for) to do their thing either.

Realizing I’m not breathing even during prayer or writing, two practices that bring me the peace I crave has proven how hyper-fixated I am on completing the task or perfecting the task, instead of finding joy and peace in the process. It’s okay to take time to breathe. It’s okay to relax. Perfection is not necessary when doing some of your favorite things. I am always gently reminding myself that perfection is the perpetuation of white supremacy that is innately ingrained in us. And baby, I’m not trying to perpetuate white supremacy on myself or anyone else for that matter, ever.

When I visit my Nana, who is 96 and living with Alzheimer’s disease, she talks about making things right. “I ask God to correct me. Did I do something wrong? Because I want to make it right,” she said recently. I don’t know what a 96-year bird’s-eye view of a life looks like…yet. I pray for that blessing over my life one day. What I do know, in my shorter years, is that I too have made mistakes. And even though I can’t go back and correct them, I can move forward in alignment with the lessons that came from those mistakes and commit to not allowing their history to repeat itself.

One of the biggest mistakes I’ve made thus far is overcrowding my purse. Which is why I started this blog, Confessions of a Purse Carrier, on Tuesday, April 6, 2010 on Blogspot. At the time I habitually found myself carrying my burdens and everyone else’s, and I needed to figure out a way not to do that anymore. Unleashing it through writing was the best first step for me. Sixteen years later, I am older, wiser, and stronger. I'm aware of my assignment and the stagnancy of bearing burdens is not one of them. One of my favorite preachers and friends, Rev. Hazel M. Cherry, said in her sermon, “You’ve got to know your assignment, beloved. Now some of you might be mad at me when I say this, but you don’t know your assignment. Trump is not your assignment.” I know my assignment in these recent years yet still hyper-focused on being and doing my best at everything, to the point that I shut off necessities like breathing just to complete tasks or reach goals.

Confession: I need this fast not just because, in this season, I am asking God for so much not just for me, but for my family, my friends, and this nation. I also needed this fast to turn down all the internal noise that comes with living. Not just to strengthen my communication with GOD, but to listen to Him speak to me and through me. To treat this moment not as a task I check off on my long daily schedule, but to make it a ritualistic part of my day-to-day. To not be so consumed by finishing that I forget to breathe and allow myself to take my time.

This race against the clock, a timeframe no one created but me, has become self-accountability on steroids. And I need to chill. And be okay with chilling. Because no one really cares but me. And I want to truly place my relationship with God and myself as the priority not my goals and dreams.

That’s it. That’s all.

I’m here ya’ll. Praying, journaling, fasting, and reminding myself to breathe. I’ll be back to share the next ah-ha moment at the halfway mark.

Hoping that your 2026 is off to a great start. Sending all my love.

Asé.

2025: A Year in Review, Edited

Bearer of Abundance by Alex Mensah

I had every intention of writing about my 2025 from a venting lens. I, per usual, planned to confess some of the purses I carried this year and how difficult the trek to the end had been for me. Using my writing as reflection and release, I planned to lay it all in the lap of the digital space and step into the new year praying for more ease and momentum to reach my goals.

I started writing this year’s reflection in mid-December because I knew the end of the month would be busy for me. I wrote about completing a three year fellowship that shifted my life, traveling, friendship heartbreak, and praying for my best friend as she navigates grief. I shared moments when I felt uncared for and disregarded, often tracing it back to the skin I’m in and its role in the never ending cycle of societal abuse. And on and on and on.

On Monday, December 29, 2025 I caught a flight to New Orleans. I’ve been doing freelance creative producing work for a nonprofit for a couple of years now and was assigned as a producer to a playwright writing a new musical. If you’ve been around for a while, you know how much I love New Orleans. And though this trip required a different part of me than when I usually set foot in the Crescent City, I was grateful that the end of 2025 gifted me a few days in my favorite city, all expenses paid.

On Tuesday, December 30, 2025, I stepped into Selah. I talked about my first experience there in 2021 and the owner, Urania, whom I adore, sending me to sit under the Tree of Life in Audubon Park to talk to my dad, who passed away when I was a senior in high school. I had been grieving his death from a place of anger and didn’t want to talk to him or even believe I could, because he was dead and I was living.

Without going into the details of that experience, which you can check out more here, I will say that moment began my intentional lean into healing what I had been toiling with internally for years so that I could be a better human externally. I have remained committed to that work ever since. So when I walked into Selah, having only spoken to Urania in DMs since my last visit, and saw her light, heard “Cyn!!!,” and hugged her at length, I wanted to cry. I held it together because I wanted the moment to belong to the playwright who was seeking expert insight not only to inform her writing. I knew Urania was the perfect person to help, and she was. By asking the playwright the right questions and offering gentle redirection toward deeper thought and inquiry, Urania created space for her to leave Selah more aligned with who she is and what she is called to do, especially in the writing of this body of work. This moment was a new play development dream come true for a producer.

Urania & Cyn at Selah NOLA

As I walked around and sat in Selah, I thought about this year in review I was writing and its purpose. I questioned whether it would be helpful in any way to me or the reader. What was I hoping for by sharing the details of such a challenging year? God reminded me that our challenges aren’t our destiny. They are our training ground for what we are praying for. One thing that never stopped in 2025 was my conversation with God. I have a lot to say, always. My prayers and dreams are plentiful, and I want to be fully prepared to receive them as they come, and boy are they coming. 

Urania come over to speak with me one on one and shared with me the very prayer I have been praying. She encouraged me to think abundance instead of lacking or limitation. I can get so wrapped up in the challenges that I forget to leave room for celebrating the lessons preparing me to walk boldly in my purpose. So, this is the edited version of my 2025 recap. And those of you who know what it’s like to get your notes back from an editor understand how that can shake things up to high levels of irritation. I planned on rereading 2025, its occurrences, and some of the key players to filth, but for what? It does not serve me, you, or the bigger picture in any way. 

2025 was both challenging and rewarding. Heartbreaking yet comforting. Uncomfortable but reaffirming. In 2026, I am looking forward through the lens of abundance and the realization of my big dreams, traveling, creating, reading, loving, learning, and leading with a grateful heart. May your 2026, too, bring you the desires of your heart.

 

Visiting My Nana: The Sweetest Thing I Saw This Month

I was scouring my Confessions of a Purse Carrier Blogspot archives and realized, I have never written a piece solely about my grandmother, who I affectionately call Nana. Strange, right? I’ve written long birthday posts on social media and reflections when we’ve traveled together, but nothing on Confessions. My Nana is 96 (or 97) years old. I put the parenthesis because when my mom became her primary caregiver in 2015, she was able to obtain Nana’s birth certificate and discovered that it didn’t match the age Nana had always been told. But in true Nana fashion, she stood on business: “I’m staying the age I was told I was.” And baby, when you’ve made it this far, you deserve to pick your joys, including your age. I also want to dive into the historical treatment of Black women giving birth during that time, many didn’t even receive birth certificates because of the racism and classism baked into America’s systems. But that’s a whole essay for another day.

Quick backstory: My mom moved to be her primary caregiver in 2015. Nana was diagnosed with dementia. Over the years, my mom and her sisters gave what they could, time, money, energy to make sure Nana’s health, wellness, finances, and social life were cared for. Eventually, professional care became necessary, and Nana transitioned into assisted living. She’s lived in a few places and most recently set up shop at a new residence. My mom visits often, and I’ve had the privilege of tagging along a couple times. On the last visit, I started writing about the experience, and here we are. Watching my mom uproot her life to pour into her mother’s life has been both beautiful and heavy. A rewarding but weighty purse to carry.

Now, let me be honest: I don’t like Nana’s new place. She’s clean, well fed, her room spotless, she has “friends,” and she’s generally content, which is the priority. But taste-wise? Not my vibe. Every time I’m there I catch myself daydreaming about how I’d run a senior residence, what it would look like, how the residents would live, the activities they’d be doing, the whole vibe. But let’s be clear, am I ever actually going to open said imaginative senior residence? “Hell naw to the naw naw naw.” So, I keep my little imaginary improvements to myself and let my mom and her sisters go back and forth about whatever they got going on for their mama.

On this particular visit, and honestly every visit, when you walk in, most residents are in the common area. The TV is on, a handful are watching, others are asleep, others are somewhere in another galaxy far, far away from ghetto earth. Staff are around giving meds, helping with bathroom trips, or, in the case of one staffer, consistently snacking. Chips. Always chips.

I scanned the room and spotted Nana, regal as ever: tiny, hunched over, inspecting her nails. I walked up. She smiled. “It’s so good to see you,” she said. That line still hits, because I used to be terrified she’d forget me. Once, at her first residence, she spotted me and proudly yelled to her table, “That’s my granddaughter!” Cue waterworks. Since then, her recognition has wavered, but so has my fear. I don’t need her to remember me, I just want her happy. On this visit, she looked at me as “familiar” and, about an hour in, called me “Cyn-Cyn,” like always. My mom she knows instantly by name, by heart. Witnessing that recognition is a gift.

We sat in the common area. Nana launched into her usual loop: wanting her hair and nails done, asking about her sister (who passed away), asking about my dad (also gone), reminiscing about Pittsburgh, mentioning “the kids going back to school.” On repeat. The new stuff? Gossip. She had notes on her fellow residents: who she liked, who she didn’t, who talked too much, and who she was ready to fight. Some she simply referred to as “Negros,” cussing as she recounted their antics.
“Why are you cussing, Mommy?” my mom asked.
“Because I will beat her ass,” Nana said flatly. I chuckled. She never mentions the man I saw on our last visit, the one letting a fellow resident hug up on him and kiss him because she thought he was her brother. This time he was rocking Omega Psi Phi paraphernalia, which instantly clicked for me. No wonder he was smirking during all that kissing last time. Ahh, the Bruhz.

The activity coordinator came in with a movie suggestion. She played a trailer and asked if they wanted to watch. Folks hollered out, “Whaaaat she say?”—most were either half-asleep or just plain confused. The few who caught on watched the trailer and emphatically said nope. So she asked, “Well, do any of you have a movie suggestion?” From what I’ve observed, the boss resident of the group hollered, “My Fair Lady!” Immediately another groaned, “Again? That movie is too long!” She even tried to make a dramatic walker-exit until boss lady shut her down with, “Oh, sit down, where you even going?” And down she sat. So, yes, My Fair Lady, all 2 hours and 50 minutes of it, was the afternoon screening. Thirty minutes in, somebody yelled, “All they do is sing in here?” Yes, sis. Yes. But when I tell you, watching residents chant, “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane,” or tear up singing, “I Could Have Danced All Night,” was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in months.

Of course, mid-movie, my mom decided to scroll social media. Aretha Franklin’s Respect blasted from her phone, louder than the TV. Ma’am, read the room we are in full Rodgers & Hammerstein mode. Meanwhile, Nana started expressing how hungry she was, snacking is her favorite pastime. A staffer handed her some goodies, and later the activity coordinator gave her apple muffins from a group baking activity. My mom asked if she helped bake. “No! I told her I wasn’t doing that,” Nana declared. But she sure ate two muffins. I tried one they tasted exactly like the environment: endearing yet somber.

As the visit wrapped, Nana grew restless: “I want to put on my pajamas and lay down.” My mom, like clockwork: “Not before dinner.” Back and forth for an hour until finally, a kitchen staffer yelled, “First seating, dinner time to eat!” Why they gotta holler like that? Jarring every time.

And that’s Nana a regal, sharp-tongued, always ready for snacks beauty. Even in this season of life, she’s teaching me what resilience looks like, what love looks like, and yes, what shade looks like.

I’ll report back after the next visit.

Ladybug & God Mommy: Holding Agape Love While Chasing Dreams

There was no rule book, biblical or otherwise, to help us navigate this chapter of our lives. Why would I put my life on hold to help raise a child that wasn’t mine? The answer to the Why? Agape love.

Last year I had the privilege of writing a piece, Reimagining Love: How Raising My Goddaughter Taught Me the Importance of Agape Love, for the February 2024 issue of Carefree Magazine. In the piece, I shared how I became the godmother of my oldest goddaughter, Jordyn Sierra, and how she didn’t just change my understanding of love, she changed my life. I am extremely close to her, especially during her younger years. It got to the point where if I showed up to a function alone, people would ask, “Where’s Jordyn?” We were indeed joined at the hip.

A part of the story I didn’t share in that piece was that around the time Jordyn entered middle school, I began prioritizing some of my career goals. I had been teaching for over a decade while simultaneously running my own production company, SoulFLY Theatre Society. I wanted to figure out how to step out of the classroom and fully focus on my company, to forge ahead in my artistic career path. I spent the bulk of quarantine taking online workshops, streamlining my résumé, and joining a “leaving the classroom” community for support. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is for teachers to transition out of the classroom, it’s insane. The strong programmatic leadership, organizational management, strategic vision, adept-ability, financial acumen, emotional intelligence, effective communication, social, and wellness skills teachers master daily deserve far more acknowledgment in corporate America. We have trained every CEO, so I don’t understand the dilemma here.

Anyway, post-quarantine, I started applying for grants, jobs, and fellowships, anything that might move me toward the next chapter. In 2022, I was awarded a prestigious producing fellowship in NYC. At first, I didn’t fully understand the scope of what it entailed, so I didn’t immediately tell Jordyn. In my mind, it wasn’t that big of a deal, I’d be conducting business as usual, just with an added layer of education to strengthen my producing practice. It was indeed a big deal. Once I was accepted, the program director asked, “When will you be moving here?” Wait, what? He explained that the best way to fully experience the fellowship was to actually live in New York.

I toiled with the decision. My mom assured me that the risk was worth taking, reminding me that people of privilege take these kinds of opportunities all the time. Even though I didn’t have the privilege of not worrying about lodging or income, I knew I couldn’t pass up something that might be the stepping stone toward manifesting my dreams. My family and closest friends were supportive, so I sent in my resignation and began packing for a new city. The hardest part? Telling Jordyn, the one person I wished I could take with me.

I remember the conversation vividly. I was driving down Brentwood Parkway, Jordyn in the passenger seat, controlling the music. We’d been arguing about how depressing Rod Wave is. “Jordyn, please, I don’t want to be depressed. Can you play something else? If not, I’m choosing.” “He’s not depressing, God Mommy!” she sighed, before switching to Elle Varner’s Refill. Her music taste has always swung between “sad teenager” vibes and early 2000s love songs, I’ll always prefer the latter. I think we were headed to Trader Joe’s, scavenger-hunting in TJs had become our thing. She loved trying new foods but never left without her staples: chili and lime rolled tortilla chips, seaweed snacks, pancake bread, and green power juice. My broke best friend. As Elle Varner hiccup-sang her way through Refill, I turned the music down. “Ladybug”, my nickname for her, “I was awarded this fellowship and have to move to NYC for a while.” Silence. I glanced over, she was looking out the window, her brows furrowed. “At first I didn’t even know I’d have to move. But it’s a really good opportunity to help me reach my goals.” More silence. Then sniffles. She was crying.

“You okay, Ladybug?”

“You’re leaving?” she said, before crying harder. And then I cried too. I hadn’t expected her to be so emotional. Later, when I told my best friend, she said, “Why were you shocked? You guys are intertwined. Of course she’d be affected.”

I assured Jordyn I’d only be a phone call away, and for the first year, I made sure I was home on Fridays to pick her up from school. Throughout the three-year fellowship, I did the God Mommy thing from a distance surprising her with visits, dropping everything to come home when she needed me, while also committing fully to the fellowship. I wanted to quit so many times, but I pushed through and finished strong.

At the end of my final year, the producing office I worked with had a show, MEXODUS, opening Off-Broadway with Audible. I was so proud of the show and the work I had done as the culmination of my fellowship years. When my boss told me I had two tickets to opening night, I immediately knew I wanted Jordyn there. She’d visited me in NYC before, but this was different. I wanted her to celebrate the “final hooray” of the three years I had sacrificed with me.

We showed up to her first “Broadway” opening night in our 90’s Hip Hop chic fits. She rocked silver bamboo earrings, a Black Girl Magic graphic tee, a leather cargo skirt, and bow-embellished tights with matching shoes. I was in my Peace, Love, Hip Hop graphic tee, gold bamboo earrings, shades, leather pants and Jordan 1s. “Flyer than the rest of ’em,” in my Wale voice. Ladybug loved the show, snapped pictures at the theater and with the cast, and turned into full-on Social Susie at the afterparty. I never want her to forget the example of choosing yourself, even when it’s hard, even when you’re a giver and take care of others around you, which she is.

So here’s to the lessons, the risks, and the quest of dream manifestation. Here’s to agape love. Here’s to Jordyn Sierra! I still dream of loving bicoastally, and as I take the necessary steps to reach my goals, I want Ladybug to come with me, while also keeping my heart open to supporting her as she chooses her own path.