I write narratives and short stories.
I am no poet.
But, today a sister in the game needs a chorus.

I, too, met a man in the game and got married.
I took my love for him to the altar with my dreams and goals in tow.
What the Word didn’t teach is what the world would expect:
That young wifey would live life off the grid with a quieted voice nobody would ever know.
For some that may be cool, but for many it’s a challenge like forcing a circle into a space made for a square.

Today the news is all busy talking about the women in the game.
A subject that most in the media have little authority on which to debate.
If the sister ain’t on a soup commercial or cooking and caretaking on some other product ad
You fellas don’t seem to want to hear her speak.
She dare not voice her opinion or
Ask why you do the same old thing just because somebody has always
Done the same old thing or she will get dismissed
As a mouthy, opinionated, interfering woman who doesn’t know her place.
Her place is over there
Or at the house
Or doing something to support the team
In a way that supports and protects the brand, of course.
What does that mean?
Don’t ever call the stupid stupid.
Don’t ever point out the obvious even if it can be supported by stats.
Don’t demand that people respect you like they respect the guys
And by all means, protect the egos
And the brand.

In general it means love your guy, love the game, chose your words with wise measure and Speak only with those with whom you feel safe.

The sisters in the shadows have a role, but not employment.
The sisters in the shadows have expectations from the brand that gives them residual benefits via their man.
We married men we loved who had a love for a game.
Then we learned that we dare not complain about a thang.
Cuz folks will say “She knew what she was getting into!”
Dang, did I really go to law school
To prepare to drive in a carpool.
Now, that would be the plan of fool.

I say, “Yay!” to the sister who finds a way to live out of the shadow of the game.
I say, “Yay!” to the sister who speaks in a voice clear and plain.
I say, “Yay!” to the men who empower sisters with voices and strength and say,
“Be strong, vibrant, independent and great.”

Are you comfortable forcing sisters into the shadows because of tradition and power ?
Have you ever thought about your complicity in quieting the voice of smart, capable sisters?
Are you engaging in the banter and debate without inviting the sisters out of the shadow to speak about their skill sets, their choices, and the sacrifices they make?

There is no one face of the women who live in the shadows of the games.
There are not two faces that represent the women who live in the shadows of the games.
There are many faces.
There are many women.
We are wives.
We are significant others.
We are mothers.
We are caretakers.
We are working moms.
We are furniture packers and movers.
We are community volunteers and activists.
We are business owners.
We are educated and skilled.
We are strong.
We are resilient.
We are proud.
We are women with voices who ought not be shamed for speaking to or about the business that controls the movements of our families, our emotions, our culture and the people we love.

Ode to my sisters in the shadows
Who live and stand strong.
Ode to my sisters in the shadows
Who decide to support the men they love who have love for a game.
Stand strong together my sisters in the shadows until
You find the perfect audience for your voice.
Oh…and when you find it, find a way to live right there.

All I wanted one morning of my recent mini vacation was to escape from everything and enter a creative space occupied only by me, my thoughts, dreams, imagination, journal and of course the pen.  After entering what I believed would be the perfect place, I found people in the room and those on a television talking politics.  “Oh my,” read my thought bubble, “not right now, people.”  After the space failed to live up to my ideal writing environment, I decided to relocate to a more suitable place that was recommended by someone who was trying to support the needs of the writer in me.  Well, when I arrived at the next location, I saw that it might have been perfect the night before, but that morning there were a host of convention seekers and transient folks doing the things that professional meeting attendees do before delving into the topics that make their industries successful.  They create a buzz with their idol and often pretentious chatter and they busy themselves with their intentional networking movements in the common areas of the meeting space.  And then there were the folks emerged in conversations with hotel staff about why this space would be a perfect location for their next shindig.  While it may have been perfect for business meeting and shindigs, it was not so prefect for a girl like me who just wanted a creative space that promoted the artist within.

It was southern California, for crying out loud, and I was removed from the normal hurried pace of my life.  Why shouldn’t I have expected a welcoming creative space for writing?  The day prior, I was looking at palm trees, water and sunshine anticipating the writing potential on a calm, sunny, peaceful morning.  That morning when I awoke it was cool and breezy with a view of construction.  The new hotel entrance they were constructing would definitely be quite fancy when they get done, but for now it deserved those panels of black curtains to block the view or one of those walls you see on a busy corridor of city block when things are under construction.  I began to wonder if the men laboring to smooth out the cement for the new walkway and laboring over the placement of the stone pavers for the planters and pillars even knew that those politicians on that television in the other space cared so much about them.  I wondered it they knew or cared that the really smart people milling around me paid a lot of money for coffee, water and access to a big screen and a microphone to present powerpoint slides that day.  I wished that somebody cared that the only table upon which I could rest my journal was positioned to prevent access from the outside to what I am told was the pre-construction hotel entrance.  Their attempt to redirect traffic to the new temporary entrance by using the only table in the space failed miserably.  Maybe they should have locked the door and hidden the key from the staff.  Did dude really think it was ok to slide the doors open while giving me the “oops, I’m so sorry” look in order to pardon him for opening the door in front of the table being used to block the entrance.  It was a little frustrating that dude, the service provider, was working hard to accommodate the traveler with the roller bag who must have missed ALL of the bright orange cones and the signage with large arrows directing him to the temporary entrance on the other side of the yellow construction tape, at my expense.  Thanks to that helpful hotel employee I got a fresh whiff of the chorus of sandblaster noises needed to create a welcoming hotel entrance some day.  Now I know that in addition to making a lot of noise, the process of grinding cement and smoothing walkways generates a lot of dust.

When I went to bed the night before, I planned to spend my morning in a quiet space with my journal, my computer, my pen and a cup of coffee.  I gave it a gallant effort, but all I generated was this blog entry espousing my comedy of errors on a gray, chilly morning in southern California.  And to top it all off, my coffee was cold by the time I found this noisy, dusty spot.  As I sat giggling about the rather unbelievable series of happenings that morning, I got a text and then a call from a friend.  She asked how my break was going and I started telling her about my morning and laughing out loud.  Even though I wasn’t doing exactly what I planned to do that morning, it was fun to have the time for the adventure and to sit with my cold cup of coffee on a cool morning and laugh about it with a friend.  While I was talking to her, she heard me say, “Pardon me? Are you serious?” to a person near me and I explained that the saga of the writer looking for the perfect place to write had gotten better.  I had been asked to gather my things so that they could move the table.

Today, my message is short and sweet:  Find ways to enjoy your time with the children who grace your space.  I have always loved music and dancing.  I find myself dancing at random moments to really awesome beats.  Sometimes when I hear a song that moves me I even sing along (even if I don’t know all of the words).  When I was growing up, my family loved music and dancing was a natural progression.

When I was a child, my brother had a band called the I-85 Express.  I am not sure how it happened that our garage became their rehearsal hall, but it was for a period of time.  They would rehearse all of the latest music from the R&B (rhythm and blues) charts and often some songs that were on the pop chart.  As I recall, the guys would arrive at our house in the evening and spend at least a two or three hours arranging music and rehearsing their parts.  I looked forward to these weekly jam sessions in the garage.  I always appreciated my brother’s ability to create the melodies I heard on the radio.  He was gifted with amazingly soothing and mellow vocals.  He also played the saxophone, the keyboards, the guitar and the flute.  He was a band director so he had some level of skill on most instruments, but those were the ones I remember him playing.  I remember one night in particular they needed a female vocalist to sing a part and he let me join the band’s rehearsal.  I wish that I could remember the song, but it escapes me now. However, I still smile when I think about that memory and my brothers chuckle and smile as he encouraged me to step out of a safe zone and try something new.  He allowed me for a moment to join in what brought him enormous joy, peace and pleasure.  For a brief moment, I became a member of the I-85 Express.  My brother was seventeen years older than me so I was much too young to go to the places where they played their gigs and they stayed up and out way past my bed time.  But, I have never forgotten my brother’s invitation that allowed me a glimpse into the wonder of his world.  It was fun and exciting and memorable.

My father also loved music and at random times he and my mother would dance.  I have always thought that the dances of their day were cool.   The energetic bounce of the jitterbug and the sultry slow drag always stopped me in my tracks so that I could watch them take in the sounds and block out the rest of the world to see each other.  It was always a magical, beautiful moment.  When my mother was not around and my dad’s favorite dance music would come on, he would use those opportunities to dance with me.  I can remember my mother walking in on one of my dance lessons and stopping to offer an encouraging smile.  Now, that they are both gone, this memory is even more special.

My sister was eleven years older than me and didn’t really invite me into her space that often.  She treated me like an annoying little sister and maybe because I did take many opportunities to be just that.  Honestly, I took pride in my ability to annoy her.  I also took full advantage of my ability to gather intel for my parents whether they asked for it or not and tell on her every time I could.  So, her keeping me at bay was probably to her advantage most of the time.  My sister struggled with mental illness from the time I was eleven, but music was always a constant.  I think it calmed her and gave her an escape from her monsters.  I didn’t understand that then, but I learned later that she needed music.  Now, there is music therapy and the studies about the impact of music on people from the fetal stage through senior years.  I am not sure if she read that someplace or if she just knew what it did for her.  My sister had an awesome music collection that included every album of every artist or group on the R&B and pop charts.  She listened to music and sang constantly.  My problem with her in my latter teen years was that she thought that everyone wanted to hear her tunes ALL of the time and she would play her music while I tried to watch television or study or visit with friends or talk on the phone and dare me to tell.  By now, it was known that music calmed the beast so she used her music to soothe and control.  Needless to say, I learned a lot of the popular hits and furthered my appreciation for all genres of music.

My childhood memories influenced my parenting.  I encouraged my kids to learn to play instruments and join the middle school bands.  We endured the learning of the oboe, the viola, the piano, all of the percussion instruments.  We sang in the car, in the grocery store, and any other place we felt the spirit move.  When my kids were very young, we would stop in our tracks and dance to the music playing over the speakers in the stores.  I love those memories of dancing with them in places not designed to be dance floors.  I hope that I taught them to laugh and to embrace spontaneity.  I hope they learned that they should have the freedom to live out loud and make life fun.  I realize now that my parents raised three artists and raising artists means the square pegs probably won’t fit in the round holes.  Music became a method of expression, connection and instruction for my family and I passed that on to my children.  Because it is Black History Month I am reminded of the role of music through slavery and the Civil Rights Movement to teach and deliver messages of freedom and deliverance.  My children had the gift of being raised by an artist and I pray that my efforts to gift them my uniquenesses at unique moments will bless them for the rest of their lives.   I hope that more people will see the value of the arts like music and dance and encourage their children to create diversely populated music libraries and raise up a legacy of folks who love music and who will allow music to infiltrate their spaces and their spirits.