This year is the first year, possibly since I’ve been a blogger, that I didn’t write a Mother’s Day post.  I had every intention of doing one.  I woke up, wrote two different drafts.  My friend Mo sent me a text saying to just meditate and let my mom speak to me.  And I did. I wrote two letters to her.

I didn’t feel like being sad and talking about how much I missed her, or crying through the posting process.  It was me and Mama on her day.  I miss her every day.  The keen sting of her absence is present with me every day.  But rather than wallow, my letters were spent thanking her.  It’s only fitting, because I feel that the best of me came from her.  When you look at the course of a life, 17 years is not a long time to spend with a family member.  How she managed to pack so much in is still pretty amazing.

I spend a lot of time on Mother’s Day reflecting as a daughter.  I think losing a mother stunts a lot of us in that way.  I haven’t done a list in a while, so, here are ten things Mama taught me about being a mama myself:

1. There was always room.  She shied away from exclusive cliques and “mean girls.”  If you were human, she had space for you in her world.
2. If you’ve committed yourself to help someone else, get off your own bullshit. Be present. Don’t make the situation about you.
3. Eat your breakfast. The world will be there when you finish.
4. Boxed food is the devil. I never knew the Hamburger Helper, Kraft Mac n Cheese life. Every single one of her meals were cooked from the scratchiest of scratch.
5. Stop rushing to be first in everything.  Your turn always comes around.
6. Coffee should have muscles.  To this day, if I make a pot of coffee, it could power a freight train for three days.
7. Mind your business.  Stand for the right things, but nothing buys you a bonus ass whipping like getting involved in other people’s foolishness.
8. Be as peaceable as possible.  Whip ass when necessary.  To this date, I do not like fighting. If I’m placed in a position where I HAVE to fight, I’m pissed beyond measure. It won’t end well.
9. Your family can be wrong. Your friends can be wrong. Be supportive, but don’t cosign bad behavior.
10. Your children are your greatest asset.  They aren’t your cross to bear or the thing that keeps you from a robust social life. They are your legacy. When no one else remembers you, your children will. Make those memories good.

Having a mom like her blessed me beyond measure, and however unfair losing her so soon may have been, I’m still better for having had her at all.  Hopefully as a mom, I’m doing her proud.

The year is 1981.  My four year-old self had just watched Superman kick Zod’s entire ass and it was glorious.  In 1981, Superman was THE superhero movie to see.  It had action, conflict and even romance.  The Christopher Reeve helmed Superman franchise went strong for nine years.  Of course, by the end, it had lost a bit of it’s luster.  (I still haven’t seen all of A Quest for Peace.  I actually act like that movie and Christopher Reeve’s death never happened, as nature intended.) As the fervor for Superman waned, we were reintroduced to Batman.  And not our parents’ Batman either.  There was a darkness that was missing from the campy Adam West era.

Then DC Comics just stopped giving a damn.

Of course your first argument is Batman as we know him today.  What Christopher Nolan has done for the Batman franchise is unparallelled.  I’ll be the first to say that The Dark Knight trilogy thus far has been more than I could ever imagined for any movie, comic book adaptation notwithstanding.  I fully expect him to outdo himself in Dark Knight Rises.  Fully.  I would be shocked if I left that movie disappointed, and I am a person who typically expects the third movie to be a complete turd sandwich.  But this is a rare hit in a series of misses.  DC just can NOT hit the mark when it comes to comic book movies.

There biggest issue is diversity.  Since 1951, there have been 24 “big name” DC Comic movies (including the yet to be released Dark Knight Rises and Man of Steel).  Sixteen of those movies were Batman or Superman related (including the yet to be released Dark Knight Rises and Man of Steel – see where this is problematic?). The others? Supergirl, Catwoman, two Swamp Things, Steel, Watchmen^,* Jonah Hex and Green Lantern.

Supergirl was bad.  Catwoman made me want to physically fight the person who cast Halle Berry.  They saw what she did to Storm. Pairing Berry’s lackluster acting skills with that partial birth abortion script should be considered a high crime against humanity and I have not abandoned the idea of having all involved tried for treason.  Swamp Thing was meh.  Steel starred Shaq.  Green Lantern failed to hold my attention, even with it’s super cool graphics.  I swore I would give it another chance, but should I have to try that hard to like a movie?

Now while in conference with The Former Harlem Bon Vivant Turned Suburban Consigliere, he brought to light that DC’s lack of IP ownership is a huge part of their problem.  I’ll try to go easy on them with that.  (Stan Lee got it right.  I can think of nine different Marvel franchises that have killed at the box office, and that’s BEFORE The Avengers blew everyone away.)

So let’s say that I forgive them for not even sniffing at movies for Wonder Woman, Flash, Night Wing, The Teen Titans, Green Arrow or Aquaman.^# That fails to explain why the Superman franchise refuses to acknowledge any arch-nemesis other than Lex Luthor.  Can a sister get some Darkside?  Where Doomsday at?  You can’t come up with a workable script involving Brainiac?  It’s incomprehensible.

DC is also horrible with casting.  I’m thankful for Michael Keaton and Christian Bale, but someone still needs to answer for Val Kilmer and George Clooney.  Alicia Silverstone was also Batgirl.  That happened and we allowed it.  Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor in Superman Returns and Kevin Spacey as Dr. Evil in Austinpussy? Same guy. Aside from the obvious exceptions, DC Universe screen adaptations have a habit of going for named stars or people who “look” the role, rather than taking risks on lesser known talent.

And the scripts are abominable.  I look at Tommy Lee Jones in Batman Forever and think, “Someone told him to do that.  Someone told him to do that and thought it was okay.”  Get your shit together DC Universe.  Get it together and until you do, I better not ever, EVER see you touch this:

I’m serious, bro.

^* Watchmen is one of the most amazing graphic novels you can ever hope to get your hands on.  If you’ve never read it, do so.  Immediately.  It’s very hard to complain about the screen adaptation, as they were remarkably true to the book, down to scenes mimicking the frames in the book.  My sole complaint is…it shouldn’t have been a movie.  Just as not every great movie will be a great book, not every great book guarantees a great movie.  Watchmen stimulated your mind in a way that forced your imagination to be stretched.  Movies tend to do a certain amount of thinking for you, which caused Watchmen to feel slightly ham-fisted.  It wasn’t bad.  It just wasn’t right for the big screen.

^# I am so totally kidding. No one wants to see a fucking Aquaman movie.  Not even Aquamom.

Yall. I cried for Alfre Woodard dyin. I cried for Delroy Lindo as a single dad. I cried for little black girls who have to grow up too fast.

- @MeLaMachinko

Crooklyn was a movie that I loved from the first time I saw it.  Already a fan of Spike Lee’s take no prisoner style of filmmaking, his semi-autobiographical tale touched me deeper than any of his other movies.  The Carmichaels, and particularly the daughter Troy, were black and utterly real to me.  Of course there’s no one way to depict a black family, but on the big screen, there’s a compulsion to paint us as abnormally perfect or hopelessly dysfunctional.  The Carmichaels were beautiful in their flaws.  The way they loved and fought pulled me in, because that was what I knew of family.  When Carolyn died, my heart squeezed.  When they showed Troy stepping up to take her mother’s place as family caretaker, then my heart just burst.

Growing up, I’ve seen a million Troys. Variations of dark (or not so dark) girls on spindly legs with backpacks almost as large as they are, keeping their siblings in line; the unofficial Mama, Jr.  They all have that same look: firm jaw; eyes always on guard, prepared to roll at their younger sibling’s smallest infractions; an authoritative stance, no matter how small they are.  Fierce and bossy, they can run a household before they turn twelve.

I was Troy.  With my mother being ill the majority of my life, I don’t remember not having an active role in running the household. I cooked my first breakfast at four, was changing diapers at six and was responsible for combing hair by the time I was eight.  When I was ten, I’d already mastered the art of eye rolls and exhaustion. I know what it’s like to have tired eyes by the time you’re fifteen and a soul so weary, you can’t process that you’re about to lose your mama until she’s almost gone.

Loss and responsibility is not unique to black girls, of course.  The way we must bear it, however, is disproportionately harsher than non-black girls.  The world falls very squarely on far too many of our tiny shoulders.  When your resources are limited, options in the way of assistance are also limited.  By the time we’re women, too many of us have dealt with issues far above our pay grade, and the reaction to us is visceral and unforgiving.  We’re dismissed as broken and angry, and far too few people care to examine what has actually broken or angered us.

Through no fault of our own, or anyone else’s for that matter, we learn that at any moment, we’ll have to fend for ourselves and deal. We’re forced to shout, even in moments we most desperately crave quiet. We cry in private, if at all, and move through our routine; because everyone is hungry, and dinner can’t wait.  We don’t get to have fragile hearts.  We need hearts capable of bench pressing.  Everyone else is relying on you, including the adults in your life who consider you an extension of themselves.

There’s a certain invisibility that comes with being a Troy.  An invisibility that comes with an expectation of perfection.  You’re denied the tiniest amount of your childhood because you have to be the example.  It’s neither wrong, nor is it fair.  It’s just life.  Then if you mess up (and when you think you’re more “grown” than you are, you inevitably mess up), people shake their heads and bemoan the childhood you missed. And it’s too damn sad, too damn late and happens too damn often.

Just know that you’re not invisible.  I see and have love for each and every one of you.  Not only your power-lifting exterior, but the fragile part of you that everyone else – including you – seems to have forgotten.  No matter what your responsibilities are, you are just as sweet and lovable and worthy of protection.

I love my life. My multifaceted, hilarious life.  But sometimes, most times, I feel like a verb. I’m lucky enough to have some chances to feel like Mel, the noun.  I hate that those times just feel like vacation though.  When you’re a person, or even a place or a thing, there’s a certain amount of protection that you’re afforded.  As a verb, I feel raw and exposed.  Sometimes that’s appropriate and necessary.  I want things to be a little more balanced.  I hate that when I have moments of utter peace, I’m quaking in my boots, because utter peace is a totally new thing for me.  Maybe I’m the biggest enemy to my vulnerability.

I’m not feeling particularly smart, pretty or ready for the world today.  I hate days like this – strong face days.  I really just want to sit down and cry. Not for any real reason other than things don’t feel right and I need to get it off my chest.

I probably won’t though. Too much other verb stuff to do.

I always knew that the day would come where he would need more than I could give him as a mother and a mentor.  I’m glad it happened before he was older, because I hold onto the belief that he’ll be back sooner.  I just wasn’t ready on last Friday.  I definitely wasn’t ready for his mature, well thought out (though at times misguided) reasons for wanting to make this change. Surprisingly, though I felt this small lump in my throat and hole in my heart, I didn’t cry.  When he became overcome with his own emotions, I couldn’t cry.  I had to reassure him that his need to leave didn’t hurt.  Or at least, I didn’t want him to wrongly translate my tears. The smile and lanky figure that slouches out the door at 7:18 every morning won’t be a part of the daily routine for a year. It hurts, not like being left by a person.  It hurts like losing an arm.

We’ll talk, of course.  We’ll Skype and I’ll fly him back and I’ll visit home more often.  But I’ve always maintained that our family is a unit, and it works best when all of us are present.  He’s my little buddy, and in a VERY elite group of people (Population: 3) who can claim to be loved by me site unseen.  From almost the beginning, I knew he was there.  From that moment, something clicked and I was overcome with the need to do everything possible to protect that little creature.

Now, he’s a lumbering giant, who needs more than I can give.  I’m totally at peace with that aspect of it.  One way or another, every parent has to accept when that time comes.  I don’t like his father.  I have very good reasons for that.  But that is the father I chose for him, and despite his shortcomings, I do know that he loves his son.  Whether I fully like this potential arrangement or not, I don’t have the right to deny either of them this opportunity, as they are both willing.  If the universe is kind, this experience will cause them both to step up and lead them to being better men.  That’s my prayer.

Just knowing that I’m going to be missing this guy tugs at my heart.  But, I taught him to be a good kid.  There are people who don’t agree and will not agree with my allowing him to move.  Sucks for them.  I don’t like it.  At all.  But every soul has a right to connect with the people who brought them here. I have concerns about his father, about him moving back to New Orleans and even if he’ll eat enough vegetables when he’s away from me.  But if he doesn’t go, this will always be an issue that nags at him.  I almost have to do it.

I am putting all of these good vibes in the air, because I need positivity and blessings to surround my child.  That being said I am still a lioness.  Look at his picture, remember it and be warned:  Don’t fuck with my cub.

It’s 2012.  This ain’t your parents’ parenting.

Today, I saw someone on twitter comment on not knowing which tweeters are parents based on their tweets.  I thought about that for a while.  I even talked about it with the fabulous @_MissBre. We discuss the things that we hold dear to our hearts.  What place to our children having in social media?

As little or as much as we see fit based on their cues. The conversation with Bre and I was sparked when we talked about how few people actually ASK about our kids.  I can tell you I’m a parent, but are you really interested?  Or does seeing me be a certain type of parent make you somehow feel better?  I have seen that when someone doesn’t like you, and this predates social media, one of the first things they’ll attack is your parenting.  Is tweeting “like a parent” just another way to put down someone you don’t care for?

I discuss my kids to a certain point on Twitter and Facebook, but I hold my personal relationships dear.  So just like there are things that my friends say and do which I would never discuss via social media, that courtesy is extended ten-fold to my kids.  It’s very easy to use children as source material.  My kids are bright and hilarious.  But I imagine I wouldn’t have wanted all of my foibles indelibly documented for strangers.  There have been times where they have done funny things, then immediately looked at me and said, “Don’t tweet that.”  It’s something that I take for granted.  Just like I want my privacy, they treasure their privacy as well.

I love my babies.  I don’t think that I’m made of super special stuff, so I think it’s fair to assume that MOST of the parents I know love their kids as much as I love mine.  I’ll bet they love theirs just as much as you love yours.  Stop looking for a reason to pick people apart.

It’s funny when my people talked about me moving “Up North.”  Like I was going to Greece or Mars.  Sacrificing my familiar haunts and loved ones for a place with colder winters and (rumored) colder people seemed unthinkable.  But alas, I did it.Leaving behind my everything felt crazy, but liberating.  And yes, the first winter was tough.  The second was even worse.  Sure, there was a lack of the southern comfort feel among a lot of the people that I met.  But it was all tolerable.  Everywhere is different.  Except when they stop being different.

After I stressed to people that though Maryland was north of Louisiana, so is virtually the entire country.  I was in the “mid-Atlantic,” below the Mason-Dixon line and the sweet tea flows like wine here.  Plus there were other touches of home: neighbors bringing dishes over and long chats in the grocery store proved that I would only be a faceless drone here if I chose to be.  I didn’t.

I have a great group of friends here.  I have a favorite bartender and a brunch spot* where everybody knows my name (or at least enough people to make me happy).

But it’s more than the people I know.  There’s the girl who works at the cafe across the street from my job who rides the same train with me every day, the little Jewish man who gets on at Wheaton and the man who is apparently responsible for bringing his kids to day care every Monday. These people always have the same routine.  They sit in the same car, and in the same seat whenever possible.  Sometimes when “strangers” get on, I chastise for taking a regular’s seat.  I see the same people in Dunkin Donuts most mornings, and they simply ask my coffee order as a courtesy.

In this supposed impersonal world I moved to, these people are just like me.  We all go about our lives seeking our own patch of familiar and basking in that comfort. Like one of my adopted grams says, “You can go wherever you want.  Folks is folks, chile.”

Indeed.

* If you live in the DC area and you have not familiarized yourself with Jeremy at Queen Makeda on Wednesdays through Fridays and Tap & Parlour brunch on Saturdays and Sundays, you’ve cheated yourself out of the essence of joy and you have no desire for the goodness in life.

Me: Today was just a bad day.
Friend: *hugs* Another day is just 13 minutes away.

- Working definition of “amazing friend” 

Today, the past few days actually, I’ve felt out of sorts.  I hate when that happens.  I just get that moment where I want, need even, to disappear.  In addition to having a rough evening, I was just randomly hit with so much melancholy.  You ever have someone to talk to, but you wonder if “this” is the thing that will make them run screaming like a banshee on fire?  I’m like that.  I try not to overburden my friends with my “me-ness,” because I don’t want to risk hitting them with that thing.  I try to stay two steps behind the line.  I don’t know if I always succeed at that.

I’m so used to being hard all the time, or at least pretending to be, that just being open is a struggle for me.  I always fight to be as emotionally perfect as possible, when really, there’s no such thing.  I remember a boyfriend once telling me, “I mean…you were just so needy.”  Even when I stopped loving him, I decided that neediness was never something I would do again. If I cry and I don’t know why, then I make myself stop crying.  I definitely don’t tell people if I do.  If I get the sense that I’m forming the SLIGHTEST imposition, I disappear.  It’s hard to let people know when I’m hurting, because my past has shown that’s the place that will be hit first.  It’s funny how the things people say stick with you…especially when they’re not so nice things.  It’s not fair to the people who truly care about me, but It’s hard when you’ve felt alone for so long.

I hate when past sadness taps me on the shoulder.  The Chupacabra Hunter popped up in my head, and I couldn’t get it together.  The sadness that I felt when everything fell apart just came down on me, and I just kept fighting tears.  That situation can’t hurt me anymore, so I don’t know why it bothered me so much today.  I remember thinking that I would never be the same or come back to myself.  I remember being so hurt, because he was my friend, and he lied to my face.  I forgave that a long time ago, but I can’t forget how everything I thought I knew about people was shaken for so long.

And now I’m sitting here thinking that all of that is in the past, and it has nothing to do with anything.  I thought in the months following, that I’d never give my heart to anyone again.  I was out of that business.  I’m so lucky that was a lie.  And when I gave my heart again, he broke it too.  Because life is funny that way.  You really don’t know if the thing that makes you happy will ultimately make you sad.  As sad as that was (and it was REALLY sad), I remembered getting over the Hunter, so I knew I could get over that.  It took a while for me to wrap my mind around really loving someone again.  Not crushing, really digging my feet in the sand and declaring my heart open for business.  But I did.

Because I plan on loving again.  I’ll love without apology and with every ventricle, atrium, artery and vein.  Love can have my aorta and my vena cava (superior and inferior).  Because I’m lucky to know any type of love at all.  As much as it hurt when things ended with the Hunter, I also can’t forget how my sister sat on the phone with me every day on the way home and let me cry, without asking me any questions are judging.  That love borders divinity.  So if I love you, thank her, and people like her who have seen me at my lowest and loved me without stipulation.  The people who protected my heart when it was at its most fragile and never threw it back in my face are forever gold to me.  From them, I learned to give everything, because in truth, regardless where it comes from, love always comes back.

You've gotta be bullshittin me.

My job.  I’m over it.  Unfortunately, my kids aren’t over food, clothing and shelter. So high maintenance and selfish.

Next week is “Administrative Professionals Day” which my gig combines with Staff Appreciation Week.  At some point, we’ll receive a gift with a company logo, which isn’t a gift so much as it is marketing.  Imagine I give you some shit with my picture etched in it every year? I’m the asshole after year three.  However, if we’re keeping this all the way live, you’re the asshole for not beating me with a sock full of nickels after year two.

Most employers are playing the abusive partner role.  ”Well, you know there’s no one else out there who wants you.”  Soon enough, your coworkers are singing the “a piece of job is better than no job at all” blues.  It’s amazing how swiftly we can be resigned to poor treatment.  We’ll walk away from bad relationships for underwear on the floor, but biweekly disrespect in the way of pay is tolerated everywhere with regularity.

My job struck my last nerve when our firm’s chairman, after not addressing the staff’s lack of raises and bonuses since 2008, said “I know a lot of you believe attorneys were born rich.” To call myself livid would be a disservice to my emotions. I understand that my superiors have a totally different, and more involved skill set than I do.  I don’t want what THEY have. I want my fair share and to be compensated equally.  The cost of living increases by slightly less than 4%.  Our raises have been 2% since 2009.  If you can give these cats two bonuses (as they did receive last year), I’m sure you can throw my folks and I an extra week’s pay.

Except I realized that this isn’t my shit.  They don’t have to give me anything more than what they said they would.  If I continue to work for that, well, I’m the asshole.  So, fuck em.  I’m not gonna cuss people out on the intercom and jump on a giant slide out of the building. But now? “I’m focused, MAN.”  My talent and passion comes before ANYTHING at my day gig, to the extent that I can control it.

It’s truly a blessing in disguise when employers show themselves.  It reminds people who belong elsewhere to do their damnedest to get there. If homeboy hadn’t gotten in front of the entire firm and said, “Ay, I got mine. You broke fucks will deal,” I’d probably have gotten soft, written a thing here or there.  I’d turn into this poor sap who was satisfied with people telling her she was too talented to be “doing this.”

So whenever I write something dope, thank my gig for being a diseased anal cavity and making my personal success a compulsion, and not a dream.

You know what never fails to confuse me? People who don’t like me.  It’s not that I feel I’m beyond the scope of being disliked.

What’s not to like?  I’m nice, funny and if you hang around long enough, you’ll get a meal out of the deal.  Every once in a while, there’s someone who doesn’t dig me, and I don’t get it.  I always wonder if it’s something I’ve “done.”  Maybe their first impression of me was something rude or out of pocket.  Or maybe it’s not me at all.  Maybe I just stick in their craw and they aren’t here for my crap.  There are people we don’t like, or who don’t like us, and it has nothing to do with being offensive.  Not everyone is going to be friends.

Today I randomly happened upon pictures of J and his family.  They were all strangers to me; even him.  It’s strange, because he was the third person I told about being pregnant with my firstborn.  He brought me snacks when I was on bedrest.  I remember him being in need one night, and I sent the ex out to pick him up and had a hot meal waiting for him when he got home.  J was my family.  When I saw the pictures today, a tiny part of my heart broke.  If we had a fight, I could understand.  The drop-off makes me just a little uneasy.

One day we were friends, the next, we weren’t friends, or even strangers.  You extend polite greetings to strangers, right?  I’ve reached out to him, and received radio silence.  I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt or confuse me.  I know some people will chalk it up to a situation that was more than friendly, but that wasn’t it at all.  He was my friend.  He came to visit me after my C-section, and the simple  act of standing in the corner with his “I’m not going to say anything” face almost made me bust my stitches, literally.

I don’t understand how you go from having this unspoken friend language, to not being anything based on nothing.  I miss my sweet, funny friend.  I’m not used to losing friends ever.  Losing a great friend?  Well, I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with that.