My, How You've Grown

One way to see how much you've grown is to examine your past and present reaction to challenges and pain in your life. I had a growth check recently.....when someone I care deeply about hurt me.

In the past I've always reacted to hurt with stubborn indifference and prompt removal from the situation. If I had to leave the person, place or thing that I saw as the cause of my hurt or disappointment I would do it - no matter what.

The rush to removal has cost me . I've left relationships and friendships before there was sufficient cause to do so . Sometimes I've taken proactive measures and found an exit when I perceived a hurt or disappointment approaching.

I learned that pattern long ago and I practiced it every chance I got. My enthusiastic Fuc U approach has garnered many compliments from female friends and relatives. They've often said that they wished they could leave a guy and cut ties the way they'd seen me do so often. They thought it was easy. I even convinced myself it was easy. But it's not easy, it's just what I had gotten used to. It didn't take courage or confidence to jet. Leaving had become my natural reaction to fear of pain, as natural as breathing in and out.

What really takes courage is to learn a new way of reacting. A long time ago I read somewhere that everything that human beings do or don't do is motivated by fear. And if you think about it - its true in many cases. ie. I can't choose that major because it requires too much math and I'm afraid I will fail. I don't drive over the speed limit because I'm afraid of getting a ticket, jail and an insurance payment increase. I go to work on time because I m afraid of losing my job.
So, I had to ask myself what fear motivated my quick disposal of the perceived givers of hurt. The best answer I could come up with is, I was afraid of being further hurt, and having it happen over and over again and not being able to stop it. After thinking long and hard about it I realized I let people into my life who I suspected would hurt me partly because I knew I could play the whole "I don't put up with no shit, get out!" thing. Sick, I know......thank God for therapy.

At the ripe old age of 43 I've made a realization about myself. Somewhere in the last four years I learned a new kind of courage. I saw this shiny new courage in action when I was hurt by a person I love with my entire heart. Don't misunderstand me, I was still hurt. I cried and I felt sick to my stomach for two days. But I didn't revert back to my previous role as the professional Peace Out ! queen. This time I thought it through, I was honest with the person about my feelings and I was open to a solution to the problem and a salve for my hurt feelings.

When it was all over I felt great. I was so proud of myself. Listen, I'm not bragging, I've been there with Me and I know! It has not been an easy ride. I deserve to give my self an atta-girl.
It's great to look back at my progress and marvel.

This metamorphosis didn't happen over night. It took some time and I had to do the work. It all came down to my fear of living the rest of my life in Fear.

First You Make A Roux

That's the first line of many recipes in Louisiana. You ask, "Mama, how do you make gumbo?" She answers, "First you make a roux......."

If you're 7 years or older you don't have to ask, "What is roux, and how do you make it?" But you may ask, "What color, or how dark?" The answer to those questions vary from cafe au lait colored to peanut butter to dark chocolate. The color of the roux determines the color and taste of the gravy or sauce.

Upon the approach of my move back to New Orleans - I'm wondering what color or how dark I should make my "The Move Home" roux.

Should I make a blond roux, like I would for a cream sauce? That would do for small tasks like sipping sugary cafe au lait at Cafe Du Monde, eating beignets and reading the Sunday paper. If I make it the shade of powder foundation my aunt Lorita wears it might work to get me pass continuing to pay the toll to cross the Crescent City Connection - 25 years after the promised pay off date. Perhaps peanut butter would prevent me from saying numerous curse words when it's no where near closing time and the girl at the drive through of my favorite Popeye's Chicken Restaurant tells me, "We ain't got no chicken!" Roux the color of Denzel Washington would work when I have to face the over-lay of gloom and depression painted onto my city. I'm sure I'll need a a dark chocolate color roux to stand up to all of the things that played into my decision to move away in the first place.

There's a darker roux -but you have to be really careful not to cross over to the burnt roux line. It takes a skilled roux maker to get a really dark roux just right. The dark roux can carry almost anything. I can make the darker roux - but I hope I don't have to.

Hey Nineteen

My 19 year old daughter showed up at 6:30 this morning after staying out all night. My sister with whom she lives was worried and upset. I was worried and upset. We did the usual talking points…….and went off to get ready for work.

I’m sitting here at my desk trying to sort out my feelings about all of this.

This is a precarious time for my daughter and me. Legally she is an adult. She can vote, drive and obtain credit cards. In theory, she’s old enough to make important decisions that will affect her life for years or even a lifetime. She is physically mature. In fact her body belies her youth and screams grown woman. She is intelligent, well rounded and socially adept. With all of that said, so was I at her age.

It’s amazing how much we didn’t know when we thought we knew everything. In hindsight the miniscule amount of information we know about ourselves and the world is staggering.

Frankly, I’m horrified. Sitting here with my forty-one year old cache of life skills and experience, I can’t help but be concerned for my child. Yes, that’s right, “my child.” As long as we live on this planet together, that’s what she will be to me. My child. Much of what we do as parents is geared toward protecting and guiding our children. It’s engrained in us so much so – that we see danger and snares a mile away. When danger appears we want to scream, “Watch out for that car, get out of the way!” But to the young person our warnings come across as unwarranted and over reactive.

She’s too old for a spanking or a preteen beat down. She’s too young to be told, “Peace out, figure it out ya damn self!” So, all I know to do is pray and talk to her when I can, and hang the hell up when I can’t. But it’s hard.

Sugar Daddy

I need to spend more time with my daddy. He’s getting older and I can’t ignore his mortality anymore. He wears his age well but I see a much older man than the invincible daddy of my childhood. He and I have had a contentious relationship for the better part of my young life. We’re friends now, but the road has been long and winding.

As I grew up and made my own mistakes I realized how he must have felt when I stood in judgment of him. Sometimes, I literally hated him. I thought he was the devil incarnate. I don’t think he was the devil now, but I know he was a willing conduit for the devil at many different times in his life. I believe I felt such a strong hatred towards him because our relationship began with me worshipping him. I had to fight hard to hate him, because I still wanted him to be the daddy I used to worship. I still wished he could be a good husband to my mamma, and a good father to me. Since I still had that hope, I’d let the hatred ebb for a minute to check to see if he had changed. Of course he didn’t change – so the hatred again flowed. That cycle repeated itself throughout my teenage years.

When I was in my early twenties I softened to him a bit. I think the birth of my daughter gave me a different perspective on being a parent. I took off a few pieces of my armor and extended an olive branch to him - but I was still cautious. Looking out for that gut-punch feeling I got when he did something to hurt me. Checking over my shoulder to see if my armor was still there because I might need it at anytime. That time never came.

I can’t remember my daddy ever being really angry with me. Even when I wished him dead, well not dead, but I certainly wished for grave bodily harm to befall him immediately. He took responsibility for his failings and patiently waited for my heart to change. Over the years I let my guard down as much as I could – but I did test him from time to time. I’d have a flashback of one of the laundry list of shit he’d done in the past. So I’d bring those things up and watch for him to deny responsibility for his actions or try some revisionist history crap. But he stood firm and put my hurt and fragile feelings ahead of his feelings of guilt and shame.

Now 20 years later I love to see him. I love to sit beside him and feel arm his pressed up against mine. He and I laugh and joke like we’re old friends. He is not perfect, in fact he can say some downright “ignit” shit sometimes, but I accept him as he is. I know that some of his feisty ways are part of who I am, and I like that. When I’m with him I feel special and loved unconditionally. I know that he “gets” me. He doesn’t judge me or chide my own foolish behavior the way I did him.

I love to look at him. He’s gone from a good looking, cocky man who talked a lot of shit to a serene, handsome, regal looking older man. He still talks shit, but I like that about him.

When I sit beside my daddy now I feel like I’m eating warm pecan candy.

Ready? Set? Go!

I'm ready to go home. For a while I never thought I'd say that.

I moved here three years and eleven months ago. Immediately, I fell in love with the away -from-home-ness of it and the unfamiliar weather. The coldish people and the bland food took a little longer to grow on me. The expanse of the unfamiliar gave me room to grow. Room to think. I've heard myself think more in the last four years than I have my whole life. I was free to open up to new thinking, new ideas, and to freedom.


I had no excuses. There was nothing and no one standing in the way of me creating the life I want for myself. So, that's what I did.


I erected a new life for Angie. I catered to myself. I made a peaceful and serene space for my self. I read. I went to school. I connected with a friend/mentor/therapist/guide. I sent my baby back out into creation to test her 18 year old wings. I made new friends and I made friends with myself. I got sick and I healed more than a few times. I reconnected with God in a way that I never thought possible. I forgave my demons and laid them to rest.


Now it's time for the next step, the next breath, the next adventure, the next joy, the next lesson.


I feel much the way I did when it was time to move four years ago. Anxious. Excited. Hopeful and ready. I'm preparing for my next season so I'll be set and I'll go.

Call me, here’s my number and a dime…..

I made the call.

The call I’d been afraid to make for five years. To say I was afraid is not completely honest. At first I was angry, “Damn her! I hope I never have to talk to her again!” Next, I was uneasy, “I hope I don’t see her out somewhere. That would be awkward.” After I left the state I felt relieved and removed from the possibility of having to face her. Finally here, five years later – I was feeling guilty. “Damn, I should call her.”

After I stepped back from the situation I could see the players with more clarity. My co-starring role in the play became more apparent – at which point I realized that I had not been totally correct in my actions and reactions. If fact, I had been dead wrong, hence the guilt.

(Hummph! Who needs all this damn clarity?!? )

So, I called her. The friend I had buried away somewhere in my memories. The one who had been like a sister to me. The one who’s friendship I cherished. So, you know I’m nervous right? I dialed four digits and hung up. “Ummm, I need to pray.” After a quick petition for guidance and courage I went on and dialed the number. The phone seemed to ring forever….giving me time to think….”what if she’s mad?”……..what if she doesn’t want to talk to me?.........what if she asks me why I didn’t call sooner? Then I heard her say, “Hello.” And I think I heard myself say “Hello.” When she recognized my voice she said, “Angie?!?” and I said, “Urban Red?!?”, and that was all it took. It was as if we had just spoken yesterday.

No angry words or recriminations – and none of the ugly scenes I played out in my head came to pass. It was exactly the right time for both of us, therefore natural and genuine. I apologized for a laundry list of things and she did too. We caught up on each others lives and families. We said we love each other and parted with heavy sighs and light hearts.

I’m glad I made the call.

Write About You?

I don't do blog requests. You've asked me to write about you - but I just can't.
When I try to write about someone because they've asked me to, it comes across as contrived and flat. That's why I don't do blog requests.

See, I wouldn't be able to translate the happy warm feeling I get when I talk to you.

If I tried to explain how you make me laugh until I cry, it wouldn't come out right.I can't adequately describe the way we act like 13 year olds, saying silly things and using silly voices. How we talk about people....Muzzai...The Mayor...Sour Butt...Cacklin' Hens. It' beyond explanation.

If I attempted to express how proud I am of you - it would sound too mushy. Writing about how I'm in awe of you, such a little woman with such a big spirit. Wife, mother, sister, cousin,friend and daughter. To say I don't know how your slight frame can carry so many weighty responsibilities, wouldn't be enough.

I can't assign the proper sentences to explain how you came to see me - and brought a big batch of "home" with you. After all, just saying Zatarains fried catfish, Camelia red beans, and gumbo file' don't capture the essence of the gifts you brought me.

I can't write about how your vision of me picks me up when I can't see it for myself. It's all to complicated to put into words.

So Tiny, do you see why I don't take requests?