Lessons at the Gate

When I was at Spelman College, the back gate was one of the most important things for me.  Why, you might ask? Because the back gate was the place where we Spelman women were picked up for our dates.  It was where the action was.  There, you might see cars of all sorts zooming by to gaze upon the dynamic beauty gathered at the gate. Often, groups walked up and glided away with their special one, while a few seemed to just stand, hoping someone would approach them.  Like hunters, they waited to perhaps pick off the weak ones for an impromptu date.

One evening, I stood there at the back gate waiting for my date.  I had met this young man and he was intriguing!  All week, we talked to each other by phone, for hours on end.  He was smart.  He was talented.  He was handsome.  He said he liked me very much. And maybe, just maybe, we could be in a relationship. This seemed like a miracle to me, because long-term relationship was elusive for me during college, though I tried with all my might to make it so.

I had it planned out. This date would be magical.

A group of us went down to the gate at about 7 p.m.  We were high-fiving each other, laughing and hopeful.  By 7:05, most of my friends were gone. I waved them away with a smile on my face, so glad my friends were happy. By 7:30, I was the only one left standing.

I stood there at 8:30, standing there in the cold. My smile had faded into a grimace.  I wanted to continue looking pleasant, just in case he came. My lips mouthed practiced phrases like, "That's ok..." for when he arrived. 

My naivete was enormous, and my hope was really more brutal stupidity.  I wondered if he had been in an accident.  Or if he had some emergency that called him away. I imagined that a UFO had taken him away.  All the possibilities were plausible because I wanted them to be.

It was 40 degrees, but I stood there, like a good soldier.  Forty degrees. Arctic fingers crept steadily up my thighs until I felt like I had pneumonia all over my body.  My hands, feet and legs were numb.  And so was I.

My moist eyes saw couples caught in the glow of romance which was held in lingering kisses.  I observed a few folk who had drunk too many beers in a spade tournament or a night on the town.

I also saw the young man with whom I had previously been madly in love picking up a friend of mine in his car, going to do what grown folk do.  

The night waned on, and I danced to keep from freezing.  I returned to my room only after I saw a car that held one of my friends from the early march to the gate return to campus.  At first I hid in the shadows, and then I walked into the light, pretending that I too had just returned from a fantastic date.

I spun a story of how sweet he had been, how he never touched me and was such a gentleman.  I didn't really lie.

I never received a message or an apology.  In fact, I never heard from him again.

The back gate is a metaphor for my life. Too many times, I have stood at gates hoping folk will show up and keep their promises. My gate experience has been in every part of my life, from my parents to significant others (or the lack thereof) to friends to employers.  I am grateful that now, my wait is exponentially shorter before I leave the gate for self-care and dignity's sake.  I keep my promise to never dance in the cold again.

I invite those who have been disappointed too many times to do the same.

An Invitation to Believe

For those of us that feel anxiety or defeat that some can look at a fact, data, a video, or a testimony, and never concede that it is true, consider this: The people of this country dunked women in water and called them witches if they survived, and innocent only if they drowned. Eugenics sought to measure the brains of Black folk for the sake of proving they we not human, and classified and institutionalized the poor, the mentally ill and disabled, women, homosexuals, and others in order to justify segregation and sanitation. There is a huge movement to remove and reduce information of chattel slavery from the text books that our young people use, in an attempt to redeem and sanitize American history because of the apparent fragility of the privileged.

This movement seeks to dispel the idea that slavery was legal, institutionalized terror, and violent, torturous, or evil, and that slave owners were benevolent, compassionate folk who simply took advantage of a free-market opportunity. Across the world there are groups in existence simply to disprove the Jewish Holocaust, and every historical genocide has a group of privileged folk who will deny that mass murder was genocide, or that the numbers of those killed are significantly over-reported in the data. The Japanese internment was simply a necessary evil, an extended vacation, if you will, with propagandized pictures to prove how productive and happy the banished American citizens of Japanese descent were.  

There are others who simply do not have the mental constitution or the strength of soul to accept the truth from other perspectives, period. Fear and lazy ignorance prevents these ones from growing and gaining relationships and the invitation to participate in the universe whole.  

For this reason, I intentionally tune my ear for the voices on the bottom-- the bottom meaning those who are most oppressed, those who do not get the podium, or whose voices are being muffled. For this reason, it behooves us all to be confident in what we know to be true, to make a habit of believing and believing in the other, and to not let the loud, lying screams of fearful doubt deter what you know you must do.

ReConciling Act:  Seeing is not believing.  Choosing to believe is believing. It is revolutionary.