Category Archives: empathy

Leaving Your Mark

Recently, a friend and I went to see the play Hamilton. Like so many others, we never tire of the experience. For us, the musical does not lose its luster no matter how many times we see it. Whether it’s on Broadway or in the desert, we love it. There are so many songs and so much dialogue that just become a part of us. After this recent show, the song that stuck in my mind was Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story.

Innumerable biographies tell stories of extraordinary people who leave great and lasting legacies as a result of their talents, activism, and contributions to the uplift of humankind and to the sustainability of life as we know it. These legendary people leave their mark through acts that become a part of the history of the world. Their impact is usually broad and powerful.

One does not have to die famous to leave a mark. Not all people who leave their mark are widely known and celebrated. Ordinary people also leave their mark. A brief obituary does not mean that the deceased did not leave their mark.

Leaving your mark is not always about the number and magnitude of notable public contributions. It’s not about the number of people who knew about you. Your circle may be small including a few friends and relatives who will remember you and the influence you had on them. Leaving your mark is the impact you had on others, no matter the number or magnitude.

During an interview for Esquire, renowned author Stephen King, said that he would like to be known “as somebody who died merry—who did his work the best he could and was decent to other people.”

With this statement, the author left his mark on me because he put into words my heart’s final desires.

A Brief Period of Happiness

If I were to write a book about my parents, it would be about star-crossed lovers doomed to heartbreak and hardship. From what I’ve heard about their lives, they were misfits and all wrong for each other—yet there was something special between them. Over time, my parents—James and Lottie—seemed like stars crashing into one another, each time diminishing the other just a little more.   

It seems that they had a brief period of happiness living together. Mrs. Oma Lee Taylor owned the rooming house where my father rented a room to which he brought my mother not long after I was born. According to Mrs. Taylor, Lottie and James were as different as night and day, and probably should never have been together.

From what Mrs. Taylor could see, Lottie was a good Christian girl who got caught in James’ snare. Though James was a notorious womanizer, Mrs. Taylor said that after I was born, she saw a transformation in James. He took his responsibility as a father seriously and seemed to be living for something more than being with other women and his gang.

By my mother’s own account, she came to understand why James’ gang was so important to him, noting in her autobiography how James had told her “about how his father threw him outdoors and mistreated him and did not allow him to eat. His first stealing was stealing food.”

Lottie was a young mother estranged from her parents because she was having a baby outside of marriage. Though she didn’t allow James to visit her during her pregnancy, his guys kept tabs on her and he would show up wherever she went. When it was time to have the baby, the relatives Lottie was staying with called him.

He went to the hospital with her and followed as far as he could go. When she woke up after giving birth, he was at her side. He showed a tenderness that she had not experienced from anyone before, and he seemed genuinely enchanted by their baby girl. Beginning with the way James had protected her from afar during her pregnancy and his obvious love for their child, Lottie found herself falling deeply in love with the man she once hated.  

Vulnerable

Always in shades, we didn’t know what her face looked like. Behind the shades, she seemed aloof, almost hostile.

Without the dark glasses, my friend and I were surprised at what we saw. To me, the look on her face was like that of a small child—innocent and open. I had the urge to protect and comfort her. My friend said that the woman seemed somewhat agitated. 

While I searched for a word to describe what we saw and felt, my friend said, “She looked vulnerable.”

Yes, vulnerable.

The rest of the week, I continued to think about the word “vulnerable.” What does it mean to feel and be vulnerable?

When I was with other friends, I would bring up the topic of vulnerability and ask them to tell me what being vulnerable meant to them and under what circumstances they recalled or would imagine that they would be vulnerable. 

My question elicited thoughtful responses. Most common among the ways of defining being vulnerable was feeling open, exposed, defenseless, transparent. When my friends described the circumstances when they thought they would feel or have felt vulnerable, they realized that what they were feeling was fear rather than what they thought of as vulnerability. The situations they described always involved fear of bodily harm by someone else.

Musing about fear and vulnerability, I realized that I would much rather experience fear than vulnerability.  I could use the adrenalin generated by fear to fight or flee. In such a scenario, fear comes from outside one’s self, stimulated by the threat of the other.

Experimenting with what I thought feeling vulnerable would be like, what came to mind were those instances in which close friends or family had hurt or disappointed me. Only people for whom I cared deeply could elicit a feeling of vulnerability. There is no rush of adrenalin. In fact, the heart is depressed. There is no fight or resistance. Only sadness, humility, and helplessness because in truth, being vulnerable requires cooperation of the self.

These thoughts bring me back to the mysterious woman who had a face of openness and innocence all the while showing a layer of pain. Based on this fleeting moment of visibility, I think that she had the courage to offer herself up to being vulnerable.

So poor that…

When we talk about just about anything today, the root seems to be either money scams or the bitterness of partisan politics. It makes for a lot of ugliness. It’s hard to write a weekly blog and not get mired in the depressive stuff of the day. For this week, with Spring in its full glory, I didn’t want to write about negative and depressing things.

Searching through some papers I saved, I found something that made me laugh and I hope you’ll laugh too. These quips are from Colbert I. King’s piece titled, “At Darrell’s Barbershop” (The Washington Post, February 16, 2002):

Can you top this?

“We were so poor, burglars used to break in our house and LEAVE money.”

“We were so poor that our front door and back door were on the same HINGE!”

“We were so poor that when I was growing up, my pants had so many holes in them that when I ran they hummed.”

“That’s not poor, in my neighborhood the rainbow was black and white.”

“Wait a minute. I was so poor, when I was born, Mom and Dad bought me a stroller. I made the last three payments MYSELF!”

“I was so poor, my family received CARE packages from the Third World.”

“I was so poor growing up, my favorite food was ice.”

“I was so poor that once my arithmetic teacher in elementary school asked me, ‘If you had $2 in one pocket and $3 in another, what would you have?’ I told her someone else’s pants.”

These people were so poor that:

  • on Christmas Day they got a battery with a note saying, “Toy not included.”
  • they went to McDonald’s and put a milkshake on lay-away.
  • they used to wave around a popsicle stick and call it air-conditioning.
  • they had to join the Army to get a haircut.
  • when somebody came to their house and lit a cigarette, their father would shout, “Clap your hands, stomp your feet, praise the Lord, we have heat.”

I need silly and corny sometimes. Do you?

Ahead of Her Time

Anna Julia Cooper

Anna Julia Cooper (1858–1964) put no limits on the intellectual potential of Black people, Black women in particular. Her own intellectual and educational achievements are a testament to her firm belief that women’s opportunities for learning and education should not be less than or different than men based on assumptions about women’s capabilities.

 I’m particularly drawn to the life of Anna Julia Cooper because she did it all: was a leading Black spokeswoman; held leadership in women’s organizations; founded the first chapter of the YWCA Camp Fire Girls for Black girls; served as principal and teacher in the “renowned Dunbar High School in Washington, DC;” started a night school for working people to attend college; and authored a seminal book on Black feminism, A Voice from the South.

Even as she focused her energy and attention on cultivating the potential of marginalized people, she also continued to work on her own education. In 1924, Cooper received her Ph.D. from the University of Paris, becoming only the fourth Black woman in the United States to earn a doctorate degree.

Despite these extraordinary accomplishments of a Black woman born in the South and formerly a slave, what captivates me most about Dr. Cooper is that she didn’t seek attention. Dr. Paul Cooke, one of her biographers, wrote that she chose the “lesser light.”

She was dedicated to a larger cause than herself and refrained from crediting her own achievements. An example of Dr. Cooper’s humility is what Dr. Mary Helen Washington shared in her Introduction to Cooper’s Book in the Shomburg Library Collection of Nineteenth-Century Black Women Writers.

“In 1982, when Louise Hutchinson, staff historian at the Smithsonian Institution, completed her biography of Cooper, she called for an official Smithsonian car and hand-delivered the copy of the biography to Mrs. Regia Haywood Bronson, the eldest of the five children Anna Cooper had adopted in 1915.

“Then in her late seventies, Mrs. Bronson took the book from Hutchinson, and holding it to her breast, she rocked back and forth with tears streaming down her face, but not saying a word. When Hutchinson asked her why she was crying, Bronson said, ‘Nobody ever told me Sis Annie was important.’”

Yes, Anna Julia Cooper was important, indeed, in advocating for social justice and equality of rights for all people and the education of Black women, in particular.  

Living to be 105 years old, she lived to see a celebration of Black History Month and Women’s History Month. She would have been pleased to see the theme of the 2024 Women’s History Month—Women Who Advocate for Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion.

Sources:

Anna Julia Cooper Project: cooperproject.org/about-anna-julia-cooper

Introduction in the Schomburg Library Collection of Nineteenth-Century Black Women Writers: Cooper, Anna Julia. A Voice From the South. (United Kingdom: Oxford University Press, 1988).

Unselfconscious Unfiltered Thoughts and Feelings

My trove of handwritten journals was rich with details of day-to-day happenings and interactions. The feelings I had when I wrote them were memorialized in my heart and bones. Sometimes I had to take a break from reading them because the visceral reactions were more than I wanted to re-experience.

When I wrote my journals by hand, my engaged emotions helped me see my inner self—that soft place that needed protection. I didn’t judge myself for having unpleasant emotions. As I wrote about the interactions or situations that caused these emotions, I allowed myself to feel merciful toward the “me” that only I understood.

These journals showed me that believing in myself was the kind of faith inculcated within me since I was a very small child. During my middle years, I would have been completely lost without this bedrock faith. In my journals, I recorded how my beliefs in the greater good sustained me time after time.   

It was in my handwritten journals that I thanked God for those I encountered who had a generosity of spirit and showed warmth when I needed it. It was in these handwritten journals that I was honest about my limitations and worked hard to be objective and fair in observing others and, more importantly, my responses to them. The real learning and change came from being wholly with myself in reflection and humbleness.

When I switched to keeping my journals online, apparently, I did not trust the medium with my deepest thoughts and tender feelings. For some reason I found myself not sharing my secret voice. In reading excerpts from my digital journals, it’s clear that I was not using them as a source of self-reflection. My journals became one dimensional. I recorded what can be thought of as a public record of what was happening and when.

My epiphany is that journaling is not simply the words recorded; it’s the meditation and process of writing one’s unselfconscious unfiltered thoughts and feelings.