2020 was very challenging for me for reasons unrelated to the pandemic. As I reflect, it was difficult not only because of the tragedies themselves but also because of their proximity to one another.
I remember when I got jumped on as a teen by a group of girls in Chicago. Another quickly followed each blow until I could do nothing but allow myself to fall to the slippery floor of Nicky’s Restaurant and cover my head. They were too fast. The least I could do if I didn’t have the time to throw a punch was protect my face.
I walked away from that fight, blood trickling from my scalp. When I arrived at the hospital, it was so crowded that the blood had dried by the time I saw the doctor. I sat on the edge of a bed in the hallway while the doctor pierced me with the surgical stapler. I was not under anesthesia, but it didn’t hurt. It simply felt like pressure.
The staples dissolved and I healed nicely. I finished school and went on with my life like nothing happened. The scars from that night are invisible.
That’s how it feels to grieve the events of 2020 when I lost my mother and suffered multiple miscarriages in the span of a few months, each blow coming too fast for me to recover fully.
And I wonder if I am just balled up on the floor, covering my head to protect my face.
Welcome back to another episode of No Whining Wednesday! Today, you cannot whine, criticize, or complain.
If you are new to this blog or new to this segment please visit the NWW page herefor past episodes.
Our poets are preparing for their interviews, so we have time to squeeze in an NWW. Today’s inspiring word comes from yours truly:
Chicago, Summer, 1997
EC is ten years old, and that dollar she got for having a good report card is burning a hole in her pocket. She really wanna get ice cream from the ice cream truck singing down the street. But first, she’ll have to get rid of these toys. You see, EC and her twin had a habit of bringing all their barbies outside so they could play with their friends down the street. As the sky grew darker and the street lights came on, EC thought she’d run across the street, buy the ice cream and be back before mama started yelling. It was the perfect plan.
“Hold my toys.”
“But mama said it’s time to come in the house,” her twin whined.
EC rolled her eyes. “Girl, just hold my stuff.”
But EC never made it to that ice cream truck. She was hit by a car just seconds after dashing across the street.
The good news is she lived, which is how she’s writing this right now. But her seemingly simple act of rebellion would have a lifetime impact.
Back to 2021
Last week, I got caught in the rain, and I mean, I got soaked.
I went home, made dinner, and all was well until later that night when my leg started to ache. It wasn’t a big deal to me because I am used to it. Plus, I expected to feel some pain in my thigh because of the rain.
When the car hit me, it broke the bone in my thigh. It was not repairable and in its place is a steel plate I’ll live with for the rest of my life. But what’s this got to do with the rain?
Metal in the body can irritate a nearby tendon or other soft tissues or cause minor to severe pain related to weather changes, especially when many years have gone by and the metal is infused with the body. This is because metal implants transfer heat and cold better than human tissue.
“In other words, while joint conditions may not physically worsen, the pain can seem more intense. Occasionally there is some aching around the scar, which can become worse in cold weather…this is more common with patients who have a metal implant.”
Dr. Tuvi Mendel of Quad City-based Orthopedic Specialist
People with metal implants might feel the cold more in the implant area during lower temperatures. Some people are also affected by the rain.
“Most often, weather-related pain occurs in injured joints or at the site of a previously broken bone. While scientists aren’t entirely sure exactly what causes pain when it rains, it is known to be related to barometric pressure. The barometric pressure drops when storms are rolling in, and somehow, the body detects this change, causing swelling of soft tissue or expansion of the joint fluid. These changes in the collection are what ultimately lead to pain.”
The most common way we know how struggle strengthens us is when exercising and how our muscles respond to growing challenges. But what’s less obvious is how this same principle applies to the mind. We pray for strength, but we don’t always realize that we are also asking for a struggle.
Stay with me.
Strength does not fall out of the sky. It is the result of overcoming something difficult. Anytime those struggles arrive in our lives, we can activate the willpower to overcome, which builds mental strength.
Every painful experience offers us a chance to develop emotional fortitude.
That summer, I couldn’t go outside unless someone carried me or I used my walker. You might be wondering about a wheelchair. I couldn’t use that because they used surgical staples that went from just about my knee until the end of my thigh.
Because of this, I did not wear a cast but a self-adhering wrap was wrapped around my entire right leg, from my thigh, where the staples were down to my feet. I was blessed not to have to endure the itchiness of the cast, and my skin could breathe when we changed the wrap, but I also could not bend my leg for weeks.
This is exactly how my wrap looked.
When I say we think it’s our wins that make us stronger, but it’s really our struggles, I mean that challenges and struggles are an opportunity to become wiser. We all need encouragement, and it feels good to be acknowledged for our accomplishments. Praise has its place, but it’s the struggle that grows us.
If everything is always easy, you won’t know how to function when things fall apart. As the saying goes, “the man who falls seven times and stands up eight is stronger than the person who has never fallen.”
Consider the standing in the grocery line longer than expected example. This is an opportunity to be patient. Who knows the next time you will need this skill? These abilities are developed the more they are used.
I always hated math as a kid, but I like that it challenged me mentally. The very fact that it was “hard” is why I needed to do more of it.
By the way, Firefox crashed after I wrote this. I had to wait like ten minutes for everything to start back up. The computer decided it would take its precious time, and I felt myself getting irritated. Then, it crashed again only the second time I was not as annoyed. Apparently, I need more patience.
This poem was inspired by Maya Angelou’s “We Wear the Mask,” and Paul Laurence Dunbar’s “Mask.”
Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash
We define grief as tears, not smiles
heartbreaking groans, and complaints
an emotion-gripped body that bends and aches
a display of physical pain is how we mistake
what it means to grieve.
We lookout for people who are visibly sad
a distraught tone of voice, a mind gone mad
a person who neglects to eat, but drinks
or maybe have a hard time falling asleep.
The physical signs of a distressed soul are what we see for ourself
and to this, we say, “careful now, of your mental health.”
But what of the people who are not so physically troubled?
They wake up each morning
their heads held high.
They could wallow in self-pity but prefer to fly.
They spread their cheeks, so we see their teeth,
and somehow, deep underneath the grief, they smile.
Their shoulders do not droop or bow or lean,
and from their eyes, no tears be seen.
We run to them for advice, and in their ears, we spill our guts
“They are pillars of strength, no matter what,”
we say
and this is the mistake.
Right there in those smiling faces, see the invisible rock.
The chains of depression’s coffles
it’s whips and lash and knock
its uninvited entry when our smiling support goes home
and lay their pillars on their pillows
before crying themselves to sleep.
In a world as destructive as this one,
they need not make it known
that even the happiest person
still cries and loathes and moans.
Even the most joyous of us, with praise smeared on our lips
have some load to carry,
we wish to be helped with.
But if physical anguish is the only measurement
by which we weigh grief
then these people don’t have a chance
of attaining such release.
And yet, where would we be without these rays of light
who helps us, if for a moment, to believe all is right?
Maya Angelou said, “We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.” No one likes to struggle because the pain, of any kind, does not feel good. In fact, many of us probably spend our entire lives seeking to struggle less. To reduce the chances of pain and heartache in our lives, of embarrassment and of shame.
The only problem with this is that the butterfly is supposed to struggle. It is how it achieves its beauty in the first place. The butterfly’s struggle to push its way through the tiny opening of the cocoon pushes the fluid out of its body and into its wings. Without this struggle, the butterfly will never, ever fly.
To my beautiful butterflies out there, don’t try to circumvent the struggle, don’t bypass the pain or override the alarm. Let what needs to happen, happen and listen to what it has to teach you because the struggle is necessary for the growth. The struggle is good if you want to fly.
Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’
‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’
‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
“The Velveteen Rabbit,” also called “How Toys Become Real,” is a children’s novel written by Margery Williams and illustrated by William Nicholson. First published in 1922, the story was Williams’ first and most popular children’s book. If you’ve never read it before, the story is about the journey of a toy velveteen rabbit learning about love and what it means to become real.”
*******
People talk a lot about realness today, but few people understand what it means to really be real. The phrase “Keep It Real” is prominent, yet many people are not willing to hurt for it.
“He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these.”
Why is wisdom measured by old age? I suppose its because by the time your hair is gray and your knees buckle and you can’t walk as far, by then you’ve gone through enough heartache to know real. You see, you’ll never be real without going through the furnace of affliction. Yes, diamonds are beautiful, but they had to go through much pressure to get that way. The truth is that we learn early on to hate ourselves because we learn to fight against disappointment, to buck against pain, and to despise trial. We learn not to rejoice in the bad but to complain about it, never once considering that such pain is reaping strength in our favor. As a result, we end up being fake most of the time because we’re not strong enough to be weak.
“Of what use was it to be loved and lose one’s beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.”
This. This most painful, most humbling of a moment. Now, you’re real.
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