THE COST OF BEING STRONG

Something in me refuses to let me lay down and give up. Perhaps it was passed on to me by an unknown African who was captured, shackled, and placed on a slave ship. Or the African that picked cotton from dawn to dusk, or the one that cleaned the big house, wet nursed the Marse’s children, survived rape, beating, near starvation, and all the dehumanizing atrocities of slavery. For some Black women, our strength can also be a burden. When a woman has to be strong all the time, inside and outside her home, some of us lose the soft parts of ourselves. Every day before we step outside the safe havens of our homes, we slip on a protective armor that has become a part of us. Some of us are so intense in our efforts not to be pierced by the daily onslaught of racial bigotry that we forget to hang up our armor when we’re at home or in the company of friends.

I would describe myself as strong, opinionated, and loud. I have heard others say that I’m mean. People who don’t know me could jump to that conclusion if they were only looking at the mask I wear. My exterior may be tough, but not my heart; I think of myself as kind. There are times when I’m quiet and listen. I’m learning in my latter years the value of listening to what others say. I understand now that my opinion is not required on every subject. But my strength is something that I have carried with me for so long that I don’t know if I can put it down even to rest.

This belief or feeling that I must be strong in every situation is becoming too much to bear. My mind and body are telling me to slow down and rest. Many of my friends are dealing with health issues directly related, I believe, to being strong women. These women have been the backbone of their families, putting everyone else’s happiness and well-being before their own. They have given of themselves until there is almost nothing left to give, and still, they give.

If you are a strong woman who thinks you can’t stop being who you are, you don’t have to. Being strong is an asset, but you don’t have to be strong “24/7.” Create a place within your home where you can rest. Rest can take many forms. Writing, quilting, and reading are some ways I maintain my peace. Joining the gym, going for walks, and meeting up with friends are other ways to relax and enjoy life. Sometimes, I sit in the backyard and let the sun's warmth recharge my soul.

Being strong has a price, especially if you ignore the warning signs. Continue to be who you are, who you were built to be, but remember to care for yourself just as much as you care for others.  

BEAUTIFUL ALTADENA

BEAUTIFUL ALTADENA

I moved to Altadena about thirty-seven years ago. My son was just a toddler. It was there that I raised him and struggled to provide him with a suburban lifestyle as a single mother. I refused to believe that my circumstances would dictate how and where we would live. I bought my first home in Altadena before my son was two years old. It was a small two-bedroom, one-bath California bungalow with a small front porch, a large backyard, and a detached garage. I remember being unable to sleep the first night in my home as I stared at the ceiling, wondering what I had done and how I would ever pay for it. I would go on to sell that house and move a little further up the hill to a larger one. During the housing crash, I sold that home and bought three houses, two in Altadena and one in Pasadena. Years later, after my own financial crisis, I ended up with only one house in Altadena—my beloved home on Marathon Road and my house in Victorville, California. My son and his family were living at our Altadena home. His sons were slated to follow in his footsteps by going to the same schools, hanging out at the Altadena Library, and hiking the same mountain trails. My oldest grandson did get to go on a moonlight hike in Eaton Canyon once, but now I wonder if the youngest one ever will. In the summers, my son would bike on the many mountain trails close to our house on Olive and Poppyfield. He would be gone for hours with his friends (without a cellphone) on his bike, having what he called “an adventure.” How I could let my son roam the hillsides of Altadena with his friends for hours without worrying about him is unimaginable today. But, back then, Altadena had a small-town feel, and maybe I felt that way because it was such a beautiful place that looked nothing like South Central Los Angeles.

On January 7, 2025, the lush greenery of Altadena would be consumed in a burning inferno. My son and his family would leave their home with the clothes on their backs and a few other items. The next time I saw Altadena, the word devastation would be its most accurate descriptor. So great was the destruction that it looked as if Altadena was a war-torn country depicted on the nightly news. As my son drove down once-familiar streets, he would stop the car to look for some landmarks to orient us. We would stop in front of a pile of rubble; all that was left of the homes of friends or houses we once lived in. Brick fireplaces stood sentry over the charred remains of so many dreams. We fell silent as we passed a cadaver dog walking the incinerated lot of someone’s home.

When I saw what was left of my house, everything I had worked for lay destroyed in the ruin. At least, that was my initial thought. A few days later, after the shock of all I had seen wore off, I could see something new and beautiful rising out of the ashes. Although Altadena will never be what it was, it will be beautiful again.

OLD PEOPLE...WHAT DO THEY KNOW?

I’ve always liked being around old people. There was something about them that I knew only came with age. Perhaps it was their wisdom metered out in coded messages. Old ladies loved to say things like, "You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." Those words made no sense as a kid, but as a married woman, I can testify to the truth behind those sayings. Perhaps the words made no sense because there was no context surrounding them. When I was a child, children were not allowed to be around grown-ups when company was visiting. We were ushered outside to play, so the snatches of conversations I overheard always felt like something forbidden.

As a teenager, I would quietly hang out along the periphery of adult gatherings and overhear conversations that exposed how difficult it was to be a woman, to retain one’s dignity, and how much a woman sacrificed for her family.

As a young adult, I was fully immersed in the adult gatherings. I was free to laugh aloud, ask questions, or sit quietly as I witnessed pain move through the teller’s body at the retelling of an event. Most of the stories shared were funny, but there were times when the person telling one story inadvertently transitioned into a tragic one.

Now, as an elder myself, I wish I had written down some of the stories I heard because my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents are dead. A treasure trove of information, wisdom, and understanding died with them. That’s why I love history and reading about how we, as a people, have survived the hardships thrown at us. Old people, the ones that some look at and think don’t know anything or didn’t make anything of their life, are vessels of wisdom. At the very least, old people have survived the consequences of their choices and what life has thrown at them. In my soon-to-be-published book, Rolling In The Deep, an old woman is comforting someone as they grieve the loss of a loved one. Here is an excerpt from that conversation:

“When you get to be my age, you lose a lot of people that you loved.

It doesn’t get easier. I always say that getting old ain’t for the faint of heart.

You got to be strong to be as old as me because life gets real hard. There’s a

piece of scripture that helps me when I get to feeling bad. I can’t tell where

it is in the bible, but it’s here.” Lottie thumped her chest twice and continued.

“It’s here…Count it all joy. Even though we don’t have him with us

now, wasn’t it a blessing to have him at all? Count it all joy, the good times,

and the bad times. We’ll get through this because we know he would want us to keep on living. One day, you’ll be able to talk about him and be surprised that you’re laughing instead of crying. Then you’ll be able to Count it all joy.”

When she finally stopped speaking, he didn’t respond because there was nothing he could say. He tried to make sense of what she was saying, but grief wouldn’t allow him to find joy in the passing of a loved one.

Lottie is a minor character in the story. She is an old lady who sits on her porch and watches her neighbors. Most people would think she is a nosy old woman whose life is over. Perhaps some would say that she didn’t make anything of her life because she lives in a neighborhood that most people would want to move out of. But they would be wrong. Lottie has lived a full life, owns her home, raised her children, and has fallen in love again, even though she knows time is not on her side.

So, if you have an older person in your life, talk to them and learn their story. Learn about their struggles, how they survived, and what they achieved. Perhaps you will understand yourself more by learning more about them. Knowing what they have overcome may give you the strength you need to keep going, and by all means, share that knowledge with the young people in your life.