An open letter to the man in Mayflower.

The scene.

You walk out of the bathroom of a popular, crowded restaurant. It’s a small town and chances are, a few of the other patrons will recognize you in your church garb, so you raise your voice a little, hoping to be seen. Wanting to be heard. Wishing to be noticed.

Someone needs to do something about that, you remark loudly.

Others who have come from the bathroom know what you’re talking about. Especially that little boy who’s hand you’re holding. The one who is looking up to you, trying to figure out how to feel about what he just witnessed.

An old man. He’s shit himself. His eyes are glassy and washed out. His face is sunken in. And he’s stumbling around the bathroom like a drunk on the side of Maple Avenue. He’s shit his fucking pants and you’re in your church clothes trying to have Sunday lunch. You’re disgusted just to be in the same bathroom as him, and you want everyone to know it.

And they do. Some of them walked out muttering the same sentiments you just expressed. Some of them laughed. Some of them eww’d uncomfortably. They can relate. You all see what has happened to this old man. He’s ruining your happy, perfect, Southern USA Sunday lunch. And you all meet eyes and shake your heads in agreement and disgust.

Well, fuck you mister. Fuck you and your Sunday lunch. Fuck you and your church clothes. Fuck you and your prayers and your appearances and your holier-than-thou outlook.

That old man is my grandfather.

He is eighty years old.

He served our country, first as a veteran of the United States military, and then as a psychiatrist helping rehabilitate some of the most mentally unstable citizens in our society.

He is a father to three. He once leaped across a river to save his preteen daughters from being bullied and assaulted by some older neighborhood boys.

He rescues stray kittens. No, really. Like a damn cat whisperer. And he used to have the meanest horse on earth in his backyard, but that horse loved him. So did his pet goat. And babies love him, too.

And so do I.

He’s never raised his voice to me. Although, once, when he had taken in my mother, my sister, and I after my parents divorced, I didn’t clean my room like my mom asked, and he told me he was disappointed in me. My mom was going through a hard time, he said, and with her working full time, all she asked of me was a clean room. He said this calmly, while sitting down next to me, eye level, like I was an adult. No, he didn’t raise his voice at me. But that was the harshest punishment I’ve ever received. He is the only person on this earth who I would ever care about disappointing.

He has this laugh that’s famous in our family. It’s more of a chuckle, really. And it doesn’t show up much anymore, but every once in awhile, when we least expect it, one of those famous chuckles escapes and his eyes twinkle a little, and everyone’s day has been made. We fight each other to say the funniest things, to try and make him chuckle. It’s like a prize, an award, a gift on Christmas day, that laugh is.

And he’s pretty funny, himself. He has these one liners that get everyone going. Just the other day, he was at his first physical therapy appointment since he’s recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. And someone made a comment about how his pants were sagging and he said he used to wear suspenders but he didn’t anymore. Those suspenders got suspended, he said. And the therapist thought it was the most hilarious thing that had ever been said.

My grandfather is a good man. He pays his taxes. He donates to charities.

He has watched his wife battle cancer three times, and now he is watching her die from it. He has seen one of his daughters suffer physical abuse by the hands of a violent man, one of his daughters lose the one man she truly loved, and his only son go through a divorce and depression. He has witnessed more pain than you could ever know.

He has held grandbabies and great-grandbabies. He has kissed boo-boos and taken temperatures and made soup and dressed wounds on all of us. He is super grandaddy.

His eyes are glassy. You’re right, mister. But he’s not glazed over with liquor. He’s suffered through two lasic eye surgeries to try and correct the glaucoma that has stolen his vision from him. But those surgeries didn’t work very well and he still can’t see for shit. He used to be able to shoot a bullseye target with a pistol from fifty yards away. It kills him that he can’t even see to drive his own truck anymore.

And he stumbles. Just like that drunk on Maple. Except, he’s got a balance disorder that also comes from the Parkinson’s. He might have a glass of wine once a week. But he stumbles every second of every day. That same man, the one who once leapt over a river, now can’t get out of his armchair without the fear of falling on his face.

And his stomach issues. He’s struggled with them for over ten years now. And the doctor’s don’t know what’s wrong. They’ve tried for ten years to fix him and they can’t. They almost killed him once though, with a misdiagnosis. They didn’t realize his gallbladder was completely gangrene and he would’ve died except for a nurse named Sean who saved him (I’ll never forget you, Sean, as long as I live).

That old man is my grandfather. I’ve looked up to him my entire life. And he is deteriorating in front of my eyes, and I know it and he knows it and everyone else knows it, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it except watch as it happens.

Maybe he should’ve stayed home. Maybe he shouldn’t have come out that Sunday. Except, he never goes out anywhere anymore. He goes to doctor’s appointments and Sunday lunches with his family. That’s it.

Your Sunday lunch is ruined because that old man in there is stumbling around and he’s shit himself and you had to look at him.

Newsflash. His Sunday lunch is ruined, too. And now, thanks to you, sir, so is any bit of dignity he ever had left. He doesn’t have his vision. He doesn’t have his balance. He doesn’t have control over any part of his body. And now, he has no pride. You’ve stolen the one thing from him that matters to a man more than anything else.

How hard would it have been to offer help? A kind word? To say, sir, stay here and let me find out if there’s anything I can do. Let me talk to your family. Let me help you stand back up.

How hard would it have been to just stay quiet? To avoid shouting out, loud enough for him and everyone else to hear your disgust?

How hard would it have been to show your young son what a true Christian really looks like?

You just came from church. You’re looking dapper in your suit. Fresh. Young. I’m sure you just prayed with the congregation, said your Our Fathers, sang the hymns, shook hands with the preacher, and came in here feeling real good about yourself.

None of it matters.

Nothing you say or pray or wear or do will ever matter as much as what you just took from my grandfather. And what you just put on your young, impressionable son. Now he knows, when he sees someone who is embarrassed and unable to help themselves and may need lifting up, that he can make fun of them. And as long as everyone else agrees, then he can sleep at night.

It’s a cruel punishment from God, growing old is. I hope you are handed a better set of cards to play with than my grandfather has been given. God forbid you ever need the kindness of a stranger.

But, thank you, sir. For teaching me a lesson. I am kinder because of you. I will say less, look more. React less, help more. And should you ever find yourself in a situation like the one you just witnessed? And should I be there to see it happen? I will offer you my hand, sir.

In honor of that old man, my grandfather, the greatest man I’ve ever known, I will offer you my hand.

Leave an impression.

Pieces of my childhood died last week, and I’m still recovering from the heartbreak.

We drove out to our old house a few days ago, the house where I spent the first eighteen years of my life. My one true home. The previous tenants lost it to the crumbling economy, and the mortgage company let it slip through some crack in the system, so there is no one to care for it. The house is a mess, and the yard is completely overgrown. It looks nothing like I remembered. Years ago, I would run barefoot through the grass and hide behind the trees and dig in the dirt. Now, it is one giant, forgotten plot of memories.

As my sister and I were walking around, looking at a shell of what used to be, the lady who lives next door walked out. She didn’t recognize us at first, but when I told her who we are, she seemed happy to see us and we caught up on life for a little while. She mentioned how much she missed my dad, said it’s not often you have neighbors who become best friends as well. She told me how people have moved from the neighborhood, one by one, and she feels alone now. Then she told me our other next-door neighbor had passed away. That very week.

Mr. Carl was one of my best friends growing up. He might have been fifty years my senior, but in my youngest years, I was closer to him than I was to my own grandparents. We saw each other every day. My mom likes to tell the story of how Mr. Carl and I first connected.

He never liked to come inside our house, especially if my dad wasn’t home. My only guess is that there was still a great feeling of discomfort about being a black man alone with a white woman in her house, since he lived through times and experiences that I can’t even begin to imagine.

One day, my mom heard Mr. Carl shouting for my dad from outside. She had me in her arms, and went outside to talk with him. The news he gave her came like a punch to the gut. Mr. Carl’s beloved son, Tony, had succumbed to cancer that morning. I don’t know if my mom cried for the loss of such a young and talented life, or stood there numb. She never tells that part of the story because what happened next was more important.

I, the girlchild who cried when anyone except my own parents tried to touch me, reached out for Mr. Carl. I guess he was probably a little caught off guard at first, but he took me in his arms. We held each other, and an intense and sacred bond was created.

Over the years, Mr. Carl looked out for me like a grandfather would. I would run out into my yard to play, and Mr. Carl would be in his yard, working on one of his old, vintage cars. He’d take a break to get some ice cream sandwiches and we’d talk or play with one of his many pet dogs. Later, when my little sister came along, he switched out the ice cream sandwiches for Klondike bars (her favorite) and Pepsis (my favorite). When my sister and I held one of our many elaborate yard sales (read: sitting outside with our stuffed animals on a miniature bench in our front yard), Mr. Carl kept watch to make sure we weren’t abducted by some stranger passing by. He even bought one or two of our sale items on occasion.

As I got older, I spent more time with friends and less time running across the yard to Mr. Carl’s house. Eventually, he put up a fence around his yard so his dogs could run loose inside. I still saw him from time to time, and he’d comment on how old we were all getting. When we spoke, it never felt awkward. It was like no time had passed, like nothing would ever change. We weren’t blood relatives. We weren’t close in age or color or gender. We were merely neighbors. And friends.

Since my dad passed away, I’ve been out to my old neighborhood only a few times. Because it used to be occupied, I’d just drive by, glancing at the house and remembering. I never stopped to talk to Mr. Carl or any of the other neighbors. I guess it was just too painful to get that close to the past.

Last week’s visit, and the talk with my neighbor, changed things. I went to Maxine, Mr. Carl’s lifelong love, and gave her my best. It was awkward and I felt shy and uncomfortable. What does one say in this kind of situation? There are no adequate words to explain to her that, no matter how many years passed, no matter how old we’ve gotten, no matter how different our lives were, Mr. Carl had a deep and lasting impact on my life and who I’ve become. No words can fill or even touch the gap that his death leaves.

Live fully. Do what makes you happy. Make others smile. Take time to appreciate the good things about everyone. Laugh without holding back. Buy a twenty-five cents stuffed animal from the little girl’s yard sale next door. Talk to everyone you can. Leave an impression.

It will last. Even after you are gone, the things you said and did remain.

My head is spinning.

(This post is not like my others. I wrote it quickly and did not edit it because I have so much weighing on my mind right now and wanted my thoughts to come out as they are. Pardon me if this is a little less clean cut than other things I've written.)

There is an evil, hateful place in my town. I just found out about it, and apparently, I’m the only person around who had no idea something like this could still exist. A few miles down the street from where I live, there is a “biker” bar. Only, this isn’t like other bars. I’ve never been there, but I found out that I know many people who have. From what I have been told, when you walk in the door, the first thing you will see is a black mannequin hanging from a noose. There are signs littering the walls, proclaiming white supremacy. It is allowed to operate because some of our police force are members of this private club, and the rest of the law enforcement officials are too intimidated to try and close it down, mostly because it would be unsafe for them to go there and try. The members of the bar carry weapons, and it is very apparent that the good, southern hospitality I have always known is a farce. And it is right down the road.

The other night, someone asked me if I had black friends. I am sure I looked shocked as I answered. Because, of course, I do. This is 2011. It was his turn to look shocked. And my skin started to crawl as I realized he was serious. He felt the need to walk away from me in disgust, and I must be honest, the feeling was mutual.

Later that evening, a friend laughed and told me that people like myself don’t exist around our parts. That people who believe equality and love and acceptance are so important, while at the same time remaining true to our southern heritage and loving where we’ve come from, that we are few and far between. He said I will never meet the kind of man I hope to love someday, because he is not out there. And I rolled my eyes, but my heart did skip a beat because I am scared he may be right.

Last night, I went to a bar with some friends. I couldn’t help but notice that, as we walked up, people stared. A few of my friends, those with darker skin pigment than myself, got very nasty looks from some of the patrons already there. I even got a few glances for walking up with them. There was a very visible feeling of discomfort that came across some of their faces as we entered the bar. Bodies tensed up. People stood straighter, stared hard.

Maybe I’m becoming more sensitive after processing some of the recent information I was given. Maybe I’m just noticing more of what has always been there. Maybe it is more shocking to me because these people, the ones who harbor these hateful thoughts, are so wonderful to me, and I don’t understand how they can be so divided in their hearts and minds.

I cannot wrap my head around this. I cannot understand this ignorance and this hatred. I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. I knew it existed. I just never realized how blatant it could be, right in my own hometown. People that I’ve known and loved and respected.

My head is spinning and my heart is beating too fast. I ache for myself and I ache for those who believe such ignorant things and I ache for those who are affected by those beliefs. This is my home and these are my people and I’m beginning to wonder if I belong. I don’t want to fit in if ‘in’ means hate. But standing up for what you believe when what you believe is not popular? It can make for some lonely days and nights.

Love all around.

August 17th is my favorite day of the year. I like it better than the 4th of July, which is easily my favorite national holiday. I like it better than Christmas. I like it better than every single other day on the entire calendar.

I was born on August 17th.

I was born exactly a week from my grandmother’s birthday. And one day after my grandaddy’s birthday, which also happens to be their wedding anniversary.

The whole week is typically one big fiesta in our family.

When I was younger, the entire family, grandparents, their children, and their grandchildren, would gather to celebrate. Over food and gifts, we’d swap stories and laugh and enjoy the company of our loved ones.

This week has been a little different. We’ve had so much going on, between hospital visits and cancer and summer ending and school beginning and all the other little things life can throw one’s way. The aunts and uncles and cousins are scattered around the country, in faraway places like Ohio and Utah and Missouri. Celebrations have slowed down, because life makes it harder to gather with gusto. This week, my mom cooked my grandmaw some crab cakes, one of her favorites, for her special day. And we’ll all go out this evening for supper to mark mine and my grandaddy’s birthdays. Then it’s back to the grind.

Because there has been less time to celebrate, I’ve been left with more time to reflect.

My grandmother turned eighty-six last week.

Sunday, after a family reunion, we visited her hometown and found her old house. I stood on the porch of the house in which my grandmother spent the first sixteen years of her life. Her diapers were changed and washed and hung to dry in that house. She played by the railroad tracks in the backyard. She and four of her brothers walked to the nearest town, a few miles away, and no one blinked an eye, because they didn’t worry about the darkness of the world like we must do today.

Seventy years ago, my grandmother was energetic and able and full of all the things youth lets one be. And I stood in the spot where all those things began.

She will die, soon, probably. The doctors say the cancer will take over by the end of this year. They don’t know this for sure, because no one can really know these things, but most likely, it will happen sooner rather than later. I find myself unable to process that. Too painful.

I stood where she ran and played and grew and really, truly, lived.

My grandfather turned eighty yesterday, the same day that marks their fifty-second anniversary. He is mostly blind and mostly deaf and forgets mostly everything. She is dying and he is alive but sometimes, when he’s lucid enough to see how old his body is, I think he wishes he weren’t. And fifty-two years ago, one year longer than my dad’s entire lifetime, they promised each other forever. And they meant it. It blows my mind over and over again, and reduces me to a puddle of tears every time I think of it. Fifty-two years of laughing and struggling and moving and traveling and working and fighting and loving. Fifty-two years and three children and son-in-laws and daughter-in-laws and grandchildren and step-grandchildren and even great-grandchildren.

Fifty-two years ago, they were young. They were poor and passionate and they made the promise of a lifetime and kept it.

I am twenty-three years old today. School is kicking my ass, and I’m always broke, and I’m nowhere close to any kind of commitment in love or career or life, and I live at home with my mom and I say that’s because I can’t afford anything else but really I still need her and always will. And my grandparents, my heroes, are dying.

And my heart is bursting because it’s all so painful and and it’s all so beautiful and I am so damn blessed.

I have been an up-close and personal witness to the examples those before me have set. I have been the lucky one who was born close enough to celebrate, right along next to them, the lifelong accomplishments they’ve made. To reap the benefits of their struggles. To receive the wisdom they’ve acquired after years of hard life lessons.

They’ve taught me that things which seem hopeless always get better, that I should always do my best because no one can ask any more of me, that family is absolutely the most important thing, and that there is love all around.

This week is sacred to me, and this day is my favorite. It’s not just my day. It’s an accumulation of all days past, and of the lives that helped to create my own. It’s my own personal celebration, not only of myself, but of those before me, those who love me, and those I love.

Just like us.

somewhere else in the world

far away from me

and somewhere kind of close to me, too

maybe, there is a girl.

she is just like me

and there is another girl

and she is just like my best friend.

all around the whole earth

on islands where girls braid flowers into their hair

in cities where people walk too fast to catch a glimpse of a stranger smiling on a good day

different places, we exist over and over again.

there are two girls in an english pub

drunk and swearing off boys forever

until the next handsome one walks by and they change their minds.

there are two girls exactly halfway around the world

cuddled up under their blankets on the couch

talking about how they wish they were halfway around the world

laying on a towel by the sea.

there are two girls, one town over

looking at all the old pictures that document the friendship of a lifetime

and they shout jinx when they say the exact same thing

and then they laugh because they know how precious and rare it is

to have someone think just like you do.

we say they must exist

and that it’s weird,

someone else

somewhere else

being just like us.

i wish we could meet them, i say

and she agrees

because if they’re just like us, she says

they’d make some damn good friends.

He knows enough.

You left this world three months before he entered it. He has your blue eyes with the same sparkle, and a laugh that turns heads and gets everyone else laughing, too.

Tonight, he asked me about you.

Did grandaddy really die?

Four years old. Or, four years young, truly. I don’t want him to know death yet. I want him to think the world is full of shiny, happy moments. To believe that dark clouds just mean a chance to play in the rain.

Yes. That’s why you’ve never met him. He died before you were born.

He frowned and looked down at his supper. And his eyes looked so sad, in a way that a child’s eyes should never look. I just waited. Finally, he looked back at me.

What happened to him?

I don’t want him to know that bad things can take good people and break them. The alcohol that stole your brother and left behind a mean drunk who put too much stress on your heart. The cigarettes that controlled your mind and clogged your vessels. The money that produced such a greed in the doctors that they had you come back time and time again without every fixing you. The depression that took hold, and then, took you. The way that all of it added up, and was so simply recorded on paper - heart attack - nothing more, nothing less, except to those of us who knew better. I don’t want him to know that the world can hurt someone in a way that isn’t fixable with a kiss and a bandaid.

His heart got sick. So he died, and now he is in heaven. Like our very own angel. Isn’t that great? You have your very own angel looking out for you in heaven. I think that’s cool.

He stared at his food. Sipped his drink. Looked back at me.

Yeah. That IS cool.

He doesn’t need to know all of these things. Not yet. He can believe that dark clouds only mean he gets to play in the rain. He can believe that death only means he has his very own angel to watch over him. Truthfully, I hope he continues to believe these things, long after he finds out the rest of it. I hope that, when the world shows him the bad, he still believes in the beauty that remains.

We looked at your pictures a few weeks ago. He saw your face.

I really miss that guy, he said.

I don’t think he needed to meet you to know who you are.

To love you. To miss you.

He’s four years young.

But he knows enough.

Arms on either side.

You were just learning to walk, my grandmother told my mom. And your grandaddy, he would be so scared. He would put his arms on either side of you while you wobbled around. Never wanting you to get hurt. Always wanting to catch you should you fall.

She paused, and looked beyond my mother. She stared at something none of us could see. Maybe she was looking straight into the past, into a time none of us could remember excepting herself. I saw her give the slightest shrug.

But that’s just how you learn to walk, she said.

She might forget if she’s eighty-four or eight-five. She might forget what day of the week it is. She might even forget what she ate for breakfast.

But she’s a wise one, my grandmother.