Human Misery

Most people in our society are desperately unhappy with the state of their lives. How do I know? By reading the comments of individuals who comment on various blogs. The commentators are vicious, cruel, judgmental, and plain old mean. The media is no help with their biased views and its ability to sell their brand of morality to billions.

Michael Jackson died and the media and some individuals are dragging his life through the mud. Their justification is that Michael led a unconventional lifestyle, which, according to them included, sexual molestation, his skin color, plastic surgeries, the race of his children, etc., etc. I thought Anna Nicole had it bad. Even in death, he cannot get the peace that he had been so obviously seeking. Why do individuals get a thrill out of desecrating the dead?

But that doesn’t answer the question. Why are so people so unhappy in American society? How can unhappiness be allowed in a country whose very principals is based on the pursuit of Happiness? How can a country whose very premise is based on happiness have more than forty-four million illiterate and barely literate people? Ignorance is not bliss and someone who cannot read and comprehend cannot be truly happy.

“We have made up a God in our image. Because we are angry and judgmental, we have projected those characteristics onto Him. But God remains who He is and always will be: He is the energy, the thought of unconditional love. He cannot think with anger or judgment. He is mercy and compassion and total acceptance.”

Marianne Williamson.


Losing my Mama

The last two years of my life has been particularly difficult. I lost my mother to diabetes complications and although I have tried to pretend that everything is okay, it’s not. I will never get over the fact that I will never see my mother again.

Her death was my greatest childhood nightmare and it came true on December 6, 2006 at 4:45pm. I was on my way to the hospital from work to visit her when I received a call on my cell, informing me that my mother had expired. Such a cold, clinical way to tell someone that their mother was dead. I remember silently crying on the bus and people staring at me as if I was some crazed individual. I wanted to scream, “My mama is dead, dead, dead!” but of course I didn’t. As usual I kept my pain and my thoughts to myself. I got off the bus and slowly walked across the street on route to the hospital.

It was cold, dreary and snow was everywhere and my mother was dead. I remember calling the father of my children, telling him that my mama was dead. I remember calling my eldest daughter and telling her that her granny was dead, the lady who helped raised her. I remember walking into the lobby of Michael Reese Hospital and the nice security guard telling me to sign in. I remember getting into the elevator on route to the tenth floor and getting off. I remember the blank looks on the faces of the nurses on her floor. I remember walking into her room and seeing her laying on the bed with her eyes closed and her mouth open, just like she was asleep, just like she always slept. But she wasn’t sleep, she was dead, dead, dead. I remember touching her and noticing that she was still warm.

I remember leaving the room and speaking with physician and passively listening to her explanation for my mother’s death and asking for a place to still down and think. I remember calling my boss to inform her that my mother was dead and did not know when I would be returning. I remember calling various family members and friends to talk and cry and putting the phone down.

Memories of my childhood come back to me. Of going to work with her during the summer when I was off from school. Shopping on State Street with her for school clothes, Easter clothes, books, and toys. Meeting her at the bus stop when she got off work. Of going to the Clock with her, a neighborhood juke joint on some Saturday afternoons and drinking orange juice while she had a cold Millers. Memories of her when I was in the hospital having my eldest child and my mother screaming at doctors, telling them that I was in pain. Of sitting beside her listening to stories of ghosts and hants that her mother had told her when she was a little girl.

Remembering how hard she worked as a single, poor mother making sure that I never missed a school trip or a function. Of the time when she was in the hospital with the same disease that took her away two weeks before Christmas back in 1978 and how she made Christmas happen for a little girl who so afraid and marvel at her strength. Hoping that I become one-tenth the woman she was. Rest in peace Ms. Gertrude Allen Henry. Although I will never get over you, I will always have my memories.