Mommafucious: Final Thoughts for 2015, Part I

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Final Thoughts for 2015 Part I: This is part one because I know that tomorrow, there will be more uncluttered ruminations.
I am taking this note from my grandson, who cleanses himself when needed on these pages, and then goes out and does wonderful things. I love you, Anthony King.
Paying close attention to what people say and do has its challenges. No one wants you to look that hard. They want to remain shadows behind one institution or a few if they are lucky. Most people are accustomed to the “assess,” “call,” and “response;” and treat the rest of the world in kind.
Throwing a ham sandwich to the man sleeping by the side of the road, we assume he is hungry. Yet he has merely fallen asleep after a long day. Hey, those ham sandwiches make great Sunday testimonies; the pillars propping up our goodness.
I once walked out of a meeting, where I was President. One of many times, I vacated spaces that looked totally ridiculous. It taught me more about what I was willing to tolerate than the spaces harboring seductive paradigms. My breaking points were all exposed. They are the letter and stories waiting on my desk to be completed. They are the pedicures, bike rides, cocktail sips, and all of life’s other miracles that get lost playing in Jezebel’s funhouse.
I considered one of the marches through town for peace until I realized the ridiculousness of asking for peace from a non-violent violent people. Luckily, I did not waste the time. They were the wrong group. That evening after the march, at least a mile away from the city’s hotspot, a sacred one beat a police officer almost to death. He is still considered civil, just a bad day. No need for a march. Two lines on the blotter.
And speaking of violence, which is better; a paper cut or a knife wound?
Violence is when you look like me and give me a book to read with most of the pages torn out.
Or invite me to supper and give me the same ham sandwich that you tossed to the homeless man.
Or offer to buy the concert tickets and only can afford the bleeder seats, assuming I wouldn’t notice.
Or announcing an empowerment meeting where there are 20 minutes of lineage for every 2 minutes of substance. I could’ve had a pedicure, fool.
Or the receptionist at the school principal’s office demanding to know where I was last week (Business trip), when I asked to see the principal about a matter my husband took care of while I was away. Yes bitch, someone does pay me to travel.
Better yet, when you retire and return to college and folks reference you to their derelict relative that didn’t know it was time to grow up until they started graying.
Or expecting me at 40 to champion a club where the only events are funerals every week and members show up with oxygen tanks to fill the seats. What ever happened to sick and shut-in? Now that is violence.
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