"In another time"

"I'm a soldier of love. Every day and night. I'm a soldier of love. All the days of my life. I've been torn up inside. Oh, I've been left behind. Oh, so I ride. I have the will to survive. In the Wild Wild West, trying my hardest, doing my best, to stay alive. I am love's soldier."

I saw Sade in concert last night, and they opened with the song "Soldier of Love". I don't know that I ever really processed the lyrics, or maybe I just didn't process how much they really apply to me. "I've been torn up inside. I've been left behind..." Of course, Sekai was also torn up inside, and I know that he felt left behind, too. Sigh. "I'm a soldier of love...I am love's soldier." And God is love. That's what came to me this morning when I was playing the song over and over. "I am love's soldier." And God is love.

As I was watching the incredible show put on by Sade (the band), I found myself marveling at Sade (the woman) and remembering the stories shared when she first became popular in the U.S., stories about her grandmother having to adjust to the idea of what her daughter had done, whom she had married, and her granddaughter's identity/embodiment. (Remember the song "Tar Baby"?) I just kept thinking, wow, and look at you now! If only they had known what you would become, what you could become...

Shortly after that thought, I was brought to rapt attention when I heard Sade say [paraphrase] I know some of you have been feeling down. This song is for you, for those who have been bullied, and made to feel bad.

"You've been down... Their whispers are hailstones in your face. You're so tired of waiting for something to change. They don't know what to do with something so good... One of these days they're gonna fall into their brew and they'll know exactly what they did to you. Darling, I just want you to know your tears won't leave a trace. In another time...in another time...in another place."

When I first heard this song, I thought the part about tears not leaving a trace meant that the person's tears wouldn't be seen or wouldn't be remembered, and so I didn't want to like this song, and kind of stopped listening to it (stopped really listening to it, processing it). But after hearing her introduce the song, and after really listening to it, processing it, now I think it means that the darling isn't crying anymore. And so I also played this song over and over this morning, and sang it over and over in my head all day.

Darling, your tears leave a trace on me, but I am so glad that they don't leave a trace on you anymore. Remembering you today, two years after laying you down to rest in peace.

[I missed the window by one minute. This post was to be dated June 23, 2011. Two years to the date...]

Two

An open letter to Tracy Morgan:

This won't be as articulate as I would like because I am racing against the clock. What clock? 7:19. 7:19. 7:19. I can still hear it: "Time of death, 7:19. We should get the family in here." On June 10, two years ago, those are the words that I heard. My son, my only son, was dead. Why? Because he was bullied. Why? Because he was different. So far as I know, he wasn't a member of the LGBT community (though he liked pink, and had chosen a multicolor-striped quilt for his bed, and I guess the stripes could be deemed reminiscent of a rainbow...does that frighten you?) and he wasn't one of your fans. Still, I think you owe him an apology. Why? Because based on what I have read, you made some pretty grand statements about how bullying isn't a big deal, and that people who are bullied should just fight back, and my son was so wounded by years of bullying (by other children, by adults, by systems and institutions) that he made a decision to not live anymore. So either you don't understand the dynamics and impact of bullying and suicide, or you don't care. Then again, I also read that you threatened to kill your own son if he ever acted in a way that would lead you to suspect that he is gay. I sure hope that your ex-wife and your son took note of that threat. And I tell you what: I'd give anything to have my son alive, gay or otherwise, so it seems to me that either you don't understand the dynamics of death and grief or even parenting, or you don't care. That makes me sad for you. Apologize--or rather, apologize for real--then please stay quiet until you learn and grow, and, if necessary, get whatever help will make you whole. After all, we know that bullies lash out from their own pain and fear.

Rest in peace, my beloved Sekai Ayinde Williams.

Forever, I love you, always, Ma.

Thanks for remembering

June 10 approaches. Again. How has it been almost two years since that day? It used to be that when my birthday approached, I would take something of an inventory of my life, consider where I've been, and where I'm going...and with whom. Since Sekai left, certain dates trigger a variation of this inventory, but one that is more geared toward examining what I have done to honor my son and affect positive change since June 10, 2009.

In speaking to a friend a few days ago, I lamented that as this anniversary approaches, I have been thinking that two years is a long time, and all of the things that I thought I would have accomplished by now (foundation? nationwide campaign? book?) are still on my list of things to do. This friend, bless her heart, reminded me of what I have accomplished (such as completing my Ph.D., contracting in a great office in a position that also allows me to learn more about issues related specifically to health) and said that this time has been about...oh dear, how did she put it...learning and http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifgrowing in my field and expanding my knowledge of and footing in a related field, both of which I now understand fully relate to the Sekai Perspective. At least that's how I received it. (Dear friend, if I missed it, please let me know. *s*) I thanked her for lifting my spirits, and for helping me to see the bigger picture. I thanked her for remembering my ultimate goal, which was in part passed on to me by Sekai.

This morning, I called my goddaughter and her family (my family) this morning, and her mother told me how they attended a workshop "about the devaluation of people who have disabilities", specifically, a training in social role valorization. (I am somewhat embarrassed to say that this was the first that I heard of this theory, but I certainly plan to read more about it.) One of the assignments was to share about a person who experienced the need for this approach. She said that she put off doing the assignment, and put it off, until it was her time to share and when they called her name: "I didn't really mean to, but I started talking about Sekai." And she told them all about my baby, and what happened to him, and how it could have been so very different. With tears streaming down my face as I listened, I tried my best to stifle my sniffles. As she finished telling me about her telling them about my boy, an ill-timed sniffle filled the silence, and she apologized for making me sad, asked me if it was ok to have shared about him. I stumbled over my words, and finally told her that it means so much to me when people share about Sekai, especially in a way that could lead others to create positive change. "Maybe they'll take it with them", she said. Exactly. And of course I thanked her for remembering him, and what happened to him.

Then I received the following card from The Compassionate Friends:


Thank you for remembering Sekai.

Fellowship of the saints

"You go through it to help others." I never liked that saying. That doesn’t make sense to me, and it was one of those churchisms that actually drove me away for a period. I kept thinking, what kind of God is this? I’m supposed to be happy that all heck is breaking loose in my life so that I can help someone else? Well, not exactly. If we carry that sentence all the way out: …so that I can help someone else when it happens to them. That’s the point. As I said to a friend yesterday, I keep reminding myself that God is sovereign, and God is not a man, that he should lie, nor a son of man, that he should change his mind (Numbers 23:19, NIV). My point? Man fell. Sin entered our world. He never meant for it to be like this. We did this. Man did this. Humanity did this. And it must hurt Him to see us hurting from something He tried to protect us from. Lord knows, as a parent, I surely get that. Worse irony there is, for real for real. Sin entered the world. Jesus hasn’t come back yet, so we’re still here, and so is sin. Bad things are going to happen to us (see man fell, sin entered the world). The fellowship of the saints is not an out for God, as if He said, "Ok, I’m not going to help you with this, I’m not going to prevent bad things from happening to you." He gave us the capacity for compassion because He knew bad things were going to happen to us (He’s omniscient, He knows the end from the beginning). The fellowship of the saints is His provision for us. That’s a looooong way from, "You go through it so that you can help someone else", now isn’t it?

This came to me today after speaking with another bereaved mother. When we finished talking (and this was after being ministered to by two friends earlier in the day, and after digging deep into my knowledge of God to send a word to a family member)< I cued up my iPod: music->genre->gospel. The list played this way: Declaration (this is it) by Kirk Franklin, I want it all back by Tye Tribett, The Appeal by Kirk Franklin. Phew! Then Grateful by Hezekia Walker--one of Sekai's songs, it is on his memorial DVD, but I have not let that song play since he left--and Held by Natalie Gran--a song that I played over and over when he was gone the first time, shared with him when he came back, but I have not let that song play since he left. Funny, because more than once I tried to take those songs off of my iPod. Today though, they cued up, and I let them play. Then three more songs cued up that were Sekai's songs, and I skipped through each one, and then turned it off because I could almost hear him singing those songs, and it was too much, hurt too much. But that's ok. Baby steps. And I really listened to the lyrics. And I really believed the lyrics. And I thought of the glory of God. Selah.