Monday, June 20, 2016

CHOKED ON THE BUS: Surviving "Everyday" Violence



Even as I sit to write this story I must acknowledge that I am still affected by it. I’m not affected in the same way as on that traumatc day, but my passion is fueled by it and my heart's memory is still green. It drives me to do my small part in building a world of peace. In that regard, this terrible experience has purpose. And part of that purpose is manifested in my willingness to share my truth with you and your willingness to hold space for me as a reader---For that I am grateful.

My story begins with a day like most other commuter days for me back in 1993. I was living in East Orange, New Jersey and working in New York. I was born in Trenton and lived a great deal of my adult life between Trenton and Newark. So none of the commuter danger was foreign to me. The commute, the people, the energy and even the risks, were all too familiar to me.  Believe it or not, commuting also brought a lot of joys with it as well; such as meeting new people, the comfort of seeing the same friendly strangers every day and the opportunity to people-watch without the woes of daily traffic.

THEN THINGS CHANGED: On this day I got off work early in New York and made my way back to Newark via the Path train. It was only 1 o’clock in the afternoon so I figured I’d do a little bit of downtown shopping. I walked around for a bit but found nothing of interest…honestly, I was probably more interested in the stroll and people watching than I was in purchasing anything. I walked to the corner to catch the bus that would take me home, to Prospect Street.

As the bus arrived the line of people waiting to get on had quickly formed; everyone wanted to find a good seat. I hustled my way forward and made it to what was ultimately the middle of the line. There were quite a few people in front of me and in back. I was standing there with the usual “mind my own business” glare that you acquire as part of your survival in city-living. 

Suddenly I felt an aggressive choking sensation around my neck that sent me immediately into shock. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I was sure that the sensation felt like someone was gagging me. Oh my God--Someone was choking me! Was I about to die right here on line for the bus? In those brief moments it took me to understand what was happening, I froze. My body was frozen but my mind was racing.

Just as I began to react by turning around to see who was doing this, I realized someone was trying to steal the necklace off my neck. My necklace was a gold Bismarck chain that I had spent quite a bit of money on...and was proud to own. It was thick and hard to pull off, especially LIKE THIS! This predator had clearly decided that MY necklace should belong to him, with no care or concern for the potential injury to my neck. He pulled. And he pulled. And he pulled.

Before I had any real cognitive thoughts, my reflexes sent my hands to my neck for protection. Finally the necklace popped…POP! Oddly enough I could hear the snap like a firecracker near my ear. In that moment this thief also grabbed my purse. Fortunately, I had just taken my wallet out of the purse in order to show my monthly bus pass to the driver. My purse was on my right shoulder and the wallet was clutched in my left hand, which at that point was at my neck.

When I was finally able to turn around, I got a brief glimpse of him running and people making a path for his escape. He made his escape through the crowd standing behind me just as he did before the attack. Still in shock, I was able to put 1 foot in front of the other to get on the bus. I made no sound, but was acutely aware of the sounds around me. More accurately, I was acutely aware of the lack of sounds around me. There was no one shouting, “Are you okay?” There was no one rushing to my aid. This sea of brown people…brown like me…my people…they made me invisible on that day.

As I set down on the bus and raised my head to look around, I realized that most people had continued their well-taught “mind my own business” glare. No one even offered a compassionate stare to meet my pain. I felt so many feelings in that moment: anger, rage, violated, embarrassed, lonely and ashamed of not being able to protect myself. Tears streamed down my eyes and I knew that the theft was not the sole cause for my weeping. This violation was so much deeper than that. No these were ancient tears…the weeping of ancestors who fought hard for all of us only to bear witness to such terrorism between brothers and sisters. My soul was wounded and my heart was broken on that day. I cried in silence all the way to Prospect Street.

I stepped off the bus different than when I stepped on. Although the thief in this story stole my property and my naive sense of safety, he didn't steal my unwavering commitment to see and be the love I want to experience in the world. He didn't steal my commitment and belief in PEACE. --- ©2014 all rights reserved

FOR SUPPORT IN DEALING WITH TRAUMA:
The Effects of Dealing With Trauma
Common Responses to Trauma
Get Help to Deal with Trauma


Ankh-Udja-Seneb!
Imani Evans, MA, EdDc
CHANGE ACTIVIST / SPEAKER / AUTHOR
Women Healing Women, Inc.
501 (C)3 Non-Profit Organization
Empowered Squared, Inc.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Healing A Mother-Daughter Relationship with Black Girl Magic

dedicated to Yolanda Renee Evans, my mom

When I think of the ongoing debacle that was my adolescence, I can't help but be amazed by what it means to be a 16-year-old mother. I am astonished that my mom was not only that, but she went on to be a young bride at age 17. I often wondered to myself---how do you even know what do at such a tender age? Quickly I realized the daunting answer...You don't! You just do the best you can and try not to roll over on the baby in the bed. :-)

2 years after birthing me, my brother, Montsho Edu (Aaron Evans), was born. With the addition of this new baby boy, my mom was thrust into a mature existence at the ripe age of 17 years old. In contrast my step daughter, Taylor, is 18 and about to graduate high school. Her biggest concerns are which college to choose, when to get her driver's license, and whether or not to upgrade to the iPhone 6s. The polarity to my mother's life at that age makes it abundantly clear as to why she is my shero, well above my beloved Oprah. I honor my mother not because she was perfect, but because she survived it all despite the plausible destructive alternatives. My brother and I survived too. And we all did so with our sanity intact...Well, mostly.

The journey was no cake-walk

When I Ponder back on it all, it was nothing short of a miracle. Not the kind like Jesus parting the Red Sea. No-- this was a real-life-badass-black-woman miracle. Black girl magic at its finest! My mom and I grew up together; she made mistakes and I was no peach of a kid. Together we gave each other hell, broke each other's heart numerous times and--truth be told--often felt tortured by the other. It was downright mutually abusive.

As a self-critical, sexually abused, suicidal, rage-filled kid I was hurting and keeping insidious secrets. As a kid forced to be a woman far too soon, resentful of an unplanned life, my mother grappled with balancing her lost innocence against her natural maternal instincts. We both lived with rage just under the surface. I remember my mom telling me, "if anyone ever touches you, I will kill them." I believed her! So I kept my secrets buried beneath the rage and self-loathing. Instead we acted out of our respective rage and pain. But it got better, eventually.

My father's death opened the gateway to healing

When my father died in 1990, it left a gaping hole in my heart. After lots of therapy and personal evolution, I realized this hole could only be filled by rekindling the mother-daughter connection in my life. I needed my mommy more than anything at that time. I needed to love her and be loved by her. The wonderful thing about healing journeys is that sometimes the people you love are traveling one too, simultaneously.

One day I sat down with my mom and poured my heart out (the palpitations I felt in the moment almost made this statement a literal one). Here's the thing...It wasn't the end of anything, instead it was the beginning of everything. I distinctly remember falling back in love with my mother. It was like an emotional defibrillator. There have been many conversations since that day. Healing is a journey--not a forced destination.

Here's the turning point of my story...She was ready. She listened with her soul not just her ears. She didn't get defensive, even though she didn't even remember a lot of my mother-daughter hurts. Once again, she put the needs of her child ahead of her own ego. As a result a weight was lifted from my spirit. My little girl was free to grow up and reach for recovery.

Fast forward a couple of decades and my mom is my best friend (beside my new wife). She is a motivator, a grounding force and my reason for wanting to be better. Many times her belief in me has filled the spaces where my fear and insecurity resided. In those times I believed in myself, almost exclusively, because of her belief in me. We have a mutual respect, admiration and love that is palpable to others who share our company. I would have a nice savings if I had a quarter for every time someone said, I wish I had that kind of relationship with my mother, or I love the relationship between the two of you. In part, I wrote this article because I want those people to know that my mother and I make an ongoing, conscious choice to forgive and love one another over and over again.

THE HOPE


For those of you struggling with your daughter, or your mother, on this day--I see you. I know there is hope if you both reach for it. Don't let your ego and pain be bigger than the healing and recovery. I do believe in what I call a spiritual umbilical cord. The physical cord feeds and nourishes the body while in the mother's womb. But as soon as that cord is cut, the spiritual umbilical cord takes hold of your soul and bonds the two of you for life. Without words and even action, you can send Love and Hope through this unbreakable gateway, even if you've never laid eyes on your biological mother.

The most important thing is for you to do your personal work. Then nurture your love through your metaphysical connection long before you speak words to one another. Make no mistake, my relationship with my mother is still not perfect; but rest assured I am not seeking perfection. No ma'am! My daily prayer is one of acceptance and gratitude. Gratitude may come easier than acceptance, but when they are linked---miracles await you!

I'm grateful for all the experiences that made me the self-loving, warrior-queen I am today. I don't take the memories nor the moments for granted. With every laugh, cry and frustration I am always basking in the miracle of this journey. For this-- I am eternally grateful. Thank you, Mom, for allowing our souls to choose each other in this lifetime. We grew up together and my fervent prayer is that we will grow old together, holding closely the sweetness of a well-earned mother/daughter love.

To all the Teenage Warrior-Mamas Around the World:

I know it wasn't easy.
I Honor Your Black Girl Magic!
Happy Mother's Day

May your journey be filled with miraculous moments and magical moments. I wish you great healing and love. Ase!

Imani Evans, MA
Empowerment Coach/Author/Blogger/Empowered Black Girl
Email: Imani@surviving2thriving.org
Websites:
Phone: 404/944/6409