betweenpeaceandpieces

Don’t Let Me Die

Thu, 22 Jun 2023 16:37:11 GMT

“Your son was doomed to die that day,” one of the voices said on the other end as I pushed the phone further into my ear. She and another staff member of Macon State Prison had called me on a three-way some time after Sip’s murder to depict to me the details of that fateful day of March 20th, 2020.

I had just left work, and sitting in my car when my cell phone rang.

“Ms. Bradley, this is Ms. Jones from Macon State Prison. Do you have a minute?”

I scrambled for pen and paper to jot down names and key details like I had done since the very first day of this horrendous ordeal.

Ms. Jones continued, “I also have Ms. Price on the other end. We were with your son when he took his last breath.”

Ms. Price paused and exhaled, “I don’t know why things played out the way they did on that particular day and why it had to be Sip – we’ll never know - but he was doomed to lose his life that day.”

She went on to describe what she called a series of “preventable circumstances.” The nurse who was working in the infirmary that day, she stated, had a habit of turning the radio down. “She can’t hear as it is and had been told several times to stop turning it down. So when the Code Blue was called she didn’t hear it. The Code had been called four times. We had to run in there and grab the crash cart and tell her there was a Code Blue called.” Ms. Price continued, “When we made it to the gate, there was no guard there to let us in. We could have gotten in with the Master Key, but there wasn’t one. The previous worker had taken it home and not returned it. I warned Warden Perry this would happen if he didn’t hurry up and replace that key. He never did. Warden Perry was getting his hair cut while your son was being murdered.”

I felt like I was trapped underwater. Their voices were so close, but yet so distant. My mind briefly went back to the phone call I received from another prisoner the day Sip was killed; “check on your son. They said he was dead.” I started gasping for air.

Ms. Price takes a moment before she starts up again, “I never speak to family, and I’m sorry this happened. He didn’t deserve it. It shouldn’t have happened. And this is why we were compelled to speak to you.”

“How long would you say we waited at the gate to get in the dorm,” Ms. Jones asked Ms. Price.

“I don’t know the exact time but it was an extended period. I’m going to say this, if the officer would have been in place at the gate, or we would have had a Master Key to get in, we would have made it to your son and I believe he would have lived.”

I managed to get out one question, and with each word I felt like I was drowning. “Was my baby alive when y’all finally got to him?”

“Ms. Bradley…”

“Tell me please. I need to know.”

Ms. Price hesitated, “he was covered in blood, and we had pressure dressings ready. The last thing I remember is Sip looking at the Orderly, and right before he took his last breathe, he said, ‘don’t let me die.’”

I looked o ut of my car window toward the Heavens. I shouted out for God’s Mercy and Divine Intervention. I needed Him to do something right then. At that moment. Cause my heart was one beat from disintegrating in my chest. Anger and desperation started to subdue me. Still clutching my phone long after the call had ended, I prayed and begged God for the vengeance He said was His. I despised Macon State Prison, and anyone who was associated with it. I started cursing the entire treacherous system for ensnaring my young son and leaving him for dead. Then as quick as an igniting flame, a measure of calm settled upon me. While the system may have taken Sip’s life, in reality they never took anything from him that God gave him, nor anything that God won’t give back to him. I know the child I raised had a heart bigger than the corruption that imprisoned him. They may have confined Sip’s physical being, but there is nothing big enough in this world that could have encaged his courage, love and compassion. And for this, I am proud.

15 things to know about Shanquella Robinson

Fri, 18 Nov 2022 14:42:17 GMT

The beautiful, young business woman, Shanquella Robinson, left her home of Charlotte, NC with a group of friends headed to celebrate a friend’s birthday in Cabo, Mexico. In less than 24 hours of her arrival, her parents got a call that no parent should ever receive; Shanquella’s heart had stopped. A video has since then gone viral showing a disturbing and difficult to watch scene of Shanquella naked, appearing subdued and being viscously beaten by who is said to be one of her friends, Daejhanae Jackson. Shanquella Robinson’s parents state they were told their daughter had a broken neck and an injured spinal chord.

1. Full name: Shanquella Brenada Robinson

2. DOB: January 9 ^th , 1997

3. Parents: Bernard and Salamondra Robinson

4. Siblings: Quilla Long, sister

5. Residence at time of death: Charlotte, NC

6. Profession: Business owner; Owner of The Exquisite Kids & Co. hair salon and Exquisite Boutique women’s clothing store.

7. Marital status: Single

8. Children: None

9. High school: West Charlotte High School

10. College attended: Winston Salem State University

11. Social media: @Its.quella, @theexquisitekids @theboutique.exquisite

12. Death date: October 29, 2022

13. Place of death: Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

14. Cause of death: ”severe spinal cord injury and atlas luxation”

15. Those said to be involved in suspicious death of Shanquella: Khalil Cooke, Wenter Donovan, Alysse Hyatt, Daejhanae Jackson, and Nazeer Wiggins

Public viewing of Shanquella’s remains:

NOV 19. 11:00 AM – 12:00 PM (ET)

Macedonia Baptist Church

1300 Hateras Ave

NC 28216

Burial site:

Beatties Ford Memorial Garden

Charlotte, NC

#shanquellarobinson #justiceforshanquella #murderinparadise #sayhername #frenemies #khalilcooke #daejhanaejackson

Internal Dialogue of a Bereaved Mother

Tue, 13 Sep 2022 12:41:35 GMT

There’s no greater blessing that God has bestowed upon me, than motherhood. Not only has it allowed me to love unconditionally, but experience the gift of unquestionable love that only a child can give. Raising my two boys alone as a single mother would also prove to be one of the biggest challenges I faced as a woman; the overcompensation to alleviate missing father blues, raising black boys in a society that’s unaccepting of them, and unforgiving of their mistakes, producing latchkey kids, and working extremely hard to dispel the popular folklore that makes single motherhood worse than a tale told over a blazing campfire.

When my sons were little, I never thought much of the world around us. As they got older, and times started to change, I became more concerned with peer pressure, and unfavorable decision making. The staggering difference in the treatment of African Americans within the Criminal Justice System had also gained spotlight, which compounded my fears. When my youngest son, Carrington, was sentenced to serve time in the Georgia Department of Corrections; the judge, the prosecutor, even our own attorney made us feel ostracized. I walked out of that courtroom broken; feeling I had hit my lowest point. My seventeen year-old baby would be housed with grown men – some old enough to be his father, even his grandfather - who had committed some of the most heinous crimes you could think of. How would we ever get through this, I thought.

• • •

But time went on, and “that day” became two years ago, then four, then six years. Although, the days and nights didn’t come and go without tears, fears, sleeplessness, and many prayers; Carrington and I were getting through this difficult period in our lives the best we knew how. After almost seven years in the Georgia Department of Corrections, “home sweet home” was finally in the forecast. We had planned out everything for this most anticipated occasion; the moment we talked about and prepared for no more than a day after his sentencing would soon be arriving. Then one night like a plot twist in a movie, I received a call from another prisoner that shook my core; Carrington had been stabbed to death . I went from planning my son’s welcome-home party to making arrangements for his memorial service.

Just like that, I had been kicked out of the club of the “mothers of incarcerated kids,” and forced into this “bereaved parents’ club.” Before March 20th, 2020 I had only a shallow idea as to what it felt like to lose a child; boy, was my inkling off. It is something ungodly. It is a phenomenon that only the members of this club can discern. I only thought I was at my lowest the day Carrington was sentenced to prison; I now felt like I was drowning in an ocean of darkness. Nothing I knew about life, death, or God had prepared me for a pain so colossal. It would have felt more natural to had gone blind. I didn’t know if I’d make it through the night. And I simply didn’t care. If a person can really feel dead - I felt it that cold night in March. What was almost as bad as the initial injury of losing Carrington, was waking up the next morning with the realization that he was truly gone; that I had not dreamed this horrible ordeal, but the loving being I had birthed, nurtured and loved was gone forever.

You see, life ceases, but love is immortal; it transcends even the grave. If you’ve ever pondered over this adage; just ask a mother who’s buried a child. There’s something about the journey of a bereaved mom. She attempts to carry on with life, although there’s very little life left in her. By the Grace of God, she chooses to get up out of bed each day, not only because those who are living count on her to do so, but so does the spirit of the child she lost; to be his voice; his truths teller; his legacy keeper. And as a mother who raised a child who had a zeal for life, I know above anything else he would root for me to be okay. He will always be my unseen cheerleader.

Each morning as the sun competes with the moon for the day, and God blares the alarm of my internal clock, I’m forced out of bed by the consciousness of Carrington’s voice, “Get up, My Dear. We are not done yet.”

The Child I Almost Didn’t Have

Mon, 12 Sep 2022 12:43:34 GMT

I sat in the passenger’s seat, as we began to travel from our small home town of Stuttgart, AR. It was early that morning, so very few people were on the road. I kept my head turned to the right, looking out of the window at the cotton fields, and miles of plowed land. My children’s father was driving. The silence between us was louder than any argument we had ever had. It was like getting on a bus and sitting next to a complete stranger. I rubbed my hand up and down my stomach. A light stream of tears ran down my cheeks. I felt unsure, confused, ashamed, and afraid. We hadn’t told a soul. No one knew but us, and God. We were headed to Little Rock to have an abortion with our second child. The closer we got to our destination, the more disconnected I felt. Then out of nowhere, my children’s father pulled on the side of the road, and said, “I can’t do this. I wasn’t raised like this.”

What he meant was, we both were brought up in families, and a time in society where abortions were frowned upon. Despite our upbringing, we both had thought terminating the pregnancy would be the right decision for all of us. I wasn’t even of legal age yet, and we already had one child together. He had several from previous relationships. No matter the blame; the atmosphere me and their father shared was unhealthy, and at times toxic. So having another child at that point just seemed unimaginable.

We went ahead and did the unthinkable, and decided to keep this little life that had invaded our lives. The minute we agreed to keep him, is the moment I fell in love with him. We all had become spellbound over this new entry into the journal of our world. Even our oldest son, Jalen, who was only a year old at the time would touch my stomach, and say “ba bruda;” his rendition of Baby Brother.

The summer of ’96 was long, hot and sticky. I went into labor that morning, and gave birth to my second baby boy on a Saturday, June 22nd. I didn’t have to think at all for a suitable name. I knew my baby would have the name Carrington long before he was born, or even conceived. It’s what I had planned to name my child since I was a child myself. I got pulled away from the name by family with my first child, but not with my second born. He would get the name he was meant to have; the name I longed to give my baby since watching one of my favorite childhood TV shows; Dynasty. The lead character, Blake Carrington was everything; intelligent, strong, wealthy and powerful. I had fallen in love with that name; or maybe I had fallen in love with what it stood for. Either way, my boy’s life would be destined.

Carrington was so beautiful. He had a head full of cold black, straight hair. His forehead was even hairy. He was deep almond complexion, with a big bright smile. Carrington was the friendliest baby I had ever seen. When he wasn’t smiling, Carrington’s father thought he held his lips pushed out like he was about to “sip” from a cup; giving birth to the moniker he would forever be known as; Sip.

We would only experience Sip’s life changing presence for twenty three -blink of an eye- years. He was born, and he was loved. He lived and he loved. Then he was taken. He didn’t just die. There’s a grave difference. Sip was taken out of this world faster than he was born into it. When I think about life without his presence, the manner in which he was taken, and the catastrophic circumstances surrounding Sip’s death, my mind briefly diverts back to when he was the child I almost didn’t have.

What if I had gone through with the abortion that twenty three autumns ago. What if I never had the chance to know and love Sip. What if I never birthed this son I later lost. Why would chance have it that a child I chose to bring into this world, someone else would come along shortly and choose to take him out of the world. Would it have been better to never have known Sip, than to love him so deeply - then lose him just twenty three years later; so abruptly and so brutally.

Although the pain is piercing, and the devastation at times feels deadly; I’d still chose to give birth to this child that was mine. I would always take those short twenty three years I had him on this earth; in my life. I would choose his smile over the warmth of the sun, and the light of the moon. No winter wonderlands, nor sunsets over the oceans could compete with not even one more gaze into his eyes. If I had to do it all over, I would choose to have Sip 1000 times. I would choose his life again and again, before I would ever consider mine.

Investigate the deplorable and unconstitutional conditions of the GA Depart of Corrections

Tue, 05 Jan 2021 20:04:22 GMT

My name is Jennifer Bradley. My son, Carrington Frye, was murdered by another inmate at Macon State Prison on March 20, 2020. On the day of Carrington's murder there was said to have been only 1 guard to oversee and surveil 188 inmates. Carrington laid in the Sally port about 30 to 40 minutes bleeding out from stab wounds to his neck and chest awaiting the critically limited crew. The one guard present that day never stepped out of her booth. I was notified of my son’s murder and the circumstances surrounding his death approximately six hours after the incident, not by any prison official, but by another inmate. The officials of the Georgia Department of Corrections (GDC) have yet to speak with me concerning what happened to my son. Not only have they refused to speak with me, but the officials at Macon State Prison failed to secure and return Carrington’s personal belongings to me, and have denied having any records on him. Carrington had been incarcerated since he was seventeen years old as a first offender on aggravated assault charges. At the time of his murder, he was just months shy of his 24 birthday, and his release from prison.

Starting with the day my son was murdered, I have been lied to and given the run-around, and pretty much ignored by Warden Perry, the Facilities Director; Scott Crickmar, and the GDC. I even attempted to relay my concerns to Commissioner Timothy Ward, whose disposition was rude, defensive, and insensitive. Commissioner Ward refused to have a conversation with me and ended the call abruptly. I must admit, his response was disheartening; as I am a grieving mother whose son lost his life in one of Commissioner Ward’s Prisons. As one of the “Gatekeepers” of the GDC, I would think a conversation with a bereaved mother would be the least he could have done. I've also emailed Commissioner Ward inquiring about changes that are being implemented to help ensure the safety of other inmates; I have yet to hear from him. I’ve written to the office of Governor Brian Kemp, twice, not only concerning the murder of my son, but also the rampant violence and deplorable conditions of Macon State Prison. Just like his subordinates, Governor Kemp has failed to acknowledge me and my concerns, my son's murder, and the unconstitutional conditions of Macon State Prison. I have tirelessly poured out my heart in correspondence to the U.S Department of Justice pleading for a full investigation into Macon State Prison. Again, it appears I’ve fallen on deaf ears. Is there a leader anywhere who cares about this life and death issue that affects the lives of the people who’ve helped put them in positions of political power?! This is not an “incarcerated folks” problem. This is a societal problem. What happened to Carrington is not an isolated incident, but a systemic issue of inhumane conditions, corruption, injury and death. The critical staffing shortage, improperly trained staff, lack of appropriate security and surveillance, obscured and improperly working security cameras, corruption and breakdown in communication processes have placed the Georgia Department of Corrections in a crisis. There have been far too many murders at Macon State Prison alone. Our loved ones are not coming home. And those who do are often worse off; inflicted with mental illnesses; PTSD, depression, sleep deprivation, and paranoia; from things they’ve witnessed and experienced behind those prison walls. Many of these same offenders are released back into society in a continuous cycle of untreated mental illness, frequent ER visits with unpaid, and piling healthcare debt, reactive criminal thinking and recidivism.

Our Gatekeepers need to be held accountable to the obligations of their position, and their duty to uphold the Constitution for ALL. We cannot afford for our leaders to continue to ignore this grave issue. My son, and many others have paid with their blood. Please help me in this urgent call to action for the U.S Department of Justice to launch a full investigation into the deplorable conditions of Macon State Prison, and the GDC as a whole; In hopes that what happened to Carrington will not happen to another prisoner.

The Criminal Justice System Killed My Son

Tue, 20 Oct 2020 05:43:35 GMT

Property of WBRC

My son lost his life to the festering wound, that is our criminal justice system. The injustices, and extreme risk of injury and death ooze like pus throughout the entire infected establishment. The rampant violence, contraband, and corruption, untimely medical care, the staffing crisis, inappropriate prisoner placement, and lack of supervision, to name just a few, have turned our correctional institutions into dead zones. Criminal Justice Reform is Black Lives Matter , and those of us who have been directly affected by the criminal justice system – from police interactions to sentencing - know first hand, that Criminal Justice Reform is indeed worthy of a movement.

Photo taken from npr.org

On March 20th of this year, I had received the devastating news of Carrington’s murder, not by the warden or any other prison official at Macon State Prison, but from another prisoner several hours later. The words will probably still haunt me when I’m on my deathbed, giving in to my last breath, “Ma’am, please call up to the prison and check on your son. He got stabbed, and they said he was dead.” I fell to the floor and crawled my way to my oldest son’s room; afraid to depend on my legs to hold me up. A collage of images - from me giving birth to Carrington; to him at nine years old offering me his allowance to use for gas money; to me being in prison with him jumping in front of the wielding knife - flooded my mind like the waters of a broken levy. I called Macon State Prison; screaming, shaking, afraid, and feeling foreign inside my own skin; awaiting the warden to confirm what I already knew to be the horrific end.

Carrington at 17 years old

Carrington was barely seventeen years old when he was arrested and given harsh prison time, as if he was a poster child for criminal offenses. To further assassinate his young character, the police hyped up, and over exaggerated the details of his offense to several news outlets in Georgia. If someone was to Google Carrington's name, they’d think he did everything but kneel on a man’s neck and snuff the life out of him. And to make far worse losing him at seventeen to prison, was to literally lose his young life…to prison. Carrington made an unfavorable decision when he was just a teenager that cost no-one their life, or even quality of life; but he paid for the choice he made as a boy with his own life. Carrington was just about home, and looking forward to embracing his new start in society. We had discussed plans and made provisions to assist him in his journey. Instead, I found myself preparing my son for his final resting place.

Carrington's final resting place

The day of Carrington’s murder, there was said to had been only one guard to control and oversee the safety of 188 inmates in the dormitory that day, with this one guard situated inside of a booth. These factors made it impossible for the female guard to regulate or even de-escalate any situation that would have posed a threat, not only to the safety of others, but herself as well. If there had been adequate security staff, and proper supervision and surveillance; maybe the drug-fueled assailant would have thought twice before he carried out an ambush attack on Carrington’s life. Even the security camera in the area might had been beneficial in picking up any brewing tension had it not been left obscured with Vaseline. Prisoners had to plea with the guard to allow Carrington through into the sally port; where he laid bleeding out awaiting the critically limited crew. Carrington had succumbed to stab wounds of his neck and chest. He was a few months short of his release from prison, and three months shy of his 24 ^th birthday.

Property of WBRC

Having my son away in the Department of Corrections often meant sitting, and listening in horror to stories that sounded like he was describing events out of a movie. Although, Carrington’s resilience was tested often, for the sake of my sanity, he was careful not to show me worry. I remember vividly him describing to me the “scene” of being inappropriately placed in a cell with much older, former Olympian boxer, and convicted murderer, Yathomas Riley. For my emotional protection, Carrington told me the series of events after they had taken place. I sat across from him at visitation one weekend gripping his hand. My eyes wide and wet. Mouth open.

“Ma, these people put me in a cell with this dude, Yathomas Riley. You heard of him, my dearest?”

I swiftly shook my head.

“He boxed in the Olympics. They said he killed two wives. All he does is shadow box, day in and day out. But anyway, I guess he didn’t want me in the cell with him because he cussed and threatened me the whole time while he bounced around and punched the air…for three days.”

“Oh my God, did he hurt you, Son?” I could now feel my heart beating in my throat.

“No, my dearest, he didn’t. But it could’ve been bad, Ma. I prayed to God to protect me, and not let it get messy.” He continued, “God, don’t let him hurt me or force me to have to hurt him.”

I was fearful, angry, and felt helpless in knowing what to do to protect my child. But in that very moment, I was even more proud to had birthed Carrington into this world.

It wasn’t until Yathomas Riley and Carrington engaged in a physical altercation that made guards remove Carrington from the cell. The placement of my son, in a cell with someone of Riley's status was reckless, and endangering in several aspects. Yathomas Riley is a skilled and trained boxer; as the skill of professional boxing gives Riley a lethal weapon in his possession at all times. The experience, size and strength of Yathomas Riley were much more substantial than Carrington's. This gave him an advantage to overpower my much younger, and disadvantaged son. Carrington was sentenced to eight years for aggravated assault on a defendant he was engaged in several physical fights with. Yathomas Riley was given life without parole, plus an additional forty years for murder, among other things. Carrington, and Yathomas Riley as cellmates with these staggering differences in sentences was negligent on every level; as Yathomas Riley is an offender with nothing to lose.

Carrington is only one of many casualties of the recklessness of Macon State Prison this year. Around the time of his death he was one of five prisoners murdered at this particular prison, with more prisoner deaths within the following weeks to months behind his. Every turn is a death trap , not only in Macon State Prison, but in the entire Georgia Department of Corrections. The thread of corruption, and poor prison conditions, coupled with contraband and reactive criminal thinking in America’s prisons from both, prisoner and staff alike, loosens the fabric of our entire justice system.

We can’t talk Black Lives Matter without Criminal Justice Reform. A new revolution has to be ignited, that carries and raises each torch in an unequivocal and uniform height. This is life and death, so we can no longer afford to pick and choose our battles; the stakes are too high. Because it is the appreciation for life that is the core of existence; at every age, every stage, and every phase of life. Criminal Justice Reform, to our society, has to be more than a concept; and Black Lives Matter beyond a catchy phrase. Just as Carrington’s life…and his death should be worth far more than just a hashtag and a memory.

R est in perfect peace, son. The weight of this world is no longer yours to bear.

Black Girl Puddin'

Thu, 05 Sep 2019 19:43:00 GMT

Have you ever had a cup of some Black Girl Puddin'

Made you do things you thought you wouldn’t

Even worked things out when you thought it couldn’t

Now lets talk about the puddin' and what makes it unique

That have men of all races tripping over their feet

Trying to sample this puddin' even if it’s discreet

It has raised a family by itself alone

Has nourished a child who wasn’t its own

Some criticize the puddin' for being way too strong

Black Girl Puddin' at its best is complex

Overlooked and underrated when compared to the rest

But the recipe to this puddin' only uses the best

This age defying goodness can compare to wine

It never expires, but gets better with time

The essence of the puddin' is not easily defined

You see Black Girl Puddin' is creamy and thick

Sweet like sugar, buttery rich

With a dash of spice to give it a kick

Indulge in mocha, latte, chocolate or cream

Hot caramel crunch, or roasted vanilla bean

This puddin' packs flavors like none you ever seen

Black Girl Puddin' is boundless and timeless, no one can deny

With true class it surpasses a past riveted by history's lie

Possesses the sweetness of sugarcane, but yet bitterness at times

All hail to the Black Girl Puddin', it has earned it’s place

Counted out by many now it’s winning the race

Grab yourself a cup of this puddin' and be blessed by it’s grace

*Be sure to click the store link to check out the T shirt inspired by this poem.

#blackgirlpuddin #defyingallodds #melaninandmagic

Networking in Atlanta: The Soeur Connect Movement

Mon, 19 Aug 2019 13:13:37 GMT

When we think of a city with an undeniable culture of good vibes, an insatiable appetite for the arts, influential and ambitious black folk, and the hypest network scene ever, the “A” is always at the top of the list! Jermaine Dupri said it best in his hit tune, Welcome to Atlanta , “People from other cities used to drive for miles just to come get a taste of this Atl style!” This is exactly the case with the beautiful bosses of Soeur Connect. Soeur, the French term for “sister,” placed with the word, connect was created to join like-minded individuals in an effort to build an empire based on collaboration instead of competition. These thirteen entrepreneurs traveled from their home state of Florida to shake up the scene in the Atl with their very first, but oh so successful “Her Vibes Network Mixer!!” Now y’all know Atlanta got the ladies, and they all showed up and showed out at this networking event; with business cards in hand and products in tow. The ambiance was one of sheer support and empowerment, love, light and laughter; not the competitive or out-for-self propaganda that has tainted the reputation of us black women for as long as I can remember.

The ladies of Soeur Connect proved they are well equipped to take business and networking to its next level. They brought a host of entrepreneurs together for a beautiful evening that included sipping, shopping, sisterhood, networking and building valuable connections. One of the thirteen members, the gracious Shavonda Nicole showcased her very own hair care products, Alluring Essence Hair Collection. I can’t wait to use my edge control! Next to her was her sister in the game, CEO of Essence of Chanel , Amber Chanel, bringing you premium hair and lash deals. She’s definitely headed to the top! You wanna get beat to the gawds, please contact my girl, Freelance MUA, Verline Jean. She was in the place and is also a member of Soeur Connect. The fourth member of Soeur Connect in attendance captured this entire movement in picture, Zaloriea of Zee Photography never missed a beat, or should I say never missed a flash.

There were also authors, Shaneequa Cannon and Cindy Isler in the building. These ladies both talk about things that are very real in our society. We had Glam Royale who made a bold statement with their many styles of designer eye ware and fashion accessories. Irie Essence was another boss babe among the collection. She is the creator of handmade candles that bring ‘relief and peace.’ The most impressionable sponsor was a little girl by the name of London. She has her own Lip Gloss line called, My Lip Gloss by London . What a joy it is to see wealth building at such an early age! The sisterhood of entrepreneurs didn’t stop there. We had Farmers Insurance Agent, the lovely Louise Maccou, skincare specialist, CEO Candice; of Mother of Earth Beauty Care , and Brittany of Bodacious Krafts . Both ladies products are all handmade. Owner of Ginger Galore , Samari Walker was there representing her ‘all natural’ health and beauty line. Master Stylist, Brandy Duncan of, In The Cut 2, Barber & Beauty Salon , was all smiles as we exchanged bits of information. The Atlanta socialite, Trina Bee of Girl Let’s Talk Atlanta was also in attendance. It’s always a pleasure bumping into this powerhouse! And y’all know it ain’t a gathering without music, food and drinks. We had professional mixologist, Tiffany Boulware, of Tippy’z making sure she kept the mood right.

I felt an immediate connection with the sisters upon entering the building. Maybe it was the twinkle of ambition in their eyes that I see in my own, or maybe it was the hunger we all possess to be apart of something bigger than ourselves, or it could have been perhaps the sheer love and magic that were evident in the room. Thank you, to the ladies of Soeur Connect for giving me an opportunity to not only highlight your event on my platform, but to be among Black Girl Magic at its finest. Continue to wave those wands, Soeurs! Wave those wands!! #SoeurConnect #issamovement!

Follow these influential bosses on IG:

@soeurconnect @zaloriea

@alluringessencehaircare @ecbeautycollection

@makeup.by.vee @shaneequacannon

@motherofearth @glamroyaleshop

@gingergaloreco @ladybrandy1

@ladyloubritish @iamcindyisler

@girlletstalkatl @mylipglossbylondon

@bodaciouskrafts @tippyzdrinks

Follow these influential bosses on IG:

@soeurconnect

@zaloriea

@alluringessencehaircare

@ecbeautycollection

@makeup.by.vee

@shaneequacannon

@motherofearth

@glamroyaleshop

@gingergaloreco

@ladybrandy1

@ladyloubritish

@iamcindyisler

@girlletstalkatl

@mylipglossbylondon

@bodaciouskrafts

@tippyzdrinks

Sandra Bland: Say Her Name. Remember Her Story

Thu, 25 Jul 2019 19:52:24 GMT

By this time four years ago the black community was in an uproar over the controversial July 13th death of Sandra Bland. You remember Sandra Bland. How could any of us ever forget the story of the Grand Prairie A&M University Grad who was due to start a job there that summer before being found dead in her jail cell. She had just moved to Waller County, Texas from Illinois when she was pulled over that morning by then, State Trooper, Brian Encinia. What started out as a simple ‘failure to signal’ traffic stop had escalated to Encinia attempting to pull Sandra Bland from her vehicle after she refused to put out a cigarette that she was smoking in her car. Encinia then shouted "I will light you up! Get out! Now,” after drawing his taser. Bland was placed on the ground and arrested; being falsely charged with assault on a police officer. The world watched most of the events of that arrest unfold from Brian Encinia's dash cam. Three days later, on the morning of July 13th in the Waller County Jail, Bland was found hanging from her jail cell. Her death; which brought a myriad of questions and speculations, her arrest, and the details surrounding them ignited both, national protests and outrage.

How did a stop for failure to signal go so unnaturally wrong? Isn’t that simply what it is? A probably cause. A stop. A warning or a citation. Why couldn’t Brian Encinia do just that; live and let live, then went on about his day, and let Sandra Bland went on about hers. But that was far too simple…and lawful. It was only a matter of time before that blue uniform, Brian Encinia’s ego, and racism joined forces. Sandra Bland was outnumbered that morning. If Bland had only known that refusing to put out her cigarette, even though smoking it in her own vehicle during a simple traffic stop would have led to her almost being dragged from her vehicle, threatened to be tased, false charges, an unlawful arrest, jail time, and three days of hurt and confusion; I’m sure before her death, Bland wished she had given in to Encinia’s delusions of grandiosity. And I bet Brian Encinia definitely hates the day he ran across the intelligent, consciously woke, strong, black lioness that was Sandra Bland.

Don’t just say Sandra Bland’s name. Remember her story. Let Sandra Bland’s story remind us of how important it is to always protect our energy, especially in the face of someone like Brian Encinia. He was looking for a reason and a way to endorse that boiling ego; but instead met Sandra Bland who refused to cosign.

Brian Encinia’s racial profiling came to a head the morning of July 10th, 2015. And he will never forget it... neither will I. I hope Brian Encinia sees Sandra Bland in his dreams for the rest of his days. And in his waking moments, sees her in every black girl and woman he encounters. The way life works, Encinia might just see the face of Sandra Bland in his future grandkids.

#Sandrabland

Reformation & Restoration v. Restraint & Restriction

Tue, 02 Jul 2019 04:44:45 GMT

Are the Methods of our Correctional Institutes Working?

Although it has always plagued our communities, crime seems to be at an all time high. I'll be among the first to say that crime cannot and should not be tolerated. Those who commit crimes against others must be held accountable. Oftentimes, incarceration is the punishment meted out to societies offenders. The reality is that people who commit serious crimes go to prison, but most will eventually get out. The question is, are they better or worse after their release?

In the word penitentiary, we find the word penitent, i.e., sorry for having done wrong and willing to atone. With that, prison should be a place for not only punishment, but a place and time for reformation, restoration and reconciliation. An individual (offender) should begin to recognize their mistakes and errors as they begin the process of atonement. Unfortunately, these things are not priority in the 'correctional' facility. When an offender enters prison the first thing that he/she is met with are restraints and restrictions of various forms and degrees; from handcuffs, leg irons, solitary confinement, bars, locked doors and gates, electrical fences and more. Throughout the incarceration, these same restraints are present and being constantly upgraded and reinforced. The prison's number one goal/objective is keeping an offender incarcerated, restricted and restrained until their prison term is complete.

Reformation, rehabilitation, restoration is secondary at best. When a person should be directed and guided into therapy, counseling and education, they are guided/herded into cell blocks and other restrictive areas.

Security is a must, it's not my intention to minimize or discredit security, but this 'pre historic' approach to 'corrections' is far outdated and is simply not effective as evidenced by the recidivism rate. The mentality of 'lockem' up and throw away the key' fails to take into account that most offenders eventually get out! So the question is, do we want people returning to the communities with the same or worse mentality that led them to offend initially? Of course not, but those in leadership must come to this realization.

One reason that reform isn't a priority is due to an incompetent staff, as it relates to real corrections. In a vast majority of cases, staff is only concerned with restraining and restricting an offender's movement. Once they've accomplished that, they believe that their job is complete. They lack the education and training that would enable them to recognize that criminal behavior is only a manifestation of a greater spiritual or mental issue. And as long as the spiritual and mental cultivation and development of a person are ignored and/or neglected, the criminal behavior that we all hate will only continue to exist.

T. Sims is an inmate at the Cummins Unit located in Grady, AR.

Killer Clot: The Monster in My Veins

Fri, 31 May 2019 20:23:45 GMT

We had just exchanged “I Love Yous” about fifteen minutes prior to the intercom blaring, “Code Blue.” Just like that, my sister was gone, all from what seemed like a simple knee surgery. Simple in the fact that the type of surgery my sister was supposed to have had that fateful morning was an open reduction and internal fixation (ORIF); thousands had been performed everyday. But there was something traveling in her blood, more deadly than the “simple” surgery, that the doctor wasn’t prepared for. Eight days passed her injury; my sister had laid there on the stretcher, sedated, and unaware of what was about to happen. Then as fast as the doctor had made her first incision; my sister’s blood pressure dropped and was never regained. A blood clot from her injured knee had broken off and quickly went to her lungs. Her increased weight, family history, decreased mobility, and hard fall that had left her patella broken down the middle, had placed my sister on the radar of one of the fastest killers known; a pulmonary embolism (PE). A PE is a blood clot that has traveled from its origin, likely a vein in the leg, and lodges in one or more arteries in the lungs. As in the case with my sister, If the right intervention is not prompt; a PE is likely fatal. She barely surpassed her thirty-seventh birthday.

A year later, my sister’s life-long friend would suffer a PE after having abrupt shortness of breath, in which the doctors had placed her on life long blood thinners for at that time. Unlike my sister, she did not suffer any trauma, didn’t have a planned surgery, nor a decrease in her mobilization. Instead, Roshaunda was a registered nurse moving about twelve hours a day on a busy medical unit in a large hospital. An avid traveler, she had been told she possibly developed a PE from long plane and vehicle rides. Roshaunda had also been advised that her obesity could have been a contributing factor as well. Four years from her first PE, and exactly five years from my sister’s death, Roshaunda suffered another PE. This time her fate would be different.

Roshundra (L) and my sister at their prom.

According to the National Blood Clot Alliance (NBCA), 274 people die from blood clots on a daily average. That’s over 100,000 people a year. Some of the Risk factors noted by the NBCA are: hospitalizations, major surgery, injury to a vein from a broken bone, obesity, family history, and severe trauma. Risk factors are those occurrences that increase our chance of developing a particular disease or injury. As stated above, my sister had several risk factors; a broken bone of her lower extremity, inability to ambulate without crutches and severe pain, which caused a big decrease in her overall mobility, BMI of 30, and not mentioned above or by the NBCA was a known history of Cushing’s Disease. There’s a generous amount of research studies that show patients who suffer from Cushing’s has an increase in certain clotting factors, which in turn increases their risk of developing blood clots. Because of her circumstances, I had been cognizant that my sister could had developed a blood clot. She was aware too, and had discussed this concern with her surgeon. But why weren’t the doctors and the “trained” medical staff?

Here’s likely why, most screening tools are geared toward patients after surgery or during hospitalization. Though there are many screening checklists available, the majority of healthcare professional don’t apply them to outpatients, patients who are up-and-about, non hospitalized or non surgical patients. Because my sister had not been hospitalized, but instead was on an outpatient basis, moving about on crutches, and had not undergone any surgical intervention at the time, she slipped through the cracks. “She was so young, and this had never happened before to someone her age having this type of knee surgery.” So her shortness of breath prior to being prepped for surgery was mistaken as her “crutches wearing her out.” If a possible PE had been anticipated, and appropriate intervention done; such as a cat scan of the chest, venous ultra sound of my sister’s lower extremities, or some form of initial primary prophylaxis, maybe that deadly clot could have been arrested before it wreaked its havoc on my little sister.

The NBCA states the most important thing a person can do to prevent a clot is to learn if they are at risk. I agree that learning your risks is a crucial component of preventing any illness or disease, but it’s only a piece of the puzzle. When in our care, educating our patients and the community is our responsibility. Our patients shouldn’t be left to Google disease processes, or possibilities. We should instruct them on possible risk factors and available measures in order for them to make informed decisions. To ensure we’re equipped to educate our patients on life threatening occurrences, we as medical professionals must first be trained and have accurate knowledge. Not enough nurses, clinicians, or physicians seem to be familiar, or understand blood clot screening tools, complete risk factors, or signs and symptoms of blood clots. The ones who do, like with my sister’s doctor, ‘never see it as happening to their patients,’ despite the high number of daily incidents. The nurse who cared for my sister on that fateful morning, though being employed by a surgical center, openly admitted that she had never laid eyes on a screening tool for clots, nor was she that familiar with signs and symptoms of one. Maybe if she had been the outcome might have been different. I guess that’s one of those grey areas we often deal with in our profession. As I heard one doctor say before, Nothing is ever certain in medicine. The only thing we can do for our patients is educate them and decrease their risks.

What Nipsey Hussle's Killer Took From Us

Tue, 09 Apr 2019 21:10:32 GMT

When I got the news of Nipsey Hussle's murder, I immediately thought of his children, and his parents, and how this news might be the most insurmountable blow they’ve ever been thrown. I mean, look how heart wrenching the loss of Nipsey is to fellow celebrities, and communities all over the world who didn’t even share his bloodline; so his family, must be in a dark place, I kept thinking. My mind fell on the murder of my own father almost thirty years earlier. I still remember how I had become paralyzed with devastation. Although, Nipsey's daughter Emani , is much younger than I was at the time of my father’s slaying; she’s still at the age where she’s able to feel the pain of her father’s absence. Emani will miss him immensely throughout her life. As a mother of sons, I couldn’t conceive the thought of losing one of my boys to death. Especially the way that Nipsey’s mother lost him, or the way that I had lost my daddy. That pain seems so unnatural, and far too big for any mother to bare. But like Nipsey’s mother, and hundreds of other mothers of slain black boys and men who left us before Nipsey, and those who’ll fall victim after him, is forced to endure life with a big part of them missing. What a grim and fearful reality.

Within hours of Nipsey’s murder invading our worlds, and hearts; I started combing the internet. That night I would eat and digest Everything Nipsey; interviews, articles, recordings, tributes, quotes, pictures, music, the celebrities who loved him, and the communities who mourn him. Nipsey’s roots in the community ran deep. His efforts to provide jobs, help keep kids out of gangs, and donating financial assistance to provide children with shoes, and renovation of playgrounds did not go unnoticed. “Tha Great” rapper proved he never forgot the struggles he overcame, nor the streets in which he came from. But did Nipsey Hussle’s continued close ties to the hood cause him to pay the ultimate price.

That night before I settled in, I grabbed my phone and dialed up my oldest son. His thoughts and feelings resonated with me.

“Ma, Nipsey was a good dude,” as if he had known him personally. “I’ve followed him for years. Nip was to us, what Pac was to your generation.”

"Nip was to us, what Pac was to your generation.”

When Eric Holder shot and killed Nipsey Hussle, he seemed to have taken more than just a great rapper. He took a great family man, a flourishing entrepreneur, a prominent leader and a builder of communities. Eric Holder ripped away a piece of our culture.

Melanin And Mental Illness

Thu, 06 Dec 2018 00:00:00 GMT

Let’s Talk About the Stigma in Our Culture

Mental illness is as real in our society as the roots of my new-growth. But in the black community it’s often talked about in a whisper. When it happens to us, or one of our close loved ones, the denial is so strong it is often a better kept secret than Big Mama's family recipes.

“I got this,” is what we tell ourselves no matter what we’re dealing with or what curve ball life has thrown us. We make out the to-do list of our lives and everything is on it we can think of; our relationships, careers, projects, the kids, family, friends and everybody in between - EXCEPT ourselves. But why? Because we were born nurturers and bred resilience. Our image has been a pillar of strength dating back to our ancestors. Although at times the tears come more at night, than does sleep – “losing it” is not in our DNA. So we grab our capes, put an “S” on our chest, and smile as bright as the sun, because it’s not in us to be “weak.”

“I got this, girl. I got this.”

I remember telling a concerned colleague those exact words when I was going through one of the most heart-wrenching periods in my life – the abrupt loss of my youngest sister, who also happened to be my best friend. Truth be told, I was falling a part at the seams.

I had started to feel myself slip into a darkness that was more palpable than my own heartbeat. My outlook was poor, and there were times I had to fight with myself just to get up out of bed. Food didn’t taste the same, and proof of it could be seen in my clothes that had started to swallow my frame. My blond colored tresses had suffered as well, and had broken off from the lack of maintenance. During that time, I had several conversations with God and myself about possibly seeking help. But that kind of help was always viewed in my culture as being for “crazy” or “weak” people. So, instead I pushed through. As a black woman; to push through was all I had ever known and had been taught; no matter how deep the waters. Over time, with a strong support system, I managed to ride the wave until I was back on shore.

This is the case with a lot of women of our culture; trying to ride the wave hoping these feelings or symptoms will one day disappear. Fear of the stigma that’s associated with mental illness, often causes us to suffer in silence. I’ve spoken to several African American female patients, even colleagues who admit they don’t believe in psychiatric medications, nor are they looking for a counselor or anyone to fix their problems outside of God. I’ve had some even tell me that mental illness is not real, that it only happens to white woman; people without faith; those with no support system, and weak minded individuals. Take it from another black woman who knows well the depths of depression...everything about it is real - every tear, every ache, every missed night of sleep, every minute of hopelessness - and it has no purse size, face or age. I now know, the wave is often too big for us to ride alone.

While depression is only one form of mental illness, there are a wide range of other conditions that fall in that category. Two other common conditions are bipolar disorder and generalized anxiety disorder, which just like depression, can be debilitating if treatment is not sought. A strong support system is crucial, but talking to a qualified counselor will give you an outlet, and also help to improve coping skills to deal with life's stressors. Remember, stressors are not always bad. Even good things that happen in our lives are stressors too; like starting a new job, buying a home, or the birth of a child. If you’re unsure of what to do, visit your medical provider and he or she may prescribe you medications and refer you to someone who can help you get your life back. So take that “S” off your chest, and put down the cape. Stop trying to convince yourself, you got this. There are some things, Sis, that even our Black Girl superpowers can’t combat.

First published at www.girlletstalkatl.com

Married, Single Or Involved - Is Your Status A Blessing Or A Curse

Thu, 08 Nov 2018 00:00:00 GMT

“You are educated and single, living in the A,” my friend, Kamryn, said enthusiastically at my reference to the difficulty of dating in Atlanta. “Girl, enjoy! You just don’t know you have the best life,” she continued before taking a sip of her Pink Moscato.

I peered across the table at her as she smirked, and nodded in agreement with herself. “Kam, you’ve been married for ten years. What do you mean 'I - have the best life?’”

“Be-cause…you come and go as you please, make and spend your money the way you want to spend it, and just the overall drama you don’t have to deal with. I mean, your life is just so glam to me, she vented.

“Glam, Kam? (Laughs) And I’m sure not every relationship is dra…”

“Oh give it time. They’re all full of shit,” she stated.

“Well, I guess we always want what we don’t have.”

“Trust and believe, you don’t want that. Leave them ninjas where they sit.”

We both laughed before chugging down the rest of our drink and dinner.

The conversation with Kam took me back to a year earlier.

I thought of a work lunch I had with my friend, Richard; a forty-five year old who had been married around twenty years... but also had a mistress of about three years at that time. Awkward as it was, I had become friends with Richard's mistress prior to knowing him, but unaware of the situation. I had also met his wife on several occasions after he and I had become acquainted. Although Richard had grown up poor, he had worked hard to put himself through nurse anesthesia school, and had done quite well for himself. I remember asking him how long he thought he could continue spreading himself between two women.

“I don’t know. But it’s hard for me to let go because I love both of them.”

“How so, Richard? It seems somebody’s getting the short end of the stick”

“Ain’t nobody getting the short end of no-thing. If anything they're both coming out on top. Cause I’ll give whatever I have to either one of them.”

I still remember how “matter-of-factly” Richard had made that statement.

That very next day, I had a phone conversation with a another friend, Amari. She is a thirty-five year old, Flight Attendant. She’s never been married, and has no kids. When I mentioned the conversation I had with Kam, Amari had a totally different response, and seemed somewhat offended by Kam's take on relationships. “It sounds to me Kam is basing every relationship off of her busted marriage and cheating husband.”

“I think she was just trying to say there're pitfalls with both,” I chimed in.

“Maybe. But if she doesn’t want to be married anymore, get a divorce. Don’t try to talk someone else out of wanting it.”

Smiling. “Anyway girl, I didn’t call to talk about Kam’s marriage. I just wanted to hear your take on whether you thought being single was a bad thing.”

Amari fell silent. We’ve had similar discussions in the past, and she’s expressed the need to get married and have children. At times her outlook on life seemed to be measured by not having one or the other…she had honestly admitted the need is approaching desperation. Amari's dated several well-to-do men, even a reality TV star, but nothing promising. “They never pick me,” she once said in a conversation. I could see the pain in her eyes.

Her voice slightly lower, “I wouldn’t say it’s bad, but I desperately want a husband. I hate doing things alone, and always having to make decisions by myself has gotten old. I want my children to be conceived and raised within wedlock. But I do see some of what Kam is speaking of. When I see my friends who are in relationships, struggle, that’s what makes me fear it. I can’t stand to see a woman struggling, but yet she has a damn man. I think to myself, why the hell is she with him. Another thing is getting with someone who has major debt; all of that baggage scares me about being married.”

That same day I ran into Rile; a thirty year old postal worker. Riley has been married to his high school sweetheart for seven years. They have one child together. His story is somewhat interesting. Riley found out while at work through a text message, his wife had left him. After an almost two-year hiatus, they rekindled their relationship. “That’s one of the downsides of my relationship. Although we’re back together, I can’t be sure she won’t pack up again when I’m away. I’m trying hard to trust her again, Jennifer.” Although that’s one of Riley's fears, he still loves being married to his wife.

“I feel at peace being married, just having that person to come home to. Besides that, I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Another friend, Wallace, a forty year old who’s never been married and has no kids. He’s in a common-law relationship with his girlfriend of ten years. Although his girlfriend wants to carry his last name, Wallace has no interest in it. He says he’s not married because he doesn’t want to answer to anyone. “I didn’t even want to live with her but she insisted. I guess marriage is okay. But I want to do what I want.”

Hanging out with Wallace that day were Antonio, and Keith. Both men are married with children, and have stable careers. Antonio is thirty-nine, second marriage, one child by a previous marriage. He says the drawback for him is that he has to answer to someone and compromise. “I want to move and my wife doesn’t, so I have to consider her. The things I do with my money if I were single I can’t do as a married man because now I’m accountable to my wife. And why do I have to answer to someone. I feels as if my wife should trust that I have our best interest at heart, but instead she questions me and that’s bullshit.” He points his finger in the air to drive his point home.

“And look at some of these guys who’ve worked hard all their lives. They get a divorce…she gets half of his retirement,” Antonio continued.

“So maybe it’s cheaper to keep her,” I said playfully.

“No...it’s cheaper not to ever have her!”

I moved to Keith quickly to give Antonio a minute to settle down. Keith is only twenty-four, but I was eager to hear his thoughts as well. “I enjoy being married because I hate sleeping alone at night. There’s really not a downside to marriage for me because my wife let’s me do what I want to do.”

“Hmmmm, anything, Keith,” I asked.

“Yes, pretty much anything.”

One night while out having a drink after work with a few associates, the conversation came up again about love and relationships. These sisters are known to always speak their minds so I had to engage their take on this controversial subject. Cher, who’s a fifty-year old single woman with grown children said she didn’t see how there could be a downside to marriage or a committed relationship if you’re with the right person. “Who wants to be alone,” Cher had said. “I want someone here to fix things and help around the house. People take advantage of women when there’s no man around. I just want to have someone who has my back…and pay some of these bills.”

Lauren was eager to weigh in. She’s a forty-year old social worker who has been with her love since she’s been sixteen years old. Lauren is not as optimistic about relationships as Cher is. “I love Mike, but I fell out of love with him long ago. All he does is smoke weed, and lift weights and I’m tired of it.”

“Have you sat him down to talk to him about his behavior? Maybe he doesn’t see it as a problem,” I asked.

“Teach a grown man how to act? That was his momma's job. I’m done. I…”

“Girrrlll…you ain’t leaving Mike. You’ve been saying that for five years now, interrupted Terri.”
Lauren shakes her head at Terri's response.

Terri immediately starts talking about her relationship. She says companionship is what does it for her. “Working a stressful career I need a best friend to come home and vent to. I can talk about things with my boyfriend that I can’t tell my girlfriends. But then, there’s the problem of me wanting another kid, and him not wanting one. So there are differences like that, that seem like we’re unevenly yoked.”

Lauren jumps back in, “Another baby? Don’t you think you should be asking for a ring instead.”

The ladies went back and forth for the remainder of the evening. At the end of the night I went home and thought about the discussions over that past few weeks. While I agree with a lot of the points that had been made, I also disagree with some of them. I believe with the right person, there are very few things as blessed as marriage. It helps give one strength and tolerance to walk through the corridors of life. While marriage is definitely on the horizon, I’m in no rush.

I’ve learned to embrace my singlehood more than ever…and all of its experiences. It has allowed me to study and learn myself, and assess what I have to offer a man. Being single has also made me stand firm in what I expect from a partner. I’ve been in unhealthy relationships that left me on the ground; and that’s worse than being single. So I’ll continue this journey alone until I find a “Boaz” who’s up for the challenge…and the blessing of loving this complex queen.

“All my single ladies. All my single ladies…put yo hands up!””

5 Ways To Show Empathy In Medicine

Sat, 07 Jul 2018 00:00:00 GMT

As medical professionals we often see people at their worst: battered and broken, bothered and in pain, no make-up, bad hair day, naked and too ill to even care about modesty. At those critical moments, in our patients’ hour of desperation, they hand over their lives to us … and the lives of their family. All that they are — they willingly place at our mercy. At times, burnout, and the day to day hustle of our profession – at no fault of our patients – may cause us to be somewhat apathetic, and minimize what the patient is feeling. We move on from room to room, call to call, then home to our loved ones; while our patients and their families are left reeling from the circumstances of their harsh reality. Where did empathy go in medicine? Are our patients merely a number, an insurance claim, a conversation over dinner, one too many charts we have to complete, or a cluster of diagnostic codes to us? A lack of empathy can negatively affect patient outcomes and quality of care. Our jaded persona could be the reason we miss important pieces of our patient’s clinical puzzle.

I remember an incident as told to me by a former colleague, Pam. She had been a seasoned emergency room nurse for years. Pam and I had worked in the ER together for a couple of years before she went back to school to become an Advanced Practice Nurse. Inspired by her, I would later go back to school and complete the same program. After completing graduate school, Pam went back to the love of her life, the ER. She had fallen in love all over again. But her honeymoon phase had been short-lived. She had begun to grumble and complain about the oh so familiar “frequent flyers” who visited the ER on a regular basis.

“They come in for the same thing day after day,” she had stated. “You can’t refuse to see them. Even if you did, they know what to say to get your attention,” she continued. I knew exactly what Pam was speaking of. The emergency room was full of primary care suitable patients. It had pretty much become a revolving door of the same patients with the same conditions.

Forty-eight-year-old Lisa Jackson was one of those patients. She’d visited the ER at least one to two times a week with complaints of migraines. The staff knew her on a first name basis. They’d give her the normal concoction and send her on her way. But this time, Lisa complained that her headache felt different. Pam remembered Lisa saying her headache was so bad it had made her throw up. But Lisa had been manipulative in the past in order to get more pain medication, so Pam didn’t trust her. She gave Lisa exactly what she thought she wanted — two of morphine and twenty-five of Phenergan — and discharged her almost as fast as she had come. Lisa was back within a couple hours, this time by ambulance. A cat scan of Lisa’s head had confirmed a subarachnoid hemorrhage, which is a bleed in the brain from a small vessel. Pam’s loss of zeal had allowed Lisa’s behavior of “crying wolf” cloud her clinical judgment. But luckily for both, Lisa survived the ordeal with very little complications.

To make sure empathy is incorporated into everyday practice, I utilize five tactics to help remind me that, before anything else, my patients have needs as human beings.

1. Listen to your patients to get a full understanding of what’s going on with them. Don’t try and minimize what they are feeling. Our patients know their bodies and what they are experiencing better than we do. Each patient is different, and the more information we have concerning our patient will further help us find out what’s going on with them.

2. Treat your patients the way you would want your family to be treated. How could we go wrong tailoring our care on the empathy we want shown to our elderly mothers and grandmother or our children? When my mother was once a patient, I remember how cold she’d get in her hospital room. So I made sure the nurse brought extra blankets. I keep this same thought close when I’m caring for other elderly patients. I make every attempt to preserve my patient’s dignity, knock before entering their room, address them accordingly — not inappropriate names as “sweetie or sweetheart,” keep them covered as much as possible and involve them in their plan of care.

3. Walk a mile in your patients’ shoes. Try to imagine how you would feel if in the patient’s predicament. Often we are on the other end of the spectrum — the one administering services. We often forget what it feels like to be a hopeless patient or a confused family member. I remind myself daily how easily the roles could be reversed.

4. Place yourself at the patient’s level. Standing above the patient and having him or her look up at you may paint a lofty picture. This could make the patient uncomfortable, and hinder the rapport of the provider-patient relationship. Since sitting on the patient’s bed may break infection control measures or policies; grab a chair and place it at the patient’s bedside so you can be eye level.

5. Learn the culture of your patient populations . Knowing this increases your cultural awareness and sensitivity toward others. A lot of elderly patients lack formal education. Many of them had to quit school to help with family expenses or care for younger siblings while their parents worked, so their vocabulary and comprehension might be limited. Be mindful of the medical lingo you use with them. Some African Americans may be intimidated by doctors, or because of the tainted history with medical professionals, may have a mistrust of the health care system altogether. When treating teenagers, remember at times they are afraid of the process and worried about confidentiality. Privacy is very important with this age group.

Practicing empathy is a skill set that takes time to master. We should constantly strive to include it in our day to day practice. Empathy is crucial to improving patient outcomes, decreasing burn out, and enhancing the provider-patient relationship. It is also the missing piece of the puzzle that could save our patient’s life.

First published by Kevin Pho, MD

So What If I Cry With My Patients

Fri, 20 Apr 2018 00:00:00 GMT

Is Showing Emotions Best Practice, or Bad Business?

Ashley, one of my colleagues, and I got into a discussion about whether or not a doctor, nurse or other providers of care should cry or show emotion with a patient or client. We’re not speaking of melt downs or becoming so emotionally involved that it impairs our judgement or makes it difficult for us to render effective care, but simply being able to show a human response in the presence of your patient at a time of extreme difficulty for the patient.

Ashley felt as if this should never be done and is not beneficial for the client. She used the example of one of our fellow providers, who had known the patient for some time, cried with her patient after finding out the patient’s son was killed. My colleague found this to be unprofessional, and stated that Dr. Miles should not have allowed herself to get so emotionally involved with her client. Our patients expect us to be strong, Ashley had said.

I somewhat disagree with my colleague. As someone who’s been on the receiving end of care ; I know what it feels like to be a patient too. I’m sure practically all of us do. I’ve experienced the confusion, and devastation that come with having your world knocked off its axis by bad news, and being the needy and demanding family member who wanted updates every 30 minutes. During those times, empathy and compassion were so important for me and my family. When I abruptly lost my younger sister a few years back, I remember the nurse in the emergency room crying with me, as she kept telling me how sorry she was.

Although this did not lighten my burden, it added a personal approach to my care and I felt like someone actually understood what we were going through.

As a professional nurse, these are the moments that have helped guide me throughout my career. There have been several times over the years where I have shed tears with and for my patients and their families. I’ve never placed myself above sitting at the sides of their beds and holding my patients' hands. I’ve embraced them. I’ve prayed with, and for them. Even in those happy moments I’ve shared in their joy. There is not a limit I put on the amount of laughs and hi-fives I give out when my patients are delivered news that gives them a sigh of relief.

For me, and as I saw fit, showing emotion and being transparent with my patients have always been a natural part of my interactions with them. Because of this, I’ve witnessed improved communication on my patients' part. They feel comfortable telling me their stories, and their concerns. They’re open and honest; which has allowed me to get a better clinical picture as to what was going on with them.

There was such a feeling of gratitude and humility when I once sat at a patient’s bedside and listened to her tell a heart-wrenching story after being diagnosed with lung cancer.

“I’m not afraid of death,” she had said. “It’s just that death has a way of having bad timing,” she continued.

She went on to tell about how she was raising her two young grandchildren, ages eight and nine. Their mother was on drugs and had been in and out of their lives since they were a few months old. The boys’ dad, her son, had been in prison for the last five years leaving the boys in the care of her and their grandfather’s.

Warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked up at me, “what are they going to do if I die.”

I leaned forward and wiped her tears. Before I could say anything, she had placed her hand on my face and wiped mine.

“Thank you for sharing in my pain,” she had said.

There was no feeling of oddity, but at that sheer moment, I was reminded of how much all of our lives parallel each other. We all require the same thing on this journey; compassion and empathy. I felt so blessed that day to had been a blessing.

To keep ourselves from experiencing burn-out, a level of detachment is good, a total disconnect, I feel could weaken patient-provider relationships and have a negative impact on patient care. Showing some emotion not only tap into the human side of us, but it helps foster a therapeutic relationship, and builds trust; which leads to better patient outcomes .

What are your thoughts as someone who provides care?

As a patient, would you find it odd if your doctor or nurse cried in front of you?

The Killing Of Trayvon Martin

Tue, 20 Feb 2018 00:00:00 GMT

My Reflections as a Black Mother Six Years Later

My grandchildren will grow up and read about Trayvon Martin in their history books. Secondhand accounts will detail the tragedy that had caused pain, outcry and anger of the generations that had come and gone before them – but would they understand its impact. History teachers will give them assignments of research papers and essays in an attempt to have them convey their feelings about an event that had happened years before they were even conceived; so how could they truly philosophize the detriment of Trayvon Martin's death and its aftermath. Just as the senseless deaths of Emmet Till, and the four little girls bombed in Alabama had been discussed and pondered over in my household for years. But the anguish, and confusion that my siblings and I felt, could had never mounted up to the pain our mother described as she told the story of how she was made to feel when those horrific, and unspeakable pieces of history were being made less than four hundred miles away.

The same held true for the killing of Trayvon Martin in February of 2012. I’ll never forget how personal it felt, and how I had become paralyzed by the horrific details that had spread over the world faster than the waters of Katrina had engulfed the city of New Orleans. I watched the events unfold on every news and talk show, every newspaper and magazine across the nation. Even the internet could barely keep up with the massive amounts of daily coverage. I listened attentively as it was talked about on radio stations, the comments and thoughts expressed by colleagues, family members, and friends. The content of the conversations with my own sons, teenagers themselves at the time, had now become more focused and deliberate. I had started to obsess over their interactions with the police, the neighbors, and their friends - white and black.

My sons were more like Trayvon than what I cared to think about. Not only in physical characteristics, but they even shared some lifestyle traits. How often had it been that my boys – clothed in stereotypes - had left walking with just the intent of eating at Waffle House or playing basketball at the park. They could had easily been intercepted by “a” George Zimmerman; just as Trayvon had innocently left home that fateful night in February for only Skittles and tea – never to return.

When word got out that Trayvon was shot and killed that night, I felt as if that gun had been aimed at all of our sons, but it was Trayvon who had paid the ultimate price for all of them – for being young and black. Yes, our sons are Trayvon Martin. And every mother of every black and brown baby is just as much Sybrina Fulton.

Justice for Trayvon

Emotions were at an all time high, and people had started to rally all over the world. It was imperative for me that my sons and I would make our way to at least one. I had to do something to calm this indescribable urgency that had started to erupt inside of me. So when one of the first Justice for Trayvon rallies hit Atlanta, we put on the hoodies that I specifically bought for the event, and joined thousands of others who had been moved as well by this gross act of injustice. There were people from all walks of life – blacks, as well as some whites; carrying Skittles and tea, walking, standing still, holding signs, some crying, some chanting - all in the name of justice.

There were so much unity among the crowd, and no one showed any sign of being distracted from the sole purpose in which we had all gathered there. My sons were very attentive to what was going on. I was proud that they were as eager to be there as I had wanted them to be. One of my worries was raising children that would grow up and become cynical; develop a “that’s them” mentality. I needed badly to drive in their young minds that what had happened to Trayvon Martin could just as easily had happened to any other minority kid. Because “they and them were of the samekind.”

Zimmerman's acquittal was just as emotional for me as the act of him killing Trayvon. I never perceived him to really be on trial that day. It was the character and the lives of our children being judge in that courtroom - by the jury, and the world, and we had lost again. For me, finding him not guilty was a subliminal message for the entire black community; we would never win no matter what. Some would argue that we’re fighting the wrong battle, that a bigger loss lies in our plight of Black on Black crime. But the overall crime rate of only one community should nowhere near be enough - if it is at all fair - to measure up against any violence committed against an individual with any form of categorization (race, religion, sexuality, etc.) as the root cause. Not only that, statistics show White on White crime to be just as high, if not higher. Crime in our community is just given a bigger spotlight by everyone, including some of us. So why not choose the battle that poses a bigger road block on our journey to justice; the same battle our ancestors of The Civil Rights Movement fought long ago. But this is not just a fight for any one race over the other. Restoration of true justice could only be given by our Heavenly Father, but if we’re to have any hope of justice in this earthly system, the fight for it must cross all racial barriers. If not, justice remains just what it is and what it was on July 13, 2013 – a mere word tossed around our legal system like a softball in a false attempt to placate the voiceless. But the ball has yet to end up in our hands.

In Loving Memory of Trayvon Martin. #IAmSybrinaFulton #WeAllAreTrayvon

They're Serving Racism In This Restaurant

Thu, 25 Jan 2018 00:00:00 GMT

Is Race the Biggest Influence of Tipping and Server Etiquette?

Not long ago I sat down to have breakfast at Waffle House with Antonia, a nonblack, male colleague. We both are medical professionals, so our conversations usually included stories of gun shot wounds, vehicle accidents, and anything else that exposed some type of bodily fluids. This breakfast meet started no differently than any other time, but the ending sort of caught me off guard.

After shoving down my usual egg order, we collected our checks. I tossed $7.00 on the table to cover our tips. I looked up to find him staring at me.

“Wow, you broke the stereotype,” he said.

“What, they say nurses don’t tip?”

“Come on, Jennifer. Surely you’ve heard this.”

Totally clueless, I gazed at him across the table. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, Antonio?”

“My brother, Carlo, manages this large restaurant. He says that even the black workers are reluctant to wait on the black patrons because they think they’re not going to get tipped,” he stated.

“I’ve never heard or experienced any such thing,” I stated. “Everybody in my circle ALWAYS tip.”

“I didn’t say I believed it. I’m just telling you what I heard.” He looks down at the $7.00. “And hey you proved it wrong.”

“I think it’s just the class of people you and your brother hang out with.”

He laughed out loud.

We got up to leave and continued small talk as we walked to our vehicles. Antonio still joked about the stereotype and went on about how he couldn’t believe I had never heard it prior to him saying it. But that was Antonio, always quick to find entertainment pretty much out of anything. At that point, we had worked together some time and often discussed what many might consider as sensitive subjects. So him bringing this up to me wasn’t anything out of the norm.

Over the next week or so I started doing my own observations and assessment on what Antonio mentioned over breakfast that day. I found myself making quick glances around the table when I was out with anyone new to see if they were really tipping, and how much. I also paid close attention to the servers and how often they came to our table in comparison to other tables they were waiting on in close proximity. From what I gathered; there didn’t seem to be any disproportion in tipping between any specific ethnic group, as much as there were in socioeconomic status. Although, I’ve never had anyone in my circle NOT tip, even if service was below standard ; my more financially stable friends and family members seemed to somewhat tip higher. Server etiquette played an even bigger part; too much time lapse between table visits, initial wait time too long, and cold food were among the frustrations expressed for leaving subpar tips. I also noticed at times, the server seemed to be going to some tables more than others, while walking by other tables in which the server were assigned. If others took note of this like I did; it may have been reflected in the tip given. It is a pet peeve of mine to be forgotten or feel ignored by my server. Experiencing this made me reflect on something Antonio had mentioned, about servers, even some black ones, not wanting to wait on black patrons for fear of not getting tipped. If some blacks felt this way, surely other ethnic groups had caught wind of this too. Is this why my server has passed by my table three times without refilling my tea , I had thought to myself.

To get a consensus, I decided to engage my Facebook followers. I first told them the details of the conversation Antonio and I had weeks earlier. Then I posed a couple of questions asking them if they had heard this stereotype, and what had the experienced been that helped shape their opinions. In no time I had people from all backgrounds weighing in with their thoughts, and personal observations. The majority agreed that the size of tip depended on the class of people you kept in your circle. There were also quite a few comments that stated it was up to the server to earn how big of a tip he or she would receive. Interestingly enough, there were a couple of former servers who stated it had been their experience that blacks either did not tip, or under tipped. In contrast, there were also comments from a couple of white followers that stated they had witnessed other whites under tip as well. The general agreement ended up being that most had heard this stereotype, but also agreed that it was without merit.

What are your thoughts? Do you have an experience you’d like to share?

9 Ways To Maintain Balance In A Hectic Life

Mon, 27 Nov 2017 00:00:00 GMT

True Health, and Happiness Depend on a Well-balanced Life

As we age, and mature, experience takes us on journeys that allow us to remove and add hats to the wardrobe of our lives. After wearing the roles of mother, and so many other beautiful, yet complex responsibilities: how many of us are left feeling like that old 1988 Calgon commercial; begging for something or someone to take us away. I did often, at one point. Because I didn’t know, or had never sat down to think about maintaining balance in my life. At times I felt like I had lost myself in the midst of trying to keep everyone and everything else together. This kept me exhausted, feeling inadequate, and often defeated. I came up with nine ways to balance life and maintain a sense of self.

Connect with the Creator: I’ve learned to create moments that give me one-on-one time with God. At night before bed, upon rising, even if it’s a quick chat while on the toilet (yes, I really do this), right before meetings, walking to my manager’s office, or in between patient interaction; I use these minutes to connect with my creator. I tell God about my plans, solicit his help in making sound decisions, ask him to help direct my steps when I’m feeling lost, protection for my family, and just thank him overall for ‘saving a wretch like me.’ Communication with the Most High keeps me grounded, and gives me a sense of hope in a faulty, imperfect world.

Make Family Fundamental: Family is those loving, dysfunctional, yet vital people who know all of our shortcomings, but love us despite of. We need them in our circle of love; it's incomplete without them. With our loved ones, we’re able to remove masks and be ourselves. We have no points to prove or make, because to them we’re great no matter what. I often seek my family for their advice in dealing with difficult situations. I’m able to express to them certain thoughts or feelings that I may find uncomfortable speaking to anyone else about. My family has proven to be my biggest commodity. I consider them in every life-decision I make. Their approval, understanding, and moral support are invaluable, and they help keep me emotionally strong.

What’s the rush: Whether it’s a project at home, school paper, work deadlines, or something to do with the family; set realistic goals and allow adequate time for completion. I’ve learned to pace myself when completing most of my tasks and obligations; personal or professional ones. I sit down and actually think about what I’m taking on and how much time it requires, and if it's even feasible for me to tackle. Then I set a time goal. I start early enough on the project to give myself time to breathe. Rushing only leads to added stress and anxiety. It also leaves room for error and dissatisfaction in what we're trying to accomplish; which could possibly make us feel inadequate.

Do You: We have to learn what makes us happy, and do it. Some of my favorite things are long cries, moments alone, coffee with lots of cream, pink blush, high heels, writing, bubble baths, good girlfriends, and time with people I love. I do, or have two or three of these daily. Each one of them adds something different to the essence of my world. In a nutshell, they make me feel good; inside and out. I’m not afraid to treat myself special. Because I am. God created only one ME, and gave me only one life to live. Let’s find our happy place, and reside there. But just remember, too much of a good thing is not so good. So balance it out.

"Let’s Find Our Happy Place, And Reside There"

Get some “shut eye”: In order to be our best emotional self, we got to get a good nights sleep (I’m a good one to talk here. But I’m working on it). According to the National Institutes of Health , a lack of sleep could slow down our creative flow, decrease our coping skills and make us emotionally labile. Sleep deprivation has also been linked to depression, and has been the culprit behind fatal and near-fatal accidents.

We are thrown totally off track when deprived of sleep. Certain hormones are released during sleep which promotes healthy growth and development. So get off Facebook, and Snapchat. Close those laptops. Tell your best friend, sister or man you got to get off the phone. Lay it down and shut those eyes!

Take that “S” off your chest: As women, we do everything but crawl up walls. So I get why we feel like we have superpowers, but trying to keep up with Wonder Woman will surely land you on the ground. Although we do super jobs, we are not some superhero. Truth be told, the only person we can truly save are ourselves. Its okay to say no. It's not a weakness to ask for help. Often we don’t want to admit that we have too much on our plates because we feel it makes us look incapable. This is something I still struggle with. It's hard for me to ask for a helping hand because it leaves me feeling vulnerable. But hey, just like You – I’m a work in progress. Let's work on it together.

Celebrate Your Femininity: One way to celebrate our womanhood, and tap into our feminine energy is to learn to embrace our God-given figure. Whether super curvy, or no curves at all; our body type is unique to us. Let's make it a habit to look our best as much as possible. If I’m all “dolled” up, I notice the difference in my confidence. Now that I look beautiful. It makes me feel beautiful on the inside. Buy a new pair of heels. With the right heels, I feel like I can conquer the world. We are Goddesses. It’s important that we look, feel, and act the part.

Keep true friends close; they make us better. Join an all-women’s social club. Being around other beautiful, like-minded women is equally fun, as it is empowering. It also gives us a form of healthy escapism.

Don’t be afraid to listen to that little voice inside; cultivate it, and trust that it won’t lead us wrong. Our intuition is one of the many things that sets us apart from our male counterparts. Also, ladies, let’s remember our role in our relationship. Stop shouting, give our man a chance to speak, and build him up. Being submissive to the right man is always super sexy.

Learn to forgive: The act of forgiveness is such a powerful thing. We often overlook the impact it has on our relationships, emotional health, and overall well-being. A lack of forgiveness holds us hostage to anxieties, depression, and other types of emotional, spiritual and psychological baggage. For me, holding on to grudges is heavy; it causes a great disruption of peace in my life.

"Holding On To Grudges Is Heavy; It Causes A Great Disruption Of Peace In My Life."

Forgiveness is something that is learned, and it hasn’t always been easy for me to master. But I’m a lot better at it now. Moving forward from hurtful people and experiences also has great health benefits. So let’s forgive like we never have before. We owe it to OURSELVES.

‘Big Girls Do Cry’: Don’t believe The Four Seasons, or Fergie in their hit tune, “Big Girls Don’t Cry . ” It’s the total opposite. There are many references to Jesus weeping throughout the Bible. Therefore, crying should never be viewed as a form of weakness. It actually has been thought to help strengthen us. It allows us to cope, take in, respond to and release remnants of unpleasant stimuli; giving us a renewed perception of our circumstances. Crying helps cleans us of all the negative, painful, and uncomfortable feelings bottled up tight inside. During a nice, long cry, research has shown that our body releases chemicals that cause us to feel at peace and calm; therefore increasing our sense of well-being. I think of it as a form of washing the soul of distress. So it’s okay to grab some tissues and start “slinging a little snot.” But understand that excessive crying could be a sign of depression. Therefore, you should consult a doctor if this happens too much.

These are nine ways I came up with to help me find peace in a world of broken pieces. We can only give so much of ourselves before we start to feel all spent up. Hopefully, you can adopt these suggestions too, and find some ways of your own to keep from losing yourself in this thing called life.

I Dreamed Of Philando Castile

Tue, 22 Aug 2017 00:00:00 GMT

I dreamed of Philando Castile last night. Draped in white linen, he stood at a podium before a crowd. His feet planted in sand that was more abundant than waters of the ocean, and black as a night with no moon to illuminate its existence.

Although Philando's eyes held the pain of unspeakable truths; his face was that of pure solemnity. The silhouette of his open wounds were visible through his garment. His hair was that of braided rope that descended to the ground. Signs of wear and tear could be seen on his shoulders from the burdens of an unfavorable society.

He addressed the assembly of young men of staggering ages and various degrees of color. Many of them were familiar. Some wore no face at all. While others had faces covered by hoods of obscurity. As different though they were, the commonalities of the men could not be denied.

The crowds eyes were piercing in the direction of the sound, as Philando’s voice rose and fell, with brief periods of silence. He spoke of how an innocent trip to the grocery store with his family had turned into a scene from a horror movie in a matter of minutes; ending in splattered blood, stolen lives, and cries that were unheard.

Philando clutched his chest. I could see his hand shaking from the distance. His voice cracked, and dropped to a whisper, as tears poured down burning holes in white garb.

He continued on about a child's innocence being shattered, as she looked on while one of the city's “gatekeepers” carelessly blasted bullets into her father faster than the mind could even process. The sound of the shots had ripped through the air, echoing across a nation.

Philando looked toward the heavens, “Thank God I caught those bullets and not my baby sitting behind me.” He continued, “If I could have covered her ears to keep her from hearing me take my last breathe right there in front of her, I would have done so; for knowing this scene would be the backdrop of her life. Forever.”

The crowd, now in multitudes, showed that of mixed emotions toward Philando's great tribulations. Some of them stood in silence, off to themselves. They had their heads bowed, praying for mercy. Others had looks of fear and confusion, as they looked around and behind them, and then at each other. Many of the young men were punching the air with their fist; chanting through clenched teeth, “ No justice. No peace . No justice. No peace.”

Cries were rampant, and resonated throughout the audience. So many of them rushed to the podium, where Philando still stood, waiting to tell their stories. One by one, they told of haunting accounts of fear of the unknown, unrighteous pursuits, profiling, outcries and pleas, beatings, and massive blood shed; all of which had fallen deaf to tribunal ears.

I studied the crowd. I saw the likes of Tamir Rice , Trayvon Martin , Oscar Grant , and so many others too numerous to name. I prayed for the young souls, and sobbed as much as I prayed. The suffering lingering in the atmosphere was far more palpable than the beat of my own heart.

I couldn’t take it any more. This couldn’t be nothing more than a bad dream. It was far too real…to be real. I felt myself tossing and turning in my sleep trying to wake up from this horrible nightmare. But to no avail…

I moved in closer to get a better observation of the youth hidden beneath the hoods; as they were the only ones who had not graced the crowd with their testimony. I needed to know why.

Each of them slowly unveiled their covering, and turned to look me in the face. My heart plunged and my eyes popped to their limit. I gasped at what was revealed right before me. I knew the men, and I actually knew them very well. They were MY sons and all the sons of my inherited bloodline.

I woke up pouring sweat. My pillow floating in my tears. Heart quivering at the realization that the line between my dreams and my reality had now become blurred.

What are your thoughts as a parent; a citizen; or as a member of law enforcement?

Living Between Peace & Pieces

Sun, 20 Aug 2017 00:00:00 GMT

Life is but a fleeting glimpse of incomplete and untold stories; full of ups and downs, unexpected circumstances, and moments of disbelief. At times, there are instances in our lives beyond our control and comprehension, leaving us with nothing left to do but latch on to the holy promise of ‘peace beyond our own understanding.’

Today we bask in the sun rays of good fortune and an immeasurable amount of bliss; soaking up as much goodness as one heart can hold. We laugh. We love. We live. And we do each of them to likeness as to which we've been shown. Hopefully, we've all had good teachers.

Yes. Life is good at the moment. No precipitation in the forecast. And no lack of wind beneath us, could deter us from ascending like eagles to the peak of the tallest mountaintop, shouting, “MY GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD!”

Tomorrow is a new day, and we may find ourselves dashing for shelter from the downpour of bursting storm clouds. The warmth of yesterday's sun has since been cooled, leaving behind no remnants of its existence.

We grab our umbrellas and raincoats, and suit up in our protective garb...but even at the calm of the storm, we are all still left drenching wet, and feeling unprepared. Some how, in his own mysterious way, God cleans us all up, helps us pick up the pieces, and puts us back on our journey…still proving true to his AWESOMENESS.

You see, no matter where we are vested in our lives, some things are inevitable; whether good or bad, big or small; they help create the details of our existence.

But either because strength is in our DNA, or we’ve gained it through struggle; we manage to juggle those storm clouds and rays of sunlight when they’re least expected. The transition may not be done effortlessly, nonetheless, we manage it-and somehow still maintain a sense of self, and sanity. We fumble. We learn. We grow. The process takes place in that exact order. It’s never reversed.

While none of us are perfectly poised, neither are we fatally flawed, but for most of us the assessment is simple: I think we reside, or balance life somewhere in the middle...between peace & pieces.

Where do you balance life?

The Reason I Decided To Start Blogging

Fri, 18 Aug 2017 00:00:00 GMT

I never really thought twice about becoming a blogger. Okay, who am I fooling-I hadn’t even thought about it once. It never occurred to me that I could make room for it, or even be good at it. So when one of my elder sisters, Charlene, mentioned the idea some months back…I wouldn’t entertain the possibility at all.

As therapeutic for me, as writing was, the idea of blogging was far-fetched, and seemed foreign to say the absolute least. Having to juggle my already over engaged life of working long hours in the field-and the classroom, volunteer positions, community service, dealing with life issues, and the demands of my big blended family…adding blogging to the mix just seemed too big of a challenge…and a hassle.

Nevermind waiting to exhale, there are moments in my life I’m merely trying to catch a breath just to inhale. Yep, this girl-unashamedly so-definitely balances life in between peace and pieces .

How was I to see myself beating down my brain, for topics of interest in an attempt to appease a crowd with an insatiable craving for connection. Then up throughout the night like an owl trying to tie together frayed ends of a post, when normal people are sleeping; not to mention that writer’s block has always been an enemy of mine. Damn him, AND his willingness to obstruct the passages of my creative flow!

Wait! It only gets worse. The thought of having to get up before the sun lays eyes on the earth seemed unnatural to me. A blaring alarm clock has always been the sound of the devil and I hate it to this very day!

So why would I want to partake in anything that would have me to rise like a rooster, only to make one last read before a piece is posted for whoever cares…then the process, painfully starts all over again.

The only thing this sister needed to add to the essence of her world was a whole lot of God, definitely not any more hits and misses of tangible thoughts, over dramatic emotions and a plethora of opinions and phrases put together as blog posts. I appreciated my sister's gesture, but I’ll pass, I thought.

So, why did I decide to go ahead and give the blog life a chance? Its not like the over-crowded, ever growing, fast paced city of Blogville needed one more resident. But like many of the blog gods and goddesses who hailed before me, and the ones who’ll come after – I had something that needed to be heard. Not just heard in a way that sound infiltrates the ears; but a dialogue that would permeate the heart and soul of its citizens.

The discourse would be far beyond unavailing words and broken phrases, but feelings and emotions that were bigger than me – and you. More like a relationship. A commitment. A Marriage. A journey that we would embark on to heal and be healed, to forgive and be forgiven, to love and be loved, to live and let live. No longer to allow the turbulent flow of emotions to crash within us like the force of river against rock.

I have something that needs to be heard, I said. Why not now? The timing is perfect! Except this offer of unification, and I solemnly promise, to bring you nothing but ‘love, peace, and soul’ and all that mushy stuff in between.

I’ve told you my reasons for blogging . Now tell me yours…

Truthfully your girl, Jennifer

Does A Lack Of Empathy In Law Enforcement Play A Part In The Loss Of Our Children

Mon, 27 Mar 2017 00:00:00 GMT

When Tereasa Martin initially reported her daughter missing to Rosemount Police Department (RPD) on September 9th, she wasn’t taken serious and was told to wait a few hours to file the missing persons report. Almost 24 hours later, Martin got news that knocked her world off its axis - her beloved daughter, Kenneka Jenkins was found dead in the hotel freezer frozen solid.

Martin reported Kenneka missing to police shortly after 5:00 a.m., and surveillance cameras of the hotel showed her still alive at 3:20 that same morning - This is only a two-hour lapse. No one knows how long Kenneka was alive in that dark freezer; afraid, lost and confused.

Even the pending autopsy report may only provide us with an approximate time of death. So isn’t it fair to say that Kenneka Jenkins could have been alive for hours in that freezer, and possibly resuscitated had Rosemont Police Department allowed their actions to be led by empathy for this desperately pleading mother.

If RPD would have handled the life of Kenneka Jenkins with the same urgency and concern they would have given one of their own when Kenneka's mother initially summoned their help, maybe the name, Kenneka Jenkins wouldn’t be a viral hashtag on every social media site.

Martin, herself, even expressed the thought of Kenneka being alive had her and her family’s pleas been taken to heart. She went on Facebook Live stating the circumstances surrounding her daughter is not about race, but maybe had their skin been lighter police would have responded to their cries differently.

The 2016 shooting death of Philando Castile by officer Jeronimo Yanez is another famous story that may have had a different ending had empathy played a part. Although details surrounding this case are totally different than those of Kenneka Jenkins, the lack of compassion shown for the victims and their families seem to parallel one another.

Yanez fatally shot Castille as his girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds , and her four-year old daughter looked on. Yanez later said he feared for his life and the life of the passengers of Castile’s car. This statement, to me, held so much irony. How could Yanez have been afraid for the life of the passengers when he’s the one who erratically fired seven shots into the vehicle.

If Yanez had practiced the smallest amount of solicitude in his approach, perhaps he would have anticipated one of the bullets possibly hitting Diamond Reynolds, or her young child; thus leading him to respond in an appropriate manner. I believe this would have given us a different outcome than the one we’ve all painfully watched play out on Facebook Live.

Like many others, even the verdict that yielded Yanez a free man gave not a single hint at empathy, nor any of its constituents. Philando Castile's mother stated the verdict sent out a message that dehumanized her son in the eyes of the law.

No mother should ever be forced to bury a child. And no mother's cries should ever be silence, nor ignored in pursuit of her child's safety and well-being.

Losing My Father And Sister Far Too Soon Changed The Way I Both Live And Work

Mon, 07 Nov 2016 00:00:00 GMT

As a nurse, I’ve used my up-close and personal experience with death as a guide to understanding and helping my patients.

After about two hours of crying, praying, and searching our own souls for answers, my family and I had finally gotten news on Daddy’s condition. He had sustained two gunshot wounds to the back of his head and two to his upper back. His medical team said it was too much for him to survive, and the high level of alcohol found in his blood did not help his situation.

At that moment, my inner-self seemed to break away from my body. I had to tell my father how much he was needed — for Momma and for my 13-year-old sister, Tuwanna. But even more than them, for me. I needed badly to get back there to that hospital room and tell Daddy how sorry I was for the argument we had just hours earlier. I wanted to give him a kiss, hug him, and just tell him how much I loved him. I tried to run, but my knees disobeyed.

I'd never known pain so immense.

I made myself ill trying to figure out what had led up to that horrible July night — what had gone wrong that had caused a life-long friend to become the enemy in a matter of minutes. I replayed the months before in my mind and zoomed in on an unsolicited letter Momma had received from a well-known psychic back in February.

“If five months exceed this date, I will not be able to help you,” she had written.

Although our religious beliefs didn’t mesh with psychics , I couldn’t help but wonder, what if? What if we had answered the letter as the psychic had requested, could she had put up a roadblock in this collision course? What if Daddy had come home before he had taken the first drink of the last night of his life? Would his life have been spared? These questions and several others had taken root in my mind.

Life without Daddy was hard for all of us, and to keep from losing ourselves in the midst of losing him, each of us latched on to idiosyncrasies that allowed us to try savoring what was left of his presence. For me, it was some of the fragrances that had helped comprise the essence of my childhood. The aroma of Brute cologne and Pall Mall cigarettes was buried deep down in his clothing and bedding. Daddy's hardhat still lay on the dresser where he had left it. I placed my face in it and inhaled big and deep, with each breath I seemed to capture little pieces of him.

Our house seemed to have taken on Daddy’s personality. Sometimes, if I listened closely, I could hear him‑getting ready for work, dressing and walking around me.

As if it hadn’t wreaked enough havoc, death didn’t stop there. It continued to rear its ugly head in my circle of loved ones for years to come, each time delivering its hardest blow. But nothing in this world could have prepared me for the loss of my beloved, precious Tuwanna.

This time, death had beaten me so black-and-blue that I felt unrecognizable. My family and I found ourselves back in a familiar state of hopelessness, helplessness, and confusion, this time magnified.

How did a woman so young, healthy, and vibrant vanish before my very eyes? I had merely driven her to have a simple knee surgery that morning, unaware that it would be her final destination. I cursed death, and I questioned God. I even pondered the purpose of my own existence. But as soul-shattering as the blow was, I knew I had to find some way to get up and fight.

I begged the same God — the one I had previously questioned — for strength and courage to get up off the ground like I knew Tuwanna would have. The sister I had known didn’t lie down and die for anybody, not even for death itself. Death's only defense was to subdue her in her sleep; if she had been awake, the battle wouldn’t have been half as easy.

Losing Daddy at the tender age of 15, I didn’t totally understand death and its lasting sting. The loss of Tuwanna nearly three decades later, as devastating as it was, helped deepen my understanding of loss, suffering and the grieving process , and I've found that my father’s and sister's lives and deaths were both pivotal in my journey to becoming a woman and a professional nurse .

I’ve used my up-close and personal experience with death as a guide to understanding and helping my patients through some of the most difficult times of their lives. My familiarity with loss has served as a daily reminder of what it’s like being on the other end of care: the confusion, the heartache that can’t be soothed, and the immense loneliness that seemed to take over. I’ve sat on the sides of beds, wiped tears and cried with and for my patients' families, listened to their stories, and shared a few of my own. I’ve embraced, held hands with and prayed for my patients' serenity and understanding. I’ve carried it — I know how substantial the burden.

I never made it to Daddy's bedside that night to say how sorry I was about our fight. The guilt and regret I felt nibbled at my core well into adulthood. But as the days kept coming and going and adding years to my life, I began to revisit something my father had instilled in me long ago: the act of forgiveness — not only for the man who took Daddy from us, but for myself as well.

The loss of Tuwanna stirred different emotions in me than that of my father. It gave me a profound appreciation for life and hope thereafter. The love she had for life and God was so rich and colorful that it's seen vividly in the lives of her children every day. Her presence in my small world made it much more meaningful. I thank God for allowing us to exist together and for blessing me with the opportunity of knowing someone like my sister.

The line between life and death is so fine and fragile, and it doesn’t take much for one to cross it. Daddy used to say that death walks with a man all the days of his life. As much as it is the "last enemy," I guess that also makes death a part of our life design. Each breath I take I view as a privilege, because it may soon be revoked.

The journey of life is so strange. We walk through it gathering clues here and there, but never totally solving life’s mysteries. At the end of it all, we’re left with a memoir of memories, lessons, and blessings.

First published at xojane.com