Okay, so here I am, New Years Eve 2020 (technically it’s still 2019 for a few more hours in Central Standard Time) and I’m wrapping my whole head around several realizations.
One of the most significant comes from the folklore I was taught as a child about ringing in the new year. As an American black woman, rituals and recipes were impressed upon me to ensure a good year. For instance, when you read the article, you’ll understand why “Watch Night” is a thing for black Americans. I can’t remember but just in case it doesn’t, it’s a part of why black eyed peas, cabbage and cornbread have been a staple as well.
So much about my understanding of humanity and America has come from how I was raised. I suppose, what I’m really trying to say is how it is not just flawed for the sake of error but rather it’s something to be noted because it is a part of the black American culture.
For nearly the entire 41 years that I’ve celebrated complete revolutions around this Sun, I’ve lived with the idea that whatever is happening on to me on the 1st of January is how my year will go.
It doesn’t matter that it hasn’t borne out or even been vaguely related, I’ve simply executed the steps to make sure it’s a peaceful or good new year.
Kind of…
This year, I’m really embracing the fact that THAT is more pressure on one day that God ever meant me to put on any given day.
After reading that TIME magazine article that began to explain the history of the people I’m related to in the country, I realize that I’ve been carrying around a lot of pain and assumptions along with this day that is often my favorite holiday because it is so close to my birthday.
I’m a January baby. I was born almost mid month but not quite.
I find that I often evaluate the state of my existence on this day or close to it as a measure of how well I’m growing.
As most of us are, I suspect, I’m too hard on myself.
I wish I’d accomplished more…I think
I’m happy with the woman I am…I think she’s pretty and also funny.
I’m happy with my kids…I think they are awfully human and crazy and sweet and brilliant and as crazy as they make me, I’m really happy I get to be around them for most of their childhood because that’s what single (or solo) motherhood is.
I know I am doing the best I can with what I have, but I still want more…I think that’s a human condition.
I’m okay with this strange tension.
I’m writing like this because tequila and soon champagne and soon bed…it’s not inaccurate, just strangely disjointed.
I suppose what I really want to write is this…
With this new year, in a new decade, only partially into a new century and a smidge into a new millennium, I’m learning about myself and also learning that it’s not only just fine but expected to continuously learn about other people.
I’ve put pressure on this day to predict my next 365 (or 366) days because of the history of my chocolate, west African-ish (my actual DNA test results here) people in this country. If you care to research the facts, many people, including the handsomely southern Trae Crowder, will help you figure it out, are available on YouTube. I am starting the process of moving away from this being the marker for the rest of my year.
I’ve decided to embrace the idea that the next 365 days are mine (or yours) to create.
Make them awesome.
Make the peaceful.
Make them loving.
Make them yours.
Mama in the Middle 