I woke up gently, which is still a foreign
experience for me. I nuzzled my kitten and brought her to the kitchen, so she
could eat her breakfast. I stood near the glass patio door and smiled as the
sunlight bathed me in warmth. I picked up my phone and read a text from a
friend. “Did you hear that Toni Morrison died?” she asked.
My heart began to race. I Googled “Toni Morrison” because I never, ever believe what I hear without doing my own investigation, and there was the confirmation. I pressed my hands to my chest and fell to my knees. I prayed for Ford and Toni’s grandchildren. “Poor Ford,” I thought. “He lost his brother a few years ago and now he’s lost his mother.” I thanked God for Toni and everything that she gave me and the world. Then I prayed for God to bless her spirit.
I thought the tears would run out if I waited a few days to write about this loss. I should have known better. Grief doesn’t work like that.
Toni Morrison was not just an exceptional writer and social activist to me; she was my earthly life line. Between 2009 and 2011, I was severely depressed. Of course, being a Southern, Christian Black woman, I have been indoctrinated not to acknowledge depression or any mental illness, so I told myself, I was just a little sad. Now that I understand what clinical depression and post-traumatic stress disorder are, now that I am regularly taking Ayurvedic supplements to balance my hormones and actively managing these mental illnesses, I can put words to that experience.
Every day I felt like my feet were trapped in five gallon buckets of hardened cement. When I lay down to sleep at night, I felt like my body was sinking into thick, muddy swamp water. When I woke each morning, I rolled my feet and legs from the bed and let gravity move the rest of my body because I had neither the energy nor the will to stand, walk, exist in the world. I had to do something because the images of me accidentally driving my car off the highway were getting their asses kicked by images of me stabbing myself in the throat.
I had only just started seeing my Ayurvedic doctor, but I thought she was a weirdo, and I only took my supplements once in a while. One day I pulled two books from my bookshelf: Conversations with Toni Morrison and Toni Morrison: Conversations. Both contain interviews with Morrison from the 1970’s through the early 2000’s. I read one of these books every night until I fell asleep. In the morning, I would find the book cradled in my arms or tucked securely beneath my pillow. I kept the other book in my nightstand drawer. When I went to work with my fake I’m-alright expression, I made certain that one of these books was in my laptop bag. I carried Toni with me like a talisman until gradually I started taking my Ayurvedic supplements religiously; I stopped speaking to my family; I could feel my toes wiggle again; I could sleep kinda sorta peacefully; and I could drive down the street and see the blueness of the sky again.
I spoke to one of my best friends on the morning that I learned of Toni’s death. She is also a writer. Whereas she was solemn, I was crying nonstop.
“I was with you the day you lost your mother,” she said.
I paused remembering that day some two years ago. “You were,” I said.
“You’re crying more now than you did then. I mean, I know you’ve cried for your real mother many times. I know her death was painful for you, but this…it’s like you’ve lost your literary mother.”
Words are so incredibly sacred. They help us develop consciousness around our identity and experiences. My mother did such an exceptional job of loving, affirming and educating me. Because of her, I am confident and prepared for any professional undertaking I choose. My mother wounded me, but she also made certain that I was compassionate, creative, analytical and connected to God. Toni Morrison may not have known me, but I needed a creative powerhouse to help me grow into the writer I am and the writer I will become, and she fulfilled that need.
Thank God for mothers.
My heart began to race. I Googled “Toni Morrison” because I never, ever believe what I hear without doing my own investigation, and there was the confirmation. I pressed my hands to my chest and fell to my knees. I prayed for Ford and Toni’s grandchildren. “Poor Ford,” I thought. “He lost his brother a few years ago and now he’s lost his mother.” I thanked God for Toni and everything that she gave me and the world. Then I prayed for God to bless her spirit.
I thought the tears would run out if I waited a few days to write about this loss. I should have known better. Grief doesn’t work like that.
Toni Morrison was not just an exceptional writer and social activist to me; she was my earthly life line. Between 2009 and 2011, I was severely depressed. Of course, being a Southern, Christian Black woman, I have been indoctrinated not to acknowledge depression or any mental illness, so I told myself, I was just a little sad. Now that I understand what clinical depression and post-traumatic stress disorder are, now that I am regularly taking Ayurvedic supplements to balance my hormones and actively managing these mental illnesses, I can put words to that experience.
Every day I felt like my feet were trapped in five gallon buckets of hardened cement. When I lay down to sleep at night, I felt like my body was sinking into thick, muddy swamp water. When I woke each morning, I rolled my feet and legs from the bed and let gravity move the rest of my body because I had neither the energy nor the will to stand, walk, exist in the world. I had to do something because the images of me accidentally driving my car off the highway were getting their asses kicked by images of me stabbing myself in the throat.
I had only just started seeing my Ayurvedic doctor, but I thought she was a weirdo, and I only took my supplements once in a while. One day I pulled two books from my bookshelf: Conversations with Toni Morrison and Toni Morrison: Conversations. Both contain interviews with Morrison from the 1970’s through the early 2000’s. I read one of these books every night until I fell asleep. In the morning, I would find the book cradled in my arms or tucked securely beneath my pillow. I kept the other book in my nightstand drawer. When I went to work with my fake I’m-alright expression, I made certain that one of these books was in my laptop bag. I carried Toni with me like a talisman until gradually I started taking my Ayurvedic supplements religiously; I stopped speaking to my family; I could feel my toes wiggle again; I could sleep kinda sorta peacefully; and I could drive down the street and see the blueness of the sky again.
I spoke to one of my best friends on the morning that I learned of Toni’s death. She is also a writer. Whereas she was solemn, I was crying nonstop.
“I was with you the day you lost your mother,” she said.
I paused remembering that day some two years ago. “You were,” I said.
“You’re crying more now than you did then. I mean, I know you’ve cried for your real mother many times. I know her death was painful for you, but this…it’s like you’ve lost your literary mother.”
Words are so incredibly sacred. They help us develop consciousness around our identity and experiences. My mother did such an exceptional job of loving, affirming and educating me. Because of her, I am confident and prepared for any professional undertaking I choose. My mother wounded me, but she also made certain that I was compassionate, creative, analytical and connected to God. Toni Morrison may not have known me, but I needed a creative powerhouse to help me grow into the writer I am and the writer I will become, and she fulfilled that need.
Thank God for mothers.
