Grief is love with no place to go

I remember the moment he was laid on my chest with a clarity that only a life changing moment can provide. He was so tiny and slimy and helpless. I don’t remember “feeling” anything necessarily, but I do recall meeting him and figuring out that we had known each other already. I said “oh, it’s you”. Cause we did know each other — it was only putting a face with a name he had already been given. My first child. My son. My heart and soul made manifest.

Everything changed in an instant. That change is indescribable, but palpable. Every mother has felt it. Suddenly the notice of every missing child generated anxiety because it could have been mine. Every commercial for sick and hungry children tugged at the heartstrings in a completely different way because it could have been him. Every Black boy shot down in the street for just being a little Black boy generated a panic because it might be him.

Frequently I would think that he would one day fit “the description” no matter what I did. You know the one: Black male, late teens — early twenties, dark clothing, medium build, black hair, brown eyes. No matter.what.I.did he would fit that description. So it became paramount that I did everything I could to control his surroundings. The objective was to ensure he didn’t become a generic Black boy picked up by the police or shot dead in a case of mistaken identity or even end up a thug in the court of public opinion — photo of some random day when he was pretending to be “hard” by throwing up gang signs he had only ever seen on TV to be strewn across every news outlet.

The idea of my child ending up dead or in jail as a consequence of a stupid decision are always so close to the surface that it feels like walking on a razor’s edge. Stray too far either way and the result is deadly. So the die was cast and my type A personality set to work.

Private school. Horse riding lessons at 3. Reading independently at 4. Swim team and language immersion at 5. Tennis and kung fu at 6. Montessori school at 7. Piano and Mandarin at 8. Summer abroad at 9 complete with windsurfing, sailing, rock climbing, and repelling lessons. Absolutely anything and everything I could do to place him far, far away from a scenario that would have him the subject of an APB, I did. It was obvious to me that I needed to ensure the world saw him as more than just a Black boy. His life needed to be beyond reproach so much so that no one could ever think of him negatively. In all of that, however, I never stopped to think of how the world sees me.

I had forgotten that I am the Black woman who gave birth to this Black boy. I had spent so much time surrounded by non-Black neighbors, acquaintances, colleagues, and friends that my color was no longer at the fore-front. I was just a member of the neighborhood association board, dutiful mother, and consummate volunteer. Discussions were always about the merits of situations, not the circumstances surrounding them because we were evolved humans who saw past color to ability and opportunity.

I was 32 when he was born. I’d been married for 3 years, together for 6, in order to avoid all connection with the stereotype of the young, single, Black mother. I worked and made a good living — enough to buy a big and beautiful house in a prominent neighborhood in town. I’d put his father through undergrad and medical school because he was bright and too smart not to reach his inherent potential. I didn’t care what he majored in, just that he obtained a college degree. That I worked while finishing my undergrad degree before going on to grad school was of no consequence. We had an agreement that I would push him through first and he would pull me through from the other side. At first couldn’t seem to find a job and then he was precluded from working by Medical School policy. But that was all OK because we were a team — together forever. That is what I believed marriage to be — love and sacrifice. Everything I did to support the family is just what needed to be done.

But somewhere between Team Us, the second child, 2 cars, insurance, mortgage, drop off-, pick-up, volunteer work, after school extra-curricular activities, play dates, birthday parties, Sunday Funday Game Days, and my full-time job — there was no longer an “us”. He felt that I wasn’t doing enough to support him. And it never occurred to me that such an extensive list of responsibilities would not be enough.

I did what wives did. Never a day did he arrive home late after a rotation did he find his dinner not cooked and sitting in the refrigerator. Never were there dishes in the sink, clothes unwashed, homework undone, the boys unattended. Never a day did he have responsibilities at school whether it be test or study commitment that the boys missed a single social obligation — nary a friend asked why didn’t you come to my party because they made them all. Never a day was I not hyper focused on ensuring that I was tuned in to what was going on at the school, what the boys needed, and how the school and I could work as a team to provide it.

I was room parent several years running before moving to the PTO Board often in a fundraising capacity to ensure the “gap” was always filled. I knew every kid in class. The teachers and Administration had my phone number on speed dial just in case I was needed. I was known to leave work in an instant were there issues with my children anywhere. I was at their school so often many of the other parents were surprised to learn I had a job elsewhere. I say that I did all this because my ex-husband was in medical school and there was no reason for the boys to do without. But there is also no reason for me to believe that even if that were not the case that I would have done less for them.

Finally, I had had enough. Enough nights alone. Enough waiting for him to be available. Enough of functioning as a single parent. I wanted a divorce. If I had to do everything on my own, I didn’t need him. I told him to go home to his mother. He wasn’t contributing anything anyway. I had the status of being married to a budding doctor with the responsibility of being a single mother and the perks of neither.

I still can’t remember which year we stopped being intimate beyond sex or even when that stopped too. We no longer knew each other. His responsibility was to pay the bills, sure, but with my earned money — I could have set up an electronic deduction for that. He showed up periodically to special events and was otherwise a more ethereal presence. I would tell the boys that he was proud of their accomplishments, give them “his” words of love and encouragement, or give them little gifts from him hoping they would know he was still a part of the family.

For myself, I didn’t need to pretend he was present. It was for the boys. Especially when they were little, it was important that they didn’t miss him. But truth be told, when they were little they would have been just as happy had Spiderman been real. Their father joined us for dinner periodically — and ate the food I cooked after working and while doing homework with the kids. We literally just shared a bed. But he wouldn’t go. I never asked the reason. I had too much else going on.

I was 40 by then and had never fulfilled my dream of going to law school. So I announced I was taking the LSAT. I took a prep course with a friend. And since we spent more time chatting than studying, my score wasn’t very good, as would be expected. But it was on a drive to Tampa to stay with my sister and spend the week at Disney World that my oldest said to me very matter of factly that I should just take it again. I did and fast-forward a month or two and got the letter in March of 2012 that I had been accepted.

In April 2012, my ex-husband “matched” at a residency in Alabama. I vividly remember him sharing the news and me scoffing that of course, I would have to do law school with the kids on my own. So, I declared the kids and I weren’t going. There was nothing for me and my bi-racial kids in Mobile. I refused to put them through the struggle of small town living when they were being brought up as city-kids. I had lived through that and it was decidedly unpleasant to never belong anywhere. He would have to go alone. However, we had what I thought was an agreement that he would pay the bills as I went back to school just as I had done for him. If the marriage worked, great; if it didn’t, the transition was already made under the guise of move for work. That way it would be easier on the kids.

He left and was guilt-ridden for a time. Then he stopped calling or visiting the kids. A check of the phone records and credit card purchases “suggested” he was seeing someone — even though he maintained that 2am and 3am phone calls to a female colleague were only about patients and the flowers and gifts were housewarming presents. I filed for divorce 13 years into our marriage. But it was in that moment of attempting to divorce my White husband, who was only also Mexican on applications that could give him advantage, that I suddenly became nothing more than a Black woman complete with all the negative stereotypes.

The house was being foreclosed. Neighbors we had known for a decade believed he had been the breadwinner. As a White-passing man surely he had provided for his family. Only one had seen the obvious and offered her support. The rest lifted not a finger to help me pack or find another place to live with two young children when the house was sold at Sheriff’s Sale. I should have done something to stop it. I was to blame.

Colleagues and acquaintances told me how foolish I was to give up being married to a doctor for the stupid dream of becoming an attorney. I was just about to “cash in”; worse, I was being selfish and irresponsible to give up the career I already had. I should have been happy to follow my husband to the ends of the earth because I had a “good man”.

Friends called me a liar to my face. It wasn’t he who hadn’t done what was necessary to provide for his family. No one would believe he had not held a full time job through all those years, but could not point to a time they knew him to be employed anywhere. He was just such a good guy. It must have been me.

But worst of all, whether it was for spite or retribution for living a life without him, he dragged me into court claiming I was a child abuser — not once, but twice.

Nary a single bruise, cut, scratch, or person who could substantiate his case could be found. Yet I was suddenly made aware that as a Black woman there are realities that I had never considered the whole time I had spent grooming my children into the men who would be beyond reproach.

First, there is no narrative that makes me human. I am either a crack-whore or a saint. And the role of saint had been taken by my ex-husband. So that left me as the dreg of society.

Second, the children borne of my body are not my own. They must be protected from the life of poverty and drug addiction to which Black women invariably succumb on screen. They belong to anyone who claims I am unfit because these other people are not only more credible than I, but more worthy of humanity.

And most important, no amount of truth can overcome the weight of a white man’s tears and claims he or the children he barely saw had been done an injustice.

To be clear, in 2017, I swatted the 11-year old in the mouth for calling me out of my name and cursing at me. His nose bled. Two days later, their father brought them to Children’s Hospital for a full workup. The physician there ran blood tests, CT scans, MRI, an X-ray, and even a domestic abuse kit and found only eczema. Yet and still, she diagnosed child abuse. That same physician testified in open court that there were no bruises, cuts, abrasions, broken bones or even a history of such, but held fast that I am a child abuser. A Social Worker from the Department of Children and Family Services investigated me, the school Administration, and adults around my children and found no evidence or history of abuse. That same social worker showed up at my house to remove my children with an officer of the local police department without a warrant or any documentation of where my children were being taken or why because they had “reason to believe” I am an abuser. The East Indian-American judge listened to testimony of my children’s father and agreed that I am a child abuser. You will notice that my children were neither questioned in chambers nor in open court.

I was labeled an abuser, an angry Black woman and my children were taken from me. I was awarded anger management classes where I sat with predominately Black women who shared stories of trying to do the best they could for their children and not being believed. As a bonus, I got parenting classes taught to me by a twenty-something graduate student and non-parent.

It has now been four years since I have seen or talked to them — my children for whom I lived and breathed. The times I have reached out to them, my efforts have been met with either silence or panic — what do I want, why am I trying to contact them. I have lost on every appeal where it has been decided I am not worthy of maintaining a relationship with my children. Though the black letter of the law wasn’t strictly followed, the rules of Family Court allow all manner of bending and manipulation in the “Best Interest of the Child”.

And so I grieve for the death. They are not dead, but our relationship is. As I see my kids’ classmates growing and moving into other stages of life, I don’t have stories to tell or moments to share. I witness the values of mindfulness, industry, and respect I was instilling in them being a source of praise for others, but recall those values were only a source of ire for me. I consider my identity as “mother” and ponder whether I can really be a mother when I can’t hold them, guide them, be with them. I still grieve for having my children and motherhood taken from me. I grieve for having my humanness stripped from me. I ache for the days when I was a mother. But almost as much I grieve for the days when I was a person and not a nameless, faceless, angry, Black woman deserving of no justice. And that grief is just love with no place to go.