Christmas in February

Peace to the folk.

Imagine me allowing someone to tell me when I can celebrate something. I almost want to write that twice, just to make it stick. Do me a favor, and possibly yourself, and read it again. Now, picture you allowing that same thing. What’s mine to celebrate will always be mine to celebrate—period. I’m gon’ do it how and when I want to. My birthday in April? I might celebrate the entire month. Peace to the Tauruses among us. May you remain loyal and true. And ease up a bit. Then again, I might not celebrate at all.. It’s mine; it’s my choice.

The same goes for Black History—it belongs to me, and I ain't in the sharing mood, especially with people who never cared about it from the very beginning. That’s Trump-nem. DEI this, take away Black History Month that. Frankly, and candidly, so. The fuck. What. I’m not tied to a month, never have been. I celebrate Blackness upon waking—every day, on both sides of my “dash.” -

And as for DEI, let us dissect. Independent of each other, as isolated words—if I asked you, “Hey, how do you feel about diversity?” you’d likely say something like it’s good to have various people and ideas in a room because it brings a certain wholeness. In the end, you’d agree it’s valuable. And if our conversation continued—and it might, as some have called me interesting—and I said, “Word, that’s dope. What about equity? How do you feel about that?” You’d likely pause, pensive, making sure you said the right thing, and boom: “It’s in the word, man—value. What you have in something, as it grows, so does your value. Gotta have equity, man.” “Wow,” I’d say, totally in agreement. I’d probably inhale a bit, choke some if I'm lucky, and add, “Damn, bro or sis, that’s heavy. Inclusion, though—surely you have thoughts about it” You’d dead-eye me for my hesitancy in passing, but quickly understand I was only pausing for effect—receiving what your heart desired, allowing you to retract your arm, saying, “Fam, who doesn’t want to be included?” The actual Mic drop moment. All that reason in just a few seconds and words, yet somehow when you put the words together, they become a gang and harmful? Come on.

trump jumped out the window quick, blaming plane crashes on DEI hires. First off, madness—but beyond that, if there is such a place, I give you sensibility: if you’re going to blame them for the crash incidents, what about the years prior of friendly skies? Make it make sense. I could use a whole list of other Black phrases on this here Black History Month, but that’s the point, really, of this entire piece. Black History Month was carved out by folks who didn’t care about it, upheld fragile over time, and now is under threat of being discarded—using values, mind you, that speak to the very nature of what it is to be decent.

Uh, fam, DEI doesn’t get anyone a job; it just evens the playing field, making sure the best person gets the opportunity for the job. Step your game up, baby. Only those with the most access are complaining. Riddle me that. Furthermore, if we were to use the term the way trump and his kind are trying to, it is he, trump, who would be credited with using the measures he so detest.

So, there I was scrolling Instagram—totally out of character, as I don’t do much “social media” anymore. Funny saying that in a social media space, but as it relates to sharing thought here, I’m new to LinkedIn. Thank you for the room. I used other platforms to express creativity, the process of building something from nothing, and promoting that “thing” all at once. What I found is your expression of what you’re building can be taken by others and used—even if it’s only them being inspired by you. Ill, because if they have the resources and you don’t, they may be able to forward, essentially, your thing. Again, very ill. I’ve digressed, and gressed, and gressed. Is there an echo in here?

Anyway, while scrolling, I saw a post of someone complaining about the government taking away Black History Month. They were totally upset, spewing venom without regard, and I wondered: how could that upset you? Melanin is every day; Blackness is every day. I love it. Don’t you? Every day? I'm sure you do. You have kids or elders to love on, or friends who smile from ear to ear when they see you, or hug you longer because they don't know when they might see you again. That’s all coming in layered in Black and immediately becoming Black History. Who can say you can't celebrate that when you want to, how you want to? I still hear fireworks from July in December, so surely folks know how to celebrate when they want to. Let it be hot tomorrow—tell me you won’t see smoke-stack after smoke-stack with meat piled higher than your double mattress, complete with aroma co-signed by Dr. Green Thumb himself. Stoners ain’t trying to hurt nobody.

So, fuck your Black History Month. You can have it, rescind it if you want—I’ll even sign a petition if it’s put before me. Why? It’s impossible to take Black History from me, from any of us. It’s ours. You can borrow it, lease it, rent it, co-opt it, or own whatever you want—but it belongs to us. My very being is ownership. My life is a walking document, breathing, turning life into history by the second. All I must do now is celebrate. Anywhere, anyhow. Word to Ms. Jackson. Given that, it’s forever “Fuck Trump”—both as a political stance and for the sake of decency—and now, for the goodness of climate change, I give you Christmas in February. Celebrate everything, y’all. Why not?

Listen, to those unfortunate souls who have never experienced it, a reminder to those who have, and a salute to those who practice it, I say this: “Southern Hospitality” is a real thing. Good lawd. Blackness is about saluting, honoring, cherishing, loving, appreciating, caring—simply being Blackness. I don’t know if it feels the same as a way of life, but falling into it is like jumping into a bed with 10,000-thread count sheets—it’s pure, unadulterated, uninterrupted comfort. As a lifestyle, I'm sure it's as easy living as it is digestible by the casual sampler—because, well, why wouldn’t it be?

We go often, sample heavy, my wife and I-our daughter’s schooling there and all—but this past Christmas (yeah, I know the date; I said celebrate recklessly if you choose), we went to Dallas to celebrate with my wife’s family and in-laws. First off, “in-law” does not apply here. If you have a problem with your mother-in-law, I feel bad for you, son...

I don’t even know what that is—that being “problem with” or “mother-in-law.” She’s my second mother, period. From the very beginning she called me "son", said she dug how I called her “ma’am” when we first met, during my courtship of her daughter—and always, even today. Mama Loretta: dope, through and through. Thank you for your person. Your are a delight in any room you enter.

We flew to the Morris’—Larry Morris, husband of my wife’s first cousin, Tameika (folk call her Meekie). She’s slow motion, country, thoughtful; like the sister you never had or the one you do—whatever works. She was in our wedding. She was the made or matron of honor, which ever one is reserved for the woman who is already married. She even failed to mention me during her address to the folks at out reception. I WILL NEVER FORGET THAT, Tameika—I kid, I know her heart. Her better half, "Morris", as he is affectionately called sometimes—jovial, welcoming, a friend. His daughter told my daughter, “Your dad and my dad are the same—your dad is just the nicer version.” Ha! So if you know me, you know Morris’s heart. And in that brief moment, you’ve met Larry Morris. I promise you, he just chuckled and looked to embrace you, as he chastises the ref at his daughter’s hoop game the day before Christmas and critiques the game of middle school girls. It’s all love—he means it that way. His purpose, accidental or not, is to make sure those around him are okay. Scrate up. He didn’t bat an eye or lose a streak of joy at all, yall, as my son stepped into his home, took off his shoes (as appropriate), and absolutely thrashed him in chess over and over and over again. Larry, the kind soul he is, even invited others to witness the thrashing and partake. As his brother-in-law, his sisters husband, known for "dropping fish", eases into the losers chair, I hear him tell my son he’d been playing chess his whole life, only to then lose two out of three games to the boy king. Morris allowed that in his home, and I appreciate it.

Unbeknownst to him—and he’ll find out right now—his merit was tested, and he passed with flying colors. I was unwittingly dragged into it by one Meekie Morris and my wife’s egging. There’s this sausage they swear by out in the South called “Country Pleasing.” Apparently, you can only get it in Mississippi. When Larry goes to Mississippi, he makes it a point to buy boxes full. The story alone of the proprietor and the way the sausage is made, and him telling it, is enough glee to light up any room. Meekie says Larry doesn’t allow anyone to eat it unless it’s a special occasion and he’s given his approval—but, according to her, “if Rodney asks, he'll give him one.” I felt the pressure of a challenge and I really did not want to give in , but I really wanted some of that meat. I simply told Larry the next time he went to Mississippi to get me some and ship it to me. I’d pay whatever. He said, “I’m on it,” and we kept it moving.

As we were leaving, to go to the plane, Larry said unprompted, “Rodney, come to the garage.” Three refrigerators awaited. He opened the bottom freezer, and it was like seeing the sun. “Country Pleasing” was stacked wall-to-wall. In what seemed like slow motion, he pulled out two packages—one hot sausage and one boudin—and began telling me the heartfelt story I alluded to earlier. When I chopped that sausage up and put it into the white beans I cooked when we got home, I almost cried. We’ll blame it on the opinions though. I didn’t even tell Tameika that this happened—she’ll find out right now. AhhhhHaaa, that’s what you get for not mentioning me in… ahem, moving right along.

The food, the family, the conversation, the understanding, the kinship—it all happened under one roof. Bloodlines, legacies, young and old, those tied by marriage and those not, huddled together because our Blackness, our culture, is our bond when we choose to see it. We say all the time, “You don’t have to be blood to be family,” but do we practice it? They do in the South, as living. Wow.

I thanked the Morris family for letting me and mine into their home, for sharing a little bit of what they had—some down-home soul food, a second helping of substance, served with the kind of care you can feel. How can trump or anyone take that a way, with or without a month. Merry Christmas, Black History Month, Kwanzaa, and whatever else I want to celebrate. One Love

-Smirk

#oldheadenergy

Shelitha R. Campbell, DNP, MSN, BSN, APRN, FNP-BC, PHN, HMCT