A Love Story

He loved her. Maybe more than any man has ever loved any woman. I witnessed it with my own eyes. His movements, his thoughts, his wishes, all for her to return to him. They reunited briefly only to have chance separate them again. His love soldiered on. It was all he knew how to do: love her with all of him.

            In the summer of 2011, my newly expectant (with twins) wife, my two sons and I moved into our new home. With the new additions on the way we needed more space and while small by most people’s standards, our new home provided us just that. The decision to move had not been an easy one. We had been given little notice that our former home was being sold and we scrambled to find a suitable environment in which to raise our family, which was even more important as our eldest son was about to embark on his formative middle school years. We needed a safe neighborhood, a family neighborhood, a place with good schools, and an area in our price range. (I’m pretty sure Beyoncé requires less maintenance than we apparently did!) Indeed we were blessed to find a home that met our requirements and so we loaded up a moving truck and onward we went.

            As I unloaded some of the last boxes from the moving truck, a little old man and his wife pulled up in their tan mercury sedan behind us. She, in front, and he behind, they marched up the stairs into their home. I gave an obligatory “Hello”, to which he gruffly responded “Hey, how ya doin’” without so much as looking up at me. It was less than a ceremonious welcome. I pressed on with my duties, not thinking much of the encounter other than the thought that our neighbors might not be too “neighborly” in the future.

            That Saturday morning I yanked the pull cord squeezed the handle and began my bi-weekly ritual of mowing the lawn. Back and Forth, climbing the side hill of the house, rolling over flowerbeds, leaving patches everywhere; my first attempt at lawn maintenance was less than stellar but gratifying nonetheless. I came in, sweaty, proud of my feeble efforts at being handy and plopped on the couch next to my wife, who thanked me for cutting the grass and proceeded to laugh at the pitiful job I had done. As we laughed and talked, we heard a knock at the door. I opened it, expecting to find my in-laws, instead I was greeted by that little old man,who had barely acknowledged me the previous day. He introduced himself, “Hey, how ya doin? I’m George, George Keys from next door. Just wanted to say thank ya for cuttin' that grass. Ya know the people who lived there before you never cut that damn grass! They’d leave cigarette butts all over the front porch and on the lawn. They’d even toss ‘em on my porch. Good to see someone there to take care of that house”. I thanked him for coming over and introduced my wife and myself and exchanged pleasantries. Turns out the little old gruff man wasn't so gruff after all.

            Mr. and Mrs. Keys, 85 and 84 years old respectively, have been our neighbors now for close to four years. And since that day I cut the grass and he introduced himself he’s been the best neighbor I’ve ever had. A World War II veteran, Mr. Keys worked for 30-plus years at BGE. He and his wife of 50 years raised 4 children in a 3-bedroom townhouse (sound familiar) all of whom are married with children of their own. Without him knowing it, Mr. Keys has taught me many lessons about being a man and about being a good husband. A man of integrity is how I’d describe him. When the men of the neighborhood realized that the kids of the neighborhood needed a place to play, Mr. Keys organized a petition in the neighborhood to have a park built. The park still stands on the corner of our neighborhood today.  When our twins were born, we arrived home from the hospital to a box of diapers and a card from he and his wife. When my wife’s car wouldn't start, 85-year-old Mr. keys popped his shirt off (wait a minute, I just vomited a little bit remembering that image), grabbed his tools and was under the hood with me, getting her cranked. When I ran over my own lawnmower cable (don’t ask) Mr. Keys lent me his mower to cut the grass. And when I ran over his lawnmower cable (seriously, I’m awful at manual labor) he fixed his cord and got me cutting again. When my dad died, he offered his condolences and I did the same, when his sister passed. Indeed, Mr. Keys taught me how to be a good neighbor.

            But the best lesson old man Keys taught me, was how to love unconditionally. You see, he loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman before. Her name is Doris. And Doris Keys is the love of George Key’s life. She’d stand on the porch, yammering while he cut the grass, yelling out directions about spots he’d missed. He’d bicker back and then go back and get the spots she said he’d missed. When he’d sneak sweets and cakes into the house, she’d knock on our door with those sweets and cakes in hand because she knew he wasn't allowed to have that stuff. When that long tan mercury sedan pulled in front of the door. He’d get out, walk around and open the door for her.  He adored her and truth be told, she adored him too.

            About two years ago in the middle of the night, we awoke to the flashing red lights of an ambulance. I assumed Mr. Keys, who hadn’t been feeling so well at the time, was being taken to the hospital, instead it was Doris. She had fallen and broken her leg. But a break at 82 is not simply a break. The leg eventually became infected. Doris became sicker. George, who’d always been stoic in nature, became a mess. Everyday, he got up as soon as he could and drive across town to the hospital to visit his wife. Things went from bad to worse. She became sicker, at one point losing the ability to even eat on her own. A break at 82 is not simply a break. Her body was having trouble taking all the procedures. We feared the worst. George did not. He simply got up every morning, drove across town and stayed with his wife. He loved her more than any other man had ever loved any other woman.

Doris pulled through and got better but not without a major side effect. The infection had become so bad that her leg had to be amputated. She would have get a prosthetic, learn to walk again, spend 6-8 months in physical therapy and a nursing home before even the possibility of her returning home arrived. The cost threatened to rob George of his home for 50 years. But it didn't matter to him. Because all he wanted was her. Her back at home. Her back on that porch. Her by his side. And so he waited. And he visited everyday. And he drove her to therapy. And he considered moving temporarily into the nursing home with her (she talked him out of it). So he visited and stayed with her everyday. Everyday. Everyday for 2 years. Why? Because he loved for to infinity and back again. And so when we got a knock on the door 2 months ago, I was surprised to see George’s daughter on the porch. She was there to announce, that they, her parents, were around the corner, in that long tan mercury sedan. He was bringing her home. He had waited two years but he would have waited a hundred more, just to bring her home. And he did. And his smile and hers told me all I ever needed to know about love. And that is, Love is real, love is patient, love is pure, love is kind, love endures. For he loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman …ever.

         I wrote this blog upon hearing the news tonight that Doris Keys fell again last night and broke her ankle meaning another long and tenuous hospital journey for her. I pray for her speedy recovery, and for George’s as he is devastated to have to go through this ordeal again. I’m not certain how much more her 84-year-old body can handle, but I know that he will be by her side for however long it takes. 

I am not my hair

I wish I could say I started growing my hair long because it symbolized my rejection of societal demands for men (clean cut, clean shaven) or that it somehow connected to a new found religious belief (Rastafarianism). The truth is that for me it was all about convenience. In the fall of 2001 I was headed away to Syracuse University, a 5-hour car ride (8 hours by Greyhound bus which was how I most often travelled) from Baltimore. I had cornrows in high school and being away from home meant that I would have to find some new fine young lady (ok, really it was my mom) to do my hair. Unsure about my surroundings and my ability to make friends quickly enough to find someone to do my hair, I decided I would lock my hair before I left. I could wash and re-twist them on my own and when I came home I could get them maintained for pretty cheap.

            While the beginnings on my hair journey were simplistic, my 12-year lock journey was far from it. My hair became in some ways my closest companion. Tried and true, through rain, beach trips, snowy winters and blazing hot summer days; my hair was there through it all. Many of the most significant moments of my emergence into adulthood involved my hair in some way. From the birth of my children, to beginning my career, to my wedding, to my father’s passing, my hair served to provide a sense of comfort and familiarity. In many ways it symbolized me: simplistic and laid back but tough and rugged (ok, maybe not so rugged) and enduring. I take pride in being intelligent but also not taking myself too seriously. My hair represented that too. And beyond those things, it sounds silly to say but my hair brought me a confidence that I had lacked as a young man. With it I felt powerful and important.  When you feel that way, other people take notice and I am convinced that some doors opened in my life, in some small part due to the confidence brought forth from having my locks.

            So then why cut it?  Again I wish I had some amazing revelation to make. Something about a journey or a new moment in time. But the truth is, it was just time. I had always semi-joked that I would cut my hair at 30. I would say “I don't want to be the old guy whose balding but still holding on to those 3 locks in the back of his head!”. And while that’s true, as I grow closer to 30 I’m far from that old guy.  I’m in the best physical shape of my life (knock on wood) and with the love and laughter shared everyday in my home, I feel younger at heart than I ever have before. But the hair had just become more troublesome than I had the patience for.  My desire to sit and get them washed and twisted for an hour or two at a time (yes, with hair that long and heavy, it often took that long) eroded. As my kids get older and even more active, I hated the silly inconvenience of having to tie my hair just to be able to play around with them. What had originally been simplistic and convenient had become cumbersome and interfering. And so I knew that the time had come. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand, expecting to feel remorse or regret but instead as I took the first snip, I felt relief and rebirth. Each cut became easier and easier instead of harder and harder and I knew that I had made the right decision for me. (Good thing I felt that way. It would have been really hard to stop cutting after like two locks were off, feel regret and then try and glue those suckers back on my head!)  As much as I loved what my hair represented, I realized that I am who I am regardless of what my hair looks like. And while I’ll always have the memories and pictures of all of those wonderful experiences with my hair, it was those experiences, not my hair that helped to shape me into the man I am today. It is those experiences that will live on with me and continue to shape how I see the world, interact with it and try to shape it more positively in the future. And I can do those things with or without my locks.  As India Arie famously once said, “I am not my hair!” So without further ado, I introduce to you…my new ‘do!

Blame Me

I guess I just don't understand the feelings of “shock” and “surprise”. What are your expectations? What have we done? I include myself in this too. When I could afford to, the first thing I did was to move out of inner city Baltimore. Away from the gunshots I became accustomed to as a child. Away from the 300+ murders a year. Away from the drugs that sought to ruin my family. To suburbia we came, picket fences (literally), soccer leagues and housewives.. We love the neighborhood 4^th of July parade, the soap box derby, the community meetings. Yet when we look around, everyone else is white. My family of 6, is one of only two black families in the neighborhood Every Sunday on my run through a neighborhood in which I have now lived for 3 plus years, I carry my I.D. in my pocket. Why? Because when I was young, my father told me to never leave home without an ID in case the police stop you.

I don't understand the concept of a post-racial society. When I went to the movies with my white girl-friend (really, she was just my friend who happened to be a girl, not that it matters, but I digress) in high school, people on the avenue in White Marsh would look at us strange. This was not in Jackson, Mississippi in 1964, this was Baltimore Maryland in 2001.When I was 20 and in college, I worked part time as a bank teller. One morning I arrived early and had to wait outside of the bank for the branch manager to arrive and open up. As I waited, a police squad car arrived and asked me if they could “help me” with anything. They then proceeded to ask me for my name and my I.D. and asked me if I had been picked up the night before because I looked like someone they had arrested. When my branch manager arrived, and explained that I worked at the bank, they politely left. That was 2004. I teach at my Alma Matter, a school about 90 % African American and yet the top 10 students each year are almost exclusively white…no one bats an eye. Did we think Barack Obama was the finish line? I guess I’m just confused. Three weeks ago, the Supreme Court struck down a provision within the voting rights act that will make it more difficult for people of color to vote. What does this mean? Laws such as “stand your ground” which so many people are now outraged by, will multiply across this country. Where was our outrage then? Our protests for our southern brethren?

But what did we expect? We’re willing to stand in lines for hours to buy Jordans or a Gucci pocketbook but unwilling to stand in line to vote. Unwilling to attend a parent teacher conference to keep their child on track in school. What happens in 2016, when there isn’t a black candidate for president? Will we lose interest again?

I hold no ill will to George Zimmerman or the jurors in this case. I hold us to blame. We, the collective black community, killed Trayvon Martin many years ago and we continue to kill our youth today. We’re quick to say they’re out of control, running wild in the streets, yet unwilling to meet them there. We become so upset that they use the word “nigga” casually that we cant hear them under their breath asking for our help. Wake up people, these bad-a$$ kids today didn't raise themselves! Or maybe they did and that's the problem. A generation of parents who are too busy at the club to help with homework. A Black church, once at the forefront of leading change, spewing hatred and condemnation at young people, instead of welcoming them with open arms. We expected a jury to solve all of this? That’s the real shock.

I hold no right to preach to you. For my move to the suburbs is yet another example of a brother who “made it” and left. So for all of those who have taken the time to read this, please hear me loud and clear: I accept your challenge America. If I’m the person it takes to give my children and yours the life they deserve to live, then put it on me. I’ll carry that weight. I’ll be more than just a father to my own, I’ll be a father to all. I’ll be more than a teacher to my students, I’ll be a teacher to all. I’m tired of waiting for somebody else to do it. Put it on me. I  apologize Mr. and Mrs. Martin that we didn't do more before your son became the latest victim of our hypocritical society. I promise to do my level best to stop it from happening again. I hope you all will join me. 

How I Met Your Mother

When is I was 15, one of my regular weekend activities was to go roller-skating. Think “Rollbounce” or “ATL” just without the rappers turned actors.  Since my two closest friends at the time were white, “Shake and Bake” wasn’t an option, so we would ride all the way out to Pasadena, about a 40-minute drive from our homes in southwest Baltimore, to find a more “diverse” skating population. For the most part I was just happy to be out of the house but the girls were nice too. Being from the “city” brought some clout with it to a place like Pasadena. We’d roll up 5-6 dudes deep in Steve’s 1987 yellow Chevy Cavalier (ballin’!) bumping DMX or Eminem as loud as his often broken speakers would allow. You couldn’t have toldme, I wasn't tough (with my cornrows and butter Timberlands, lol). We probably went skating every weekend for about a year. You know the drill, you’ve seen the movies: you spent most of the time rapping along to lyrics of songs while skating around and trying to look smooth for the girls. There was the all-girl skate, where the guys cleared the floor and watched the girls circle around as we “Ooohed” and “Ahhhed”. But the best part of the night was the all-guy skate. This was how you tested your “playa” level. As you skated around, girls would line the wall and stick out their hands for you to slap as you skated by. The more girls who had their hands out as you skated by, the more “swag” you had. And the part of the night you dreaded most was the couples skate:  you never wanted to be the guy who had to sit down and pretend to be tired during the couples skate.

​Needless to say we went skating A LOT. One Saturday night turned out to be different. I noticed her immediately. She had a narrow face, a black-t-shirt that said Elite Models, a pony-tail (turns out it wasn't hers) butmost noticeably she had a BIGGGGGGGGGGGGGG…Smile (yeah, you thought I was going some place else, well I would have and she did, but my kids might read this someday, so I’m sticking with smile).  I remember immediately thinking how beautiful I thought she was, but there was a problem. She was skating with another guy. So I waited. We left that night and I didn't approach her.

A few weeks later we returned and there she was. Alone. (Ole boy got the message, subliminally). Now was my time. Would she slap my hand during all-guy skate? Could I get her attention before somebody else did? What if I got her attention but she wasn't interested? So here’s the thing… I used to be kinda shy, especially around the ladies. Going up to her and asking for her number was out of the question. So how could I do it? How could I find out if she was interested without risking being embarrassed in the place where I was coolest guy there (in my own head)?And hence the Sedrick Smith “move-to-woo-the-ladies”was born! I winked! Yup, you read that right. I winked at her! Smooth, low-risk, and if she squinted her face in disgust, I could just pretend that I had something in my eye and move on with my life. So I waited for her to sit down, and when she looked in my direction…Boom! The Wink! She smiled, I smiled and that was it. A few minutes later her friend Stacy came over and asked me if I wanted to skate with her friend Asha, I said yes and we skated together the rest of the night and exchanged pager numbers (Yup, pagers, this was the late 90’s people) before her mother came into the skating rink with a house coat on and snatched her out because she was taking too long to leave (that really happened). She blew my pager up all night (she claims I blew hers up, but clearly her memory is fuzzy in this area) and when I got in the car to head back home, I told my boys Brad and Steve that that girl Asha was going to be my girl. 15 years later, 8 years of marriage later, 4 kids later (well 3 kids and an Audrey ), she’s still the girl I want to skate all of my couple skates with. Happy 28thbirthday to my darling wife. And this kids, is how I met your mother.