Tag Archives: kindness

A Long Overdue Memoir About the Power of Kindness

Ode to Ms. Patsy

This memory flooded into my mind this morning in the shower seemingly out of nowhere. It must have laid dormant somewhere waiting for the right thought to release it.

Somewhere in the fog of several lifetimes ago

I was in a place where I felt lost and alone, overflowing with my story that there was no one that understood me and no one near that I could comprehend — a place where those around me would see me fail before they would reach out or lend a hand — I walked away from all of them, every single one, ensuring that except for my young boys, I physically was actually alone… well, were it not for those neighbors.

Though her face and features have dimmed from my mind, and even her voice, I still remember these things about Ms. Patsy: her hands, the texture of her hair and the few white spots in it, her living room, and above all, the extreme kindness. That will live on in me forever. And when I close my eyes and transport myself, I remember vividly the warmth of her apartment below mine, and the smell of red beans and rice and cornbread from a particular night. I don’t believe I have ever had a pot of red beans and rice as good as the ones from that night.

Somewhere, I think I still have a borrowed Tom Clancy or John Grisham novel of hers with her name written in it. I borrowed it and never gave it back. I am disturbed that I cannot locate it. Right now, I cannot even remember her last name, but I feel compelled to find that book so that I can see it In her own handwriting on the inside front cover. I feel like I owe her at least that — to see her full name, run my fingers across it, and to say it out loud. If I find it, I will update!

The marvelous universe delivered us both to the same desert location. She was our new downstairs neighbor, and at the time I had no inkling how much I would need her later on. She was much older than I, older than my mother even at that time, in her early 70’s if I recall. I was somewhere around 27. She became a surrogate, a sort of mother/grandmother figure in the quadruplex inside of the apartment complex where I and other young parents lived. I was drawn to her. She was hip, modern, funny, brilliant, and a master at acceptance. We bonded over a love for Earl Klug, the Blues, a love of reading, and memories of the Bay Area in California where I had lived and from where she had recently retired and moved. Little did I know that at some later date she would be the one who may have saved our lives, mine at least, and for sure saved my heart and soul one evening.

We talked about so many delicious topics, and she was one of the first Black women that talked openly with me about race and social justice, and about her son who was living with AIDS. At that time there was a lot of stigma around it and it was pretty much a death sentence. I think she knew that I was open and wanting to learn about the world around me, shoes that I would never (could never) walk in, and that it would expand my perspective. She took a liking to my kids who are biracial, and I think felt it a compelling and important reason to share some of the things with me that she did. It seemed like she had lived many lives, and now that I am closer to her age at that time, I understand.

We would sit out on the stoop with neighbors between all of our apartments and chat for hours about all kinds of things. Our kids would run around out front in the little play area or sit in one of our living rooms watching TV and playing games. I found her fascinating, powerful, brave, funny, and loving. She was as outgoing as she was outspoken. I admired that.

When Ms. Patsy first came to us, I was married with two young boys, not realizing there was a series of heavy, life-altering events ahead. Not long after she moved in, I became pregnant with my third child, and shortly after he was born my husband and I separated. The boys and I stayed at the apartment.

Change. Whoa, CHANGE!

At the time of the separation, I was a member of a religious organization that was extremely rigid and stifling. I received a lot of rhetoric for separating from my husband, and I was very unhappy at treatment that not only I was receiving from some of the women in my congregation, but also how they were treating another young sister after a family tragedy.

I was unemployed and chose to go to allied health school to make myself more marketable for employment. I needed a way to sustain my family. When I received strong criticism from the elders in the congregation and was ostracized and harrassed by some of the other wives for doing so, I felt it was just too much more to bear and I walked away from my entire community. To this day, I can’t imagine how they expected me to care for my family without finding a way to obtain a decent job. Except for my boys, I had absolutely no family near me, and no friends outside of the congregation… well, were it not for those neighbors.

We were poor — not broke, poor. I went from being a housewife and stay-at-home mother, and an active member of a full congregation, to a student and single mother of three boys (one of whom was an infant) without any friends or family around in the same month. We had no telephone. There were no cell phones in that day, no internet or email. In order to call my mother, I had to walk to another building in the apartment complex and call her collect on a payphone. I had no transportation. I had no money of my own. I had a neighbor drive the boys and me to the Department of Economic Security (DES) so that I could apply for food stamps and “welfare.” I was terrified, depressed, bewildered and overwhelmed, but determined.

My neighbors, and especially Ms. Patsy, leaned into me. It was EVERYTHING. They were encouraging, kept me company, and would even help me with the boys once in a while so that I could study for tests or finish homework.

In the morning, I would walk with all of the kids to take my oldest son to school about a half mile down the street. Some mornings, their father would pick up the younger two and take them to daycare a few miles away. Sometimes, I had to walk them. From there, I would go to school which was another half mile from our apartment in the opposite direction from my oldest son’s school. It was a lot of walking. But I was determined to finish this 9-month program that so many people worked hard to convince me was a ridiculous endeavor. At the end of my school day, I would walk back the mile to my oldest son’s school, and from there we would walk another two or three miles to the other side of the freeway to pick up his younger brothers from daycare and go home.

Spiraling

One morning in February 1993, our electricity was turned off for nonpayment. It felt like another hit, but I knew I had to get us to school so I put it out of my mind and told myself I would deal with it later that day. I left school a little bit early that day hoping to get a ride from a friend when I got home later to go pay the bill. It began to rain. I wasn’t expecting it and I was not properly prepared. It was very cold, and I had on my nursing whites, which consisted of white starched and creased pants and a white blouse, as well as my white nursing shoes and knee-highs, and a white lab coat. This is what was mandatory for us to wear to school back in that day. Thankfully, I had a decent winter coat left over from my days of living in California. So I hurried down the street to my son’s school, dragging a folded up umbrella stroller as fast as I could. It wasn’t raining super hard at this time, but it was cold and I was definitely getting wet. I picked up my son and we went on our way. He thankfully had a winter jacket that my mother had purchased for him, and put his hood on.

As we began our walk, it was still raining, mostly drizzling. By the time we had reached the daycare to pick up the two younger ones, it was pouring and we were pretty soaked. I bundled up my 4-year-old as best I could, and put my infant in the umbrella stroller. He had on a little sweater and sweatpants and had a blanket. As we began rushing as fast as we could towing a 4-year-old and pushing an infant, thunder and lightning began and it was raining so hard that I could barely see. When we left the daycare, I had draped my coat over my infant son to keep him warm and dry, but it was raining so hard that we were all wet. My lab coat and pants felt like a drape of ice. It was so cold. It was just SO cold! All I could think of was how cold I was, and how miserable this must be for all my babies. At one point, all four of us were crying. But we just kept walking. I don’t know what other choice we had! I was a mess. I could feel the mascara running into my eyes, and I was consumed with grief and fear.

It all just felt like too much that day. I had another six or seven months to go in school to finish my certification, and another month or more of cold weather. I didn’t feel like I could do it. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to quit. I thought about dying. But even that felt like too much to think about, and like a betrayal to my kids, to my mom. I felt like I was failing and letting my kids and myself down. I was lonely. I was tired. I couldn’t see for the life of me how I was going to make this work.

I was just so damned cold, frozen to my core, it felt.

By the time we reached our apartment complex, my face, hands, legs and feet were numb and burning with the cold, and I knew it must be the same for the boys. Our clothes and shoes were completely soaked through. I was scared to death that my kids would get sick and I wouldn’t be able to afford to take them to the doctor or have to miss school.

As we approached our building, all I could think about was laying down and just sleeping forever. And then I remembered… the power was off! This meant that I had no heat and no way to cook what little food we had.

THIS
  WAS
    ALL
      JUST
        TOO
           MUCH.

I had to walk past Ms. Patsy’s patio to get to the stairs to my apartment above. At the realization of the power and food situation, I burst into a wail. The kids were bawling. At that moment, Ms. Patsy came out onto her patio, hands to her mouth when she saw us. I just looked at her and could not stop crying. I was probably blubbering unintelligibly.

She instructed us to immediately come into her apartment. I didn’t even try to resist. We walked into her foyer, all of us dripping and frozen. She dumped towels over us, and went into her bedroom and retrieved a pair of sweatpants and large t-shirt and some socks. She handed them to me and told me to go into the bathroom and change. She said she would take care of the boys. I barely even recall what she put on them — I think it was just some T-shirts. I remember how relieved I was that they were dry and warm because of her. It was so warm in there, and it smelled so good! Something on the stove just smelled like love, warmth, and safety. And did I mention how deliciously warm it was in there?

Once dry, she sat me down on her couch and just hugged me and hugged me, ensuring me that this would be the worst of it all, and that everything was going to be alright. I wept and sobbed, and she just let me. She told me that she had grown worried about us when it started raining, and she had gotten in her car to come and get me from school, not knowing that I had left a little early that day. She didn’t know which way the daycare was and had driven around just guessing, knowing that it was somewhere on the other side of the freeway.

She had a small stackable washer and dryer unit in her apartment, and had thrown our clothes in the dryer. I sat there and told her how hard it had been, all the feelings and fears I had, about the power being turned off, about the woman at DES treating me so poorly once she eyeballed my biracial children, about leaving a whole community behind, about missing my mother, and she never once told me I was wrong or tried to convince me that there was something I needed to change or do. She just listened and let me hang out in my misery for a bit. She continued to listen until I had squeezed it all out of me.

She really took care of us that evening. She invited and insisted that we stay for dinner. She had made a big pot of red beans and rice and some cornbread. She had intended on bringing it up to us when we got home that day, but of course invited us to stay and eat with her. I have to tell you again — that was probably the very best pot of red beans and rice ever, and probably because it was made and served with unconditional love.

We were there for probably about three hours while I finished crying, while we ate and talked some more, and while we waited for our clothes to dry. She offered for us to stay the night there, but I was really wanting to get into my own space, and didn’t want to be any more of a burden to her. She told me she would bring up some red beans and rice leftovers the next day, and sent me upstairs with flashlights and $60 to pay for the light bill the next day, and an offer of a ride to get there. The boys and I all slept together in one bed that night under a pile of blankets with our bones and soles thoroughly warmed.

She saved us. She loved on us. Everything changed after that night. Well, maybe not everything, but something in my head clicked and felt better. It was a dark night of the soul for me, and she was the beacon that was right where and when we needed one.

Regret

I live with regret that I didn’t thank her thoroughly or say a proper goodbye when we left that apartment complex many months later — a decent farewell befit of such a gem. I only saw her once more after that when I returned to the complex to return a cradle that I had borrowed from a neighbor. I was in such a hurry all the time, living in this massive web of survival chaos and anxiety. I pray that from somewhere on the other side of the veil she knows the deep gratitude I have.

This memoir is the flowers and the grateful and loving words I wish I would have given her back then, our dear Ms. Patsy.

Love,
Debora

P.S. I finished school that August with a 3.90 gpa. I got my certification and completed an externship. I got a job. I bought a car. I missed my mother and moved back to my hometown 10 years later. My kids grew up. I have three grandchilden, three dogs, one cat, and one husband.

Aerial view of the complex where we lived. Outlined in aqua is our building, and our stoop is circled. The area in yellow is the area where our kids would play.

This is me at my graduation feeling very accomplished and excited for the future. It’s a bit blurry. What can I say, we didn’t have these fancy cell phones back then!

Charitable Birthday Fundraiser

I’m celebrating double 5’s this year! Spiritually speaking, this is quite an opportunity! Number 5 symbolizes God’s goodness, grace, and kindness, and I’ve got double, so I’m anticipating great things! I’m fortunate to not be in need for much these days, especially tangibles, but I remember well what it’s like to be in need and the constant worry. And as the saying goes, “There but for the grace of God go I.” So in gratitude and from my heart, I try to give to our underserved and homeless communities when I can, and however I am moved to. This year I am moved to increase Unity of Sacramento’s ability to provide through their Winter Sanctuary. I hope you will help me give them a little bump ahead of the doors opening. Believe me when I tell you that every little bit counts. Thank you in advance for anything that you can donate, and I would love it if you would also share this. 🥳 🙌🏻 ✌🏻 ❤

Campaign Text

For my birthday this year, I’m asking for donations to Unity of Sacramento’s Winter Sanctuary. If you’ve known me for a while, you know that each year I do some sort of charitable drive for our homeless population. I’ve chosen this nonprofit because their mission means a lot to me, they do a FABULOUS job and huge effort, and I hope you’ll consider contributing as a way to celebrate with me. Every little bit will help me reach my goal.

Each winter, Unity of Sacramento opens its doors for our homeless outreach campaign. We provide a hot meal, a safe place to sleep, and a breakfast-to-go in the morning. Prayer support is always available. Our congregation has been so generous in helping with donations of not only money, but necessities such as toiletries, socks, mittens, clothing, and many other gifts of love. And just like anything else, the more donations we receive, the more assistance we are able to pour out and into our homeless brothers and sisters.

Please help me reach my goal or even surpass it this year! Not only is it tax deductible, but it is a bonus for your spirit! PLUS… it makes me SUPER happy! 🙂

Learn more about Unity of Sacramento

Relationship Currency

Sometimes "Goodbye" Takes a Really Long Time

I hope the people that love me want to be around me. And I hope the reason they want to be around me is simply because they choose to for no other reason than they like who I am, or maybe because it is just easy to. I wouldn’t want a life where people cling to me because I have something to hold over their heads, or because they are too afraid of me for some reason, or simply out of nothing more than perceived obligation.
As I write this, my biological father is dying  —  possibly in his last few days. I will not go see him. This is not an act of defiance, revenge, meanness, or some measure of something like any of that. I realize it may seem like it to some, and I am fine with that. Mostly. I suppose they are entitled to their uninformed opinions. I no longer have anything to prove or figure out. I am not going because my father blew it, and he blew it really big, and more than once. I said my final goodbye to him a few years ago, and I was fully aware at the time of all that meant and encompassed. I still feel I am, but I am realistic enough to understand that full awareness won’t come until he is literally gone. So for now, I feel complete.
I am steeped in my thoughts, however. I find myself drenched in my memories of my angry, pissed off, self-righteous twenties; swirling around in my bewildered, self-discovering, transitional thirties; reminiscing and touching my transformational, self-loving, strengthened, liberating forties. But I am not really wanting to be here today — 51. At once, I feel I wouldn’t change any of it, but am left wondering how I could have changed some of it so that I could have wanted to be with my father. The word “Dad” when I refer to him no longer comfortably, naturally rolls off my tongue. His other children, my half siblings, made the trek from the East Coast to be with him. (We are in California.) They have somehow remained in his good graces. I shudder to think what parts of their souls they had to give up to remain there. Or perhaps they are cut from the same cloth. Perhaps it is a combination. It is just conjecture on my part, and I cannot honestly say that I know. Whatever the case, what I do know for a fact is that in order to remain in step with people, we have to be in some sort of agreement with them, spoken or not.
What I am left with is that it did not have to be this way, and that is the disappointing part. That burn is cooled by knowing there was nothing more that I could do — well, nothing more that I could do without turning into someone I wouldn’t like. I won’t sell myself short to assuage someone else’s control issues, or perpetuate their appetite for verbal cruelty, or live into someone else’s lies about who they think I am or should be. I will not change myself, injure my soul, in order to live into someone else’s needs for power. I will not ever succumb to lies told about me to help someone else look better and more powerful. I simply will not trek with that perpetuating party. So what I am left with at the end of the day, every day, is just myself. Me. And I have been okay with this for a very long time. The lie we tell ourselves is that we are left with more than that, and we try really hard for it to be more than that. When my father leaves this realm, he is going by himself. For all of the controlling and manipulating he has done for so long, and no matter how many might be by his bedside, he will be alone when he goes. That is the way of it.
I think I will always have this feeling of “it didn’t have to be this way” and “what an incredible waste of time.” It was not always this way between my father and me. I was “Daddy’s Little Girl” for sure —  the apple of his eye. I thought he was so handsome, so strong, so smart, so kind  — and then I got older and developed a mind of my own. I began to see things for myself, to hear things and understand what I was hearing from a more developed awareness. I grew my own voice, not of my mother’s or father’s teachings, but from my own thoughts. This was the beginning of a new relationship with my father, and it was one he would never accept. It was hard at first because I could not understand how someone so outspoken refused to understand why I would be so outspoken. Didn’t he see that he taught me to be this way? Wow, the irony! There is so much more to this of course, but it is pointless. Perhaps it will show up in another writing one day. So here we are.
Had I to go back and do it all over again though, I do not see it ending any differently. I can only move on and find the lesson. I do not subscribe to “everything happens for a reason.” I used to believe that, and then some terrible things happened, and I realized that a God of love would not cause terrible things to happen. The God of love that I believe in deals in “NOW.” So I understand that it is up to me to find the lessons for myself. Some are obvious immediately, and some come years later. But I will always be open, and I will always seek out the lesson even if it means creating one.
What I have learned in my 30-year (so far) inquiry is that I have to let people be who they are, just as they are. If I have something I want to teach or share, teach or share it gently, and only when it comes from a place of love —  never power or control. Some things I have learned from my father are because of him, and others are in spite of him. Others I learned from my mother in contrast. I have learned to use my voice, but I had to teach (and am still teaching) myself how to use it constructively and without force. I have learned to let my children be exactly who they are, even when I do not approve or agree. That leaves me free to just love them. I have learned that love does not have a price or a bounty. I have learned that it is my responsibility to show up for my children, no matter how old they are. I have learned that I cannot actually control others, and that I actually do not want to control anyone else. I have learned that I have no rights or responsibility over anyone’s happiness but my own. And… sometimes “goodbye” takes a really long time. 



Lastly, what I have learned is:

In our kitchen as a reminder. 🙂

and nothing more — ever.

What I want to leave you with is hope. I want the readers to know, because it may come across a certain way in a brief blog post that separation from my father was easy or perhaps a quick process, or like I just said, “F_ it,” and walked away one day. It was none of those, and neither was it ever the desired outcome. It was simply necessary. I suspect you may be thinking, “Where is the hope in that?” It is right where it has always been and has always belonged. It is within ME, just as for you it would be within. When we lose hope, we perpetuate the family secrets, the family lies, tragedies, violence, abuses, etc. When we realize the hope is within, as individuals, as separate entities, we begin to do life on our own terms. This is how hope lives, and this is how we change future family dynamics. Go love your people without terms, without contract, without force. You will get all that back exponentially.
Do you, but with love and kindness, and no other intention. It all works out without all the unnecessary pain and struggling.  The clue to when you are on the wrong path is when you are wearing yourself out (and possibly the people around you)!
Not nearly “The End.”
Debora Lynn