Let The Good Times Roll

He replied, “You are talking like a foolish woman. Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” Job 2:10

As of today, I've been unemployed for 16 months. That's 64 weeks. That's 480 days. That's a goooooooood clip. In that time, I have experienced the some incredible highs and some devastating lows. Highs - interviewed with the icon Madonna for an opportunity to run her non-profit. Yes, you read correctly. I literally sat across from Madonna in her apartment discussing her love for Malawi, her decision to start an organization, and her insightfulness on the gift of giving back. Lows - wondering if I have any skills at all when any and everything I've applied for has failed to materialize. My self-confidence has taken a beating - a thrashing - it has teetered on the edge of annihilation.

In my 39+ years of life, I've faced my share of Goliaths (as i'm sure you have too). Twelve years ago - I faced the Goliath of death. My mother never had so much as a cold until the illness that would claim her life came about. My mother was such a strong force that if cancer could be punked, my mother would have played the part of Ashton Kutcher. In my mind, in ALL of my family's minds, cancer didn't have a chance with Joan Chea. When it seemed that cancer was gaining the upper hand, my mother rallied back. She was on the mend. I had visions of my mother speaking across the nation about how the Lord brought her back from the brink of death. I KNEW this would happen. Of course He would heal her, why wouldn't He? Hey, I payed attention in my bible classes, in family worship - this guy Jesus WILL answer my prayers. That's what ALL of y'all told me. Ask and ye shall receive. Seek and ye shall find. I prayed, my father prayed, my brother prayed. Any and everybody we knew prayed, asked God for her healing and claimed her healing. Though she rallied, my mother would succumb to cancer thirteen months after its debut. I decided somebody lied to me.

In 2007 I faced the Goliath of disappointment. I met a little girl from Uganda - Jane Kemigisa. Jane came into my world as a client while I was working as an social worker for an international medical organization. Jane was orphaned under unimaginable circumstances. She was a precocious, curious, wise, chocolate drop. She was full of potential and possibility. A family stepped forward saying they wanted to adopt her but in the end they were unable to do all that was necessary to make it happen. Jane was going to be sent back to an uncertain future and the thought of that did not bode well with me at all. I stepped up willing to take the plunge into single motherhood. This little girl deserved a chance. I didn't have it all figured out, but I decided she and I would figure it out together. I jumped in, started to get my stroke down and suddenly was gasping for air. The opportunity to adopt this child was taken from me as quickly as it had been presented. At this point she had been living with me for six months. I was in love. I was heartbroken. I would later pack up all her belongings, board a plane with her and take her back to her homeland. I was devastated. Goliath had knocked the air out of me.

The Goliath of a broken heart has cut my tail so frequently that the sting has become familiar. He shows up at least once every couple years. Sue me, I'm a hopeful romantic. I've dealt with 'men' who have taken to me instantly - scented my life with compliments, texts, phone calls, promises of a future, what if's and the sort only to see it evaporate into the stench of manipulative propaganda. They have spewed copious amounts of....let me put it this way, it comes from a chicken but you can't make chicken salad out of it. I've dealt with the guy who didn't celebrate Christmas the year we were dating. But not until AFTER he received my gift of a cashmere coat. I've dealt with the guy who barreled full steam ahead into a long distance relationship with me (after I'd asked him if he was SURE he could do this) only to tell me two months later that he couldn't handle anything "heavy" right now, especially long distance. I've dealt with the guy who said he honored my stand of celibacy then got pissed and cut me off when I wouldn't give in. I've dealt with the guy who was the antithesis of support when my mother was in her final hours of life. How DARE I expect any support from him? We'd only been dating for a year at that point. If it weren't for my hopefulness, the word 'love' would take on the distastefulness of those other four letter words.

On the flipside - while I didn't get the job with Madonna - I interviewed with MADONNA - IN her apartment. I was flown to NYC, put up in a very nice hotel and was afforded the privilege of interviewing for an organization that is changing the lives of countless children in Africa. That opportunity showed me what was possible.

While my mother did pass, I was afforded the opportunity to work through some of the stuff that accumulates in mother/daughter relationships. I was able to give her flowers while she could still smell them. I came to realize what is REALLY important in the grand scheme of life. I was able to dot many of i's and cross plenty of t's.

While I wasn't able to become a mother to an amazing little girl - I was afforded the opportunity to play the role that was meant for me to play in her life. I gained real world experience in the world of parenthood. She was later adopted by an American family that has the emotional, spiritual and financial means to give her the life she deserves.

While I am still single, the men that I've gotten to know have exposed me to the world of politics, the culinary world, medicine, music, law, entertainment, marketing and lobbying (to name a few). I've learned a great deal about cultures from the good ole USA to Europe to the African continent to the West Indies. I've had incredible conversations, enjoyed side splitting laughter, outstanding meals, spine tingling kisses, wonderful trips an abundance of romance and have had plenty of smiles about what might be. All of those experiences have made my life richer.

In addition to the above I have had incredible life experiences that many would envy. To be fair, to be honest, and without question, my good/amazing/wonderful/life changing experiences FAR outweigh my bad. There would be no good were it not for bad. It is the ying and yang of life. I never EVER question why favor, blessings and good things come my way - but I weep and gnash teeth when the bad comes. Sounds a bit foolish, no? I'm with Job on this one.

Lumpia, Ballet, 66 Geneva & Jewish Summer Camps - A Child Grows In Frisco

For the record, no true born and bred San Franciscan EVER refers to the city as Frisco. I was trying to come up with a catchy title and the above rolled of my tongue with ease. Please forgive me my fellow San Franciscans :-)

The seeds that have mutated into my insatiable cultural curiosity were firmly planted as a little girl growing up in San Francisco. I've shared with you that my brother and I were born as American children to foreign born parents. This by in large translated to our world view being shaped in a very holistic, anti-xenophobic, inclusive prism. As the only black family in the neighborhood we lived in from 1977 - 2004, (when my father moved), our family was the victim of hate crimes, false accusations and plentiful stereotypes. Given that my parents grew up in black countries, the black vs. white dynamic didn't factor into their psyche. For the record, my mother thought Alvin and I could be ANYTHING we wanted. Case in point, it was clear maybe three months into my life that I would not grow to have a ballerina's physique, HOWEVER, my mother enrolled me in ballet classes. For that matter, she enrolled me in sewing, gymnastics and swimming classes. My brother and I progressed so far in swimming that as elementary and middle school aged children we were proud members of the Daly City Dolphins Swim Team. Every summer Alvin and I attended a Jewish summer camp - Camp Akavah. We were the ONLY two chocolate drops in the bunch. In no time we were able to recite blessings in Hebrew and developed a deep respect for the traditions and history of Judaism. My parents never had the opportunity to explore anything extra-curricular in their younger years. Shoot, the curricular in and of itself was a gift. What they didn't have they were determined to provide for me and Alvin.

In the late 70's through the mid 80's San Francisco Junior Academy was comprised of children whose backgrounds were among others - Haitian, Samoan, Japanese, El Salvadorian, Russian, Filipino, German, Hawaiian, Mexican, Belizean, Panamanian and Chinese. At school we were encouraged to celebrate and indulge in other cultures. Lunchtime and potlucks were an international smorgasbord. To this day I crave lumpia, chilaquiles and eso fafao, right along with roti and curry chicken. While my early school years were rich with diversity, monkey-bars, and the obligatory awkward adolescent moments they also featured rushing waves of social activism with the birth of the gay agenda in the Castro, remnants of the summer of love movement in the Haight-Ashbury, the election of Harvey Milk, the murder of George Moscone, and the numbing disbelief with the mass suicide of 900+ members of Jim Jones San Francisco based People's Temple.

I was raised in a mono-theistic, Judeo-Christian faith. Weekly church attendance was de rigueur - and to be honest, I didn't mind it one bit. While my childhood wasn't perfect and at times I begged and pleaded for God to poof my parents away and give me Heathcliff and Claire Huxtable in their stead - looking back I realize my parents did an exceptional job raising me and my brother. My parents weren't easy. Scratch that - my MOTHER in particular wasn't easy. If she observed me or my brother being wasteful she would remind us that "we weren't workin' anywhere". The luxury of "having our say" was non-existent. My parents were immigrants to this country and their lense was keen on priorities, values and opportunity. Having the latest anything was a joke. Anything superficial was....superficial. What I didn't realize then, but am well aware of now, is that what my parents gave me was a gift. They wanted my brother and I to focus on character, on education, on confidence, on the things that would propel us in life. They realized that the physical, the superficial, the accoutrement would catch up later. Now, I won't say that I haven't put in some time on a therapist's couch, I have. But all in all I am grateful for the role my parents played in me becoming who I am today - a Jesus loving, compassionate, cultured, comical, passionate, family loving woman.

My mother passed away in August of 1999 - she is not privy to these words and this acknowledgement. However, my father, 73 years young, a retired educator and Facebook devotee is. Thank you, Daddy for ALL you've done! For your love, your prayers, your humility, your example, your sacrifice.

*Question for readers: If the adult you are today were able to advise you as a 10 year old - what would you tell him/her? Have you connected the pieces to your life's mosaic? What epiphanies/revelations have you had?

The Refrigerator Door – Reflections and Revelations on Loss

The Refrigerator Door – Reflections and Revelations on Loss

The hardended piece of sharp cheese was like a member of the family. Every single time I would open the refrigerator door, there was that piece of cheese. Never covered quite right, it would invariably have a hardened exterior. I’d gotten used to eating it just like that. That’s how mommy’s cheese was, tough exterior protecting the good stuff within.

11 years ago this coming August, my mother, Joan Rosamond McLeod Chea passed away. My mother and I had a unique relationship. Unique meaning - tempestuous, loving, patient, impatient, understanding, totally void of understanding and 100% real. I have so many amazing memories of growing up the child of this dynamic, handsome, passionate, driven, principled woman. My mother was a social worker. She took pride in her job, she was dedicated to the task of reuniting families torn apart by abuse (sexual, emotional, physical). I remember my mother telling stories about marching into homes and extricating abused children from their parents. She spoke as though she was a lioness venturing into other dens rescuing neglected cubs. I remember that on more than one occasion my father had to talk my mother out of adopting a client.

As much as she loved being a social worker, she loved being a mother, a nuturer and wife even more. Domestic prowess was something my mother celebrated. I grew up in a home where a fresh, home cooked meal was prepared every night. EVERY night. Right after school, Daddy would take Alvin and I to a sundry of lessons; piano, flute, ballet and swim team. My mother was determined to have dinner ready by 5:30. So, as soon as she would walk through the door she would take off her clothes, throw them over the banister, pull her slip up (to provide a semblance of modesty), and would get to cookin’. Sure enough, we’d walk through the door to glorious smells of stew chicken, peas and rice, roti, pumpkin, you name it. My mother took pride in being a superwoman. Her example set the standard to which I aspire. I remember my grandmother dying of cancer, my mom serving as her main caregiver and still holding things down at home. Even with all that, dinner was prepared every night.

My mother’s presence was larger than life. If Joan Chea was in the room, you knew it. At her funeral, Pastor DJ used these words to describe her “Joan Chea did not practice deceptive diplomacy”. My mother was the originator of “keeping it real”. She called it like she saw it. While often times the sharing of her opinion wasn’t encouraged, she was respected because she was authentic and true.

I was there when she died. Mommy died at home, surrounded by me, my father, my brother, other family and church members. It was the sweetest bad experience I’ve ever lived through. We all sang “Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus” as she took her last breath. She died with her calling and election sure. While my mother is sleeping in Christ, her words, her compassion, her selflessness live in and through me. For months after she passed I would catch myself picking up the phone to share something with her and then would remember she was gone. I had my mother for 28 years, but given how mommy loved and lived it was more likely equivalent to 50 ☺. Fact is, truth is, we’re never ready for our parents to die. My uncle lost his mother at 94 and cried like a baby. There’s no way to prepare for it. Our minds can’t fathom the permanence of death. Irrespective of your theological beliefs regarding the state of the dead – when they’re gone, they’re gone. Floating above or not, they are no longer in live and living color. Mommy knew I loved her madly, deeply and I knew she loved me the same. Home was never the same after mommy died. The smells were different, her slip was missing from the banister and that hardended piece of cheese wasn’t in the refrigerator door. That piece of cheese was like a member of the family. Every single time I would open the refrigerator door there was mommy’s piece of cheese. Funny how certain things stand out. For me, it’s the refrigerator door and that cheese.