Translation Please: My Love Language

This morning I was talking to one of my girlfriends about an incident that took place yesterday evening that had me upset and annoyed. It involved a man, mixed signals and Shake Shack. Don’t worry, the Shake Shack part was all good; I split some cheese fries and had a Chicken Shack with cheese if you’re curious. The food was better than fine. It was the company I kept that had me calling my girl to recap all the foolishness. In between my cursing and her completely agreeing with me, she asked:  “what’s your ‘love language’? Is it receiving gifts or words of affirmation?” I had taken Gary Chapman’s ‘The 5 Love Languages’ test years ago, but could not remember how I tested. I thought those two sounded good, but honestly did not know. It occurred to me that taking the test again, now that some years have past, wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Then I thought back to the conversation I had with my dad even earlier this morning, before the call with my girl. As my phone buzzed in my hand with John Coltrane’s Impressions (his unique ringtone) coming through the speaker, I already knew it was him before seeing Daddy on the screen. “MJ, you sad about Prince hunh?”, to which I sadly replied, “yeah”. “I’m gonna try to find that Chipotle coupon for a free burrito bowl. You want a bowl?” he asked. “Yes.” He said he would call me when he was on his way downtown and that I could “do the order” for him. It occurred to me, that is my love language. My dad speaks my love language. He acknowledged and predicted I would be shook up about Prince and gave me my due respect for crafting a mean burrito bowl. No translation needed.

After posting this I will take the test and see what my “language” is. If you want to test yourself, click here and share your results.

XOXO

Can I Get a Ride?

My car was recently out of commission.  I needed brake pads, rotors and calipers- I think, I'm not really sure what that all means, except my car was smelling and loud as hell when I drove it.  Apparently, my calipers (or was it my rotors?) locked and caused my car to feel like I was driving with the emergency brake on.  I was quoted a price for the parts and service and scheduled an appointment for this past Monday.  The cost caught me a bit off guard and I wasn't prepared to pay when I first got the diagnosis.  So for about a month, my car sat in my building's parking lot, un-driven.  For what had been at times a very inconvenient month, I schlepped through the city on bus, train or on the passenger side of whoever was willing to drive me wherever.  The rest of the time I spent in the house catching up on my DVR recordings (I had 'Tonight Show' episodes that dated back to the end of summer), cooking, eating and reading.  I had not been to the gym; I didn't just tool around town.  When I grocery shopped, it's my mom who usually took me.  Or my good girlfriend and neighbor would give me a lift on her way to work, and I rode the bus back when done.


Besides my car being out of commission, my budget has been hard to resuscitate as well.  Funds are low.  Through it all, I didn't complain, but rather exercised truth-telling and humility.  Asking for a ride to or from my mom's house is not always easy.  Informing your beloved book club that, although you would love to, you're unable to meet the group at Fig & Olive for the next meeting, but instead could host a brunch potluck at your place, is not fun.  It took me several days to muster the energy and courage to do so.  Yes, taking the bus and train everywhere, even on the weekends (I'm a public transportation commuter for work during the week) can give you that New York feel.  I think of all my New York friends who hop on and off subway trains to go to parties, the movies, meet friends for dinner, etc. and I think, 'You're being a baby.'  But I'm a South Side Chicagoan, where everything is spread out and not walking distance.  Plus, I am spoiled by organic, natural and specialty foods and products.  I find myself having a hard time buying my meats, cheeses and poultry anywhere other than Whole Foods or Trader Joe's.  I read labels obsessively sometimes, making it hard for me to just shop at any grocer in the neighborhood.  What the fuck is high-fructose corn syrup anyway?!

All of this put me in the position to have to ask for help and share my truth.  It tested my friendships and relationships with others.  I had to humble myself and say 'I need help'.  I hated it, but loved it at the same time.  Although I hated doing it, I love that people do care enough to help.  And it releases me from the unattainable goal of being a superwoman.  I stood blindfolded so to speak with courage, as I awaited someone's answer.  Yes or No- it seems simple enough, yet it was a real challenge.  But challenges are meant to be met, right?

I Was There

My 93 (or 94?) year-old Aunt Edith, and I share a steady written correspondence.  She sends me greeting cards for all major holidays including Thanksgiving, Christmas and my birthday.  I, in turn, send her 'Thank You' notes and postcards from my travels out of the country.  It is very nice and old school.  There is something about getting a letter or package in the mail that surpasses the feeling of an e-mail, text or social media update.

Last Monday, I received an Easter card from my aunt with a handwritten (always handwritten) letter enclosed on beautiful stationary (classic).  It was sent to my old address and forwarded by the Post Office a few days late.  Her cards are always early or on time.  Her letter was written in response to the postcard I had sent her from my recent trip to Paris (and Amsterdam).  She started the note by saying how happy she was for me, that I am able to take trips and "see other parts of the world."  She went on to say that during her "travels Blacks [were] not able nor interested in other parts of the world."  A nurse, by profession, she would save up her vacation days and "take a month off and travel over the U.S.A."  Aunt Edith, whom at the time lived in Chicago (she later retired to her hometown of Gulfport, MS) was able to cover the West Coast, Canada and part of Alaska.  She said she would compare the "different scenery".

Even though Aunt Edith is closing in on 100 years of age, which she will no doubt reach (our family has a history of living to the upper 90s; her dad lived until he was 111), she is still thinking of travel.  "I would like to take one of [those] Amtrak tours out West, that would be interesting to sit back and see the scenery. Smile."  An avid amateur photographer, she said she hoped I took lots of pictures.  "So one day you can look back [and] remember 'I was there'".  She ended the note with her usual "Love Auntie".  

I got misty-eyed when I read the card.  I truly enjoy traveling and take pride in my freedom to move around as I please.  But her letter made me understand how important it is to travel.  My Dad often tells me how when he and Aunt Edith discuss me and my latest trips, she tells him, "tell her to keep traveling while you're young.  When you get old no one wants to travel anymore."  In me she sees herself.  She is able to witness the evolution of the world, where as a woman, a Black woman, I am able to go where I want to go and see what I want to see.  In her, I see how golden life can be.  In a time when a lot of African Americans, and women alike were not educated beyond primary and high school, she received her nursing degree from Howard University.  She still drives herself around town and is an active member in her church community.  She has no children and I am still not clear on whether she has ever been married or not, but it (from the outside at least) has never been an issue.  Aunt Edith's life and encouragement inspires me.  She makes me want to live free in both mind and spirit.  She makes me want to travel more!

So in honor of my Aunt Edith, who doesn't even own a computer and who will probably never read this, here are some pictures from my Spring European holiday.  Enjoy!  P.S. Let me know what trips you have planned in the near future.

PARIS and PALACE OF VERSAILLE

AMSTERDAM