Читать книгу Dear Woman - Michael E. Reid - Страница 10

Foreword

Today is June 1, 2018, and it has been exactly three years, five months, and eighteen days since I originally released Dear Woman. Words cannot express the gratitude and humility I feel after receiving some of the testimonials from its readers. You are surely in for a treat. Thank you so much to everyone who has messaged me on social media, emailed, and stopped me on the street. All of your kind words and heartfelt praise are the fuel that still keeps my fire burning all these years later.

While we have a few pages before you get into my work, let me tell you a bit about myself. First, obviously you know my name is Mike. As I type this, I am a thirty-three-year-old African American male from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I am a proud product of a single-parent household. I was fortunate enough to have witnessed the struggle of watching a mother try to provide for her children alone at first hand. So, to those women who are currently living in that truth: I see you, I love you, and I pray for you daily.

I also have a younger sibling whom I love very much. My sister Charlonda is about four years younger than me, so in addition to being raised by a woman, I also had the amazing opportunity of attempting to assist in raising one. These responsibilities, which while growing up felt like handicaps to my own personal growth and development, are the pillars on which I stand today.

Witnessing those experiences firsthand: a father walking out on his children, a woman attempting to process and accept an unsuccessful marriage, a daughter trying to grasp why her father isn’t around anymore, were pains that I eventually turned into a beautiful purpose. So, to those who are struggling with pain today: fear not, for what you do with that pain can turn burdens into blessings.

I was in the third grade when my father left. Domestic violence, drug abuse, alcoholism, and infidelity were the wedges that drove my parents apart. Talking to my mother years later, when I felt we were both mature enough and healed enough to have a real conversation about it, she said, “Maybe if there were only one or two battles to fight, it could have worked.” Unfortunately, having so many holes in the armor of their marriage left her in a position of hopelessness. But instead of being the final nail in the coffin of her attempt at love and family, that hopelessness became a seed. A seed that our “new” family planted and watered daily with love, strength, God, and each other.

I did my best to be a good son—with a few bumps and bruises along the way, most of which were inflicted by my mom. At 5’5”, sometimes she felt as if the only way she could discipline her 6’2” 180-pound “man-child” was with an iron fist—and sometimes even an ironing board. This proved to be useful to a point. Eventually her discipline shifted to tough love by way of cutting her strings of support. As I got older, I was faced with having to fend for myself for the things I wanted. If I was grown enough to skip school, talk back, and miss curfew, I was old enough to learn how to provide for myself.

This form of discipline was tougher than any “beating” she ever gave me, but it was what most certainly catapulted me into manhood. I started off with summer jobs at the age of thirteen that continued through high school. By seventeen, as a senior, I was splitting my time between classes and a part-time job at McDonalds. Eventually, I had my first dance with the law; that put my dreams of being a nurse like my mother to the side. Two months before my eighteenth birthday, I found myself in Great Lakes, Illinois, with a shaved head, in sweatpants with no pockets. My juvenile status as a defendant coupled with my father’s influence as one of the most respected social workers in the city (how ironic) left me with the options of either being put through a series of rehabilitation services in Philadelphia or joining the military.

My 3.3 grade point average and SAT score of 1220 out of a possible 1600 gave me the option to choose which branch of the military I wanted to join. I chose the Navy. This was such a huge stepping stone in my elevation into manhood. The military taught me all the things that my mother didn’t, and that my father didn’t want to. To all those reading this who have also served our country, I offer my salute. To all the mothers looking for ways to rescue their own “man-child” from the ways of the world and of the streets, I would take a strong look at the military. The sense of honor, courage, and commitment to myself, as well as to something bigger than me, proved so useful to me and my future.

Fast-forwarding a little, after five years of award-winning military service, I found myself back in Philadelphia. My heart was set on pursuing my education as a healthcare professional and being the big brother and son that my family needed. That was the plan, until I had the bright idea of falling in love.

I have always been drawn to women, more so than to sports, school, hobbies, or video games. Growing up in the inner city in the ’90s, street corners were peppered with young men. I was in the house. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry—truly a renaissance man in the making. My mother’s schedule—student by day, nurse by night—left me with a lot of free time, time that I used to invite girls over. I thought it was cool that I could show off my culinary skills and attentiveness to them. They rewarded me with praise for my “from scratch” alfredo sauce as well as for my desire to hear all about their goals and dreams. As you can see, even at a young age, my desire to cater to women came long before my ability to write.

Writing came later. In the fall of 2011, I was three years into the most fascinating, heartbreaking, roller-coaster ride of my adult life to this day. I was in love. I was head over heels for the woman who for all three years of our relationship I thought that I was going to spend the rest of my life with. That feeling lasted right up until the day before I planned to propose. When we met, we were both college students, both broke, and both madly in love with each other. We spent 360 out of our first 365 days as a couple together. We made sacrifices for love almost daily. My dropping out of school to support our relationship and her being faced with the ultimatum of choosing between her mother’s rules and our love left us both giving up our pasts for our future. I wasn’t the man then that I am today. Immaturity, lack of guidance in the world of relationships, and the smothering type of love I gave ultimately put our fire out.

We loved each other enough to try and keep lighting the fire, though. The last few months of our relationship were a “Groundhog Day” set of attempts to rekindle the flame. But eventually, and unfortunately, the tears from the pain we caused each other made the wood too moist to catch fire. In a last-ditch effort to save our love for good, I took the remainder of my savings and bought a ring. It was too little, too late.

While I was trying to figure out the direction of my life, she pressed on and finished school. Her desire to practice law had been evident early on—the arguments we had as a couple were proof. Ultimately, the stress of trying to save a relationship while trying for a high GPA left her with few options for law school. To this day, I still take much of the blame. Fearful that her leaving to go to school in a remote place would prove deadly to our relationship, I planned to propose and make one last stand for our love. Unfortunately, I was a day late.

The day before I planned to propose, she took me to our favorite park, the same park where we would go for walks, have picnics, and even joke about having our wedding there. It was there that she told me it was over. That was the moment when I felt the deepest cut ever. Bigger that the absence of my father, more powerful than the blows of a mother attempting to instill discipline; in my ears, it was even louder than the helicopters and machine-gun fire of the military. Unrequited love was almost the death of me.

That night, I went to a gas station near my home and purchased thirty tablets of Tylenol. The thought of living without love was worse than living at all in my eyes. I took them. But before lying down for what I thought was going to be my last sleep, I called my mother, who had already lost her brother to suicide earlier that year. I told her what I had done, and my hysteria was matched by her thirty-plus years as a nurse. She told me to stick my finger down my throat and meet her at the hospital. I did not make it to heaven that night, but I did meet an angel.

I arrived at my neighborhood’s psychiatric ward a while later, filled with hopelessness and despair. How could I go on with life? I thought. It was then that a nurse with a ward full of people with illnesses far more emergent than mine gave me a tour of what her facility looked like, sharing stories of the patients she had under supervision that night. “You don’t belong here,” she said, in a voice that was both soothing and stern. She ended up giving me a journal, with the instruction to trade my pills for a pen. With that pen, I released my most prized possession—my heart. Three years and three books later, that heart wrote out what has been my most beautiful masterpiece to date: Dear Woman, a letter to women all over the world who also know pain, and hurt, and despair. May these words lead you when you feel you can no longer lead yourself.