Power of I AM: A Journey to Self (eBook)

CHAPTER ONE:
The Power of Roots

“A plant will only grow if the foundation is loved.”
- Jasmine Mosley

My grandmother had the most elegant hands and sweetest tunes. She was always humming her favorite gospel song while marching throughout the house. I loved her hands because as she played the piano, her pink nails, voice, and presence all worked in harmony. She had an essence I always admired. Looking back, I now realize the confidence, grand style, and peaceful attitude of my grandmother greatly impacted my life. As a child, I didn’t realize how much I truly valued her, until I could no longer hear her voice. The roots she provided were strong. Through her, I learned the importance of love and kindness.

My life has not been easy, but when I think of responding to this world’s abuse with anything other than love, I remember her spirit. As a southern, African American woman born in 1920, her life inherited adversity. Jim Crow was the era and the legal act of segregation threatened her very existence. This reality, however, did not stop Ida Maude Wolfe Ross. My grandmother, affectionately known as Mother Ida, not only survived but thrived. She was an ambitious woman and an educator who rose to become a school administrator, community leader, and philanthropist. However, her most important role was being a lover. She did not entertain hate, and neither do I. Through her teachings, both directly and indirectly, I learned how to outsmart my enemies with love.

My foundation is strong, but it would be false for me to exclaim that every root remained untainted. I was forced to rebuild certain strands because just like you, the lessons I learned as a child were tested.

The Path to Greatness Can Be Halted by Roots That Are Weak.

Before middle school, life was seemingly perfect. I held only positive opinions about my image. I was a quiet, yet imaginative child who enjoyed singing along to my favorite R&B artists, cheerleading, and tackling the summer with bike rides around the neighborhood. Swimming until my hands began to crease with my cousins was like heaven. My friends were just as carefree. If we liked the same cartoon or shared the same appreciation for Limited Too, you were instantly added to my list of friends. My career goal at the time was to become an Obstetrician-Gynecologist because I cherished babies and obsessed over TLC’s birthing show, A Baby Story. My life was uncomplicated. However, as I marched out of my fifth-grade graduation and into the arms of my family, I felt a sense of sorrow. I could not comprehend the emotion at the time, but I’ve learned over time that the heart is a visionary organ.

I arrived at cheerleading tryouts just as spring began to bloom during my sixth-grade year. Cheerleading matched my personality like a glove. Since the age of nine, I knew that the sideline of a football game, the hardcourt of a basketball gym, and the cobalt blue mat of a competitive cheerleading competition was where I was called to be. Cheerleading was a gift, so as I began middle school cheerleading tryouts, I knew years of experience would serve me well. Also joining me in the quest to become a cheerleader was a friend from elementary school. We were both excited about this new world. As we sat nervously on the gymnasium floor waiting for our names to be called as new members of the team, I caught a glimpse of my mom waiting behind a glass door. My name was called first and my jaw hit the floor. I was surprised that I had outscored the upperclassmen as well as my fellow classmates. I stood proud and elated, smiling back at my mom to signal I had made the team. As I waited for my newly announced team members to join me, I watched as my friend’s mood transitioned from hopeful to disappointed. Her name was never called. It hurt to see disappointment riddled on her face and while my heart sunk for her, it beat joyfully for myself. It was the end of the spring semester and practice wouldn’t start until late summer. When I returned to school in August, my “friend” abandoned our friendship, a cowardly approach to jealousy. If only she knew the ground I toiled to meet this moment. Determined to savor my victory, I allowed the hurt of her abandonment to pass quickly, for my sole focus was the team and the mark I could make.

As school began, so did cheer practice. I loved the art of cheerleading but despised its unspoken rituals. Hazing in sports is quite customary and in most circumstances expected. The youngest members of the team endure rough conditioning and harsh treatment from veterans. I have never been dumbfounded by this fact. However, as a natural-born peacemaker, I found harassment despicable. In the first grade, I stood up to a pack of baby bullies in defense of a classmate who struggled with childhood obesity. He was a soft-spoken little boy, tormented daily for simply eating lunch. I decided I would fight for him and oversee that he enjoyed his meal in peace each school day. At the end of my fifth-grade graduation, I overheard a group of classmates sharing jokes about a “big man” walking their way. We were standing outside of a church, waiting to reunite with our families, and without looking, knew my classmates were speaking of my father. I took one direct look into their eyes and immediately received one apology after the next. Without using words, I held the uncanny ability to communicate the love and protection I held for my family. I despised the degradation of others before I knew what those words meant. So as a new member of the squad, where there were fifteen veterans against three rookies; the hazing odds were not in my favor. My core beliefs would be tested.

Cheerleading, my favorite sport for more than a decade, was where I blossomed. I may have been a rookie on the squad, but I was a cheer veteran. My passion and talent should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t. Middle school presented my first pit; a low place designed to birth self-determination and strength. However, it would be many years before I understood the power of the pit. When a person wants to diminish you, they’ll prey on your weakness. My perceived shortcoming was that my body type was the antithesis of a cheerleader. My physique threatened the standard, one in which neither myself nor my teammates could meet. As I scanned the room we were all southern girls with various curves and definitions. So, how could my body be the team’s ruin when surely there were girls taller and wider? Was body comparison the game or belittlement? Either way, I lacked the depth of knowledge to decipher the difference, so there I was shrinking right before my very eyes. Week after week, I endured relentless vulgar remarks from veteran teammates. From head to toe, all of who I was and some of what my body had yet to become was harmfully dissected one practice after the next. The message I constantly received was that I wasn’t good enough. Teammates whose bodies contrasted mine were celebrated for their thinness. It was dangerous messaging for a young mind to receive. Their words defined me before I could find myself. At first, I hoped the hazing period would transpire for a short season, ending at the turn of fall to winter. As the seasons changed, my fellow rookies and I could finally solidify our place and move on. However, as the months flew by, I felt something deeper brewing amongst my teammates; I sensed hate. I understood there was a hierarchy to establish but I didn’t expect such a potent amount of venom. I believe what began as reckless banter turned into visible, tangible hate. In the seventh grade, I did not have the foresight to see this coming.

I was a young girl whose talents were boundless regardless of size. In hindsight, I should’ve defended myself, as I had once done for others, but somehow this offense clouded my judgment. I was empty of ammunition to silence my critics and my hurt feelings became a sort of god. Unfortunately, I couldn’t rely on my rookie teammates to help because they too endured their own forms of bullying. Before middle school, I had never been in personal conflict with anyone. Jealousy and rage were so foreign to me that I lacked the training to defend my twelve-year-old body. Finally, my spirit grew tired. One afternoon, following another grueling practice, I decided it was time to end my love affair with cheerleading. I loved the sport, but not enough to sacrifice my mental wellness. As we packed our bags to leave the school building, I approached my mom and relayed the news. My decision raised her eyebrow, so she proceeded to express concern by asking, “What’s the matter, you love cheerleading?” I shyly explained that I was having a tough time fitting in, so we tracked down my coaches to deliver the news. My two middle school coaches were vibrant women and unexpectedly nice. A difference from the military-style coach who crafted my cheerleading skills years prior. During our conversation, I articulated how I felt in the best way I knew how. When I was done speaking, both coaches stood before me stunned by the notion that their cheerleading team was full of hateful bullies. As women who remained joyful and caring not only as coaches but as teachers, they immediately boycotted the idea of me quitting. They both begged me to stay and promised to enforce some character changes upon the team. A few days later, they sat the entire team down for a conversation that inspired even me. Their devotion to making the team a safe place for all to cheer encouraged other teammates to speak up about their personal grievances. I learned I wasn’t the only person battling in silence due to the toxic environment created by the veterans. Having the coaches on our side mattered and for a...