Maturity Brings Beauty (and Ugliness) to Light

Today, I had an oceanfront lunch at The Dunes Club in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. As I sat in front of the glass wall looking upon the beautiful Grand Strand seascape, I couldn’t help but take several deep breaths and wonder, how could I have ignored the beauty of the ocean for all these years.

Here’s the thing, I grew up in North Myrtle Beach, a mere 10 miles north of the hotel that I’m staying in this week. But I don’t remember anything of this vast beauty from my childhood. Did the seagulls just choose today to start crying out as they run from the rolling waves? Is today the first day the sea breeze decided to blow? Did the sun wake up this morning for the first time and decided to glow over the horizon? Surely not. Then why is it that, at the age of 37, am I just recognizing the true beauty of the ocean as if it has never existed before?

There is something about maturity that makes you see beauty where you’ve never seen it before. One of my fb friends said that now that he is older, he sees how beautiful the relationship his parents had was. “They really worked as a team, feeding off each others strengths and covering the other's weaknesses.”

Another fb friend said now that he is older, “I am glad I take time to know a person and to see that he/she is so much more than the physical being.”

Here are a couple more things that are beautiful that I didn’t recognize when I was younger: the blooming of flowers every spring; waking up refreshed after a good night’s sleep; getting a clean bill of health; having someone to confide in completely without fear of judgment; fresh peaches from the tree in my front yard; red wine; a simple, genuine smile from someone you admire; getting an apology you felt you were owed, rendering an apology that you owed someone.

Remember that person that you hated to see coming your way? There was something about them that just didn’t appeal to you. They were square; had no style; just plain boring. Now that you are older, you recognize beauty in the ordinary. You are not impressed with the flash and glitter. You’re just glad to have the calmness and stability that you need.

Remember that old car that was too loud; the one that you didn’t want to be seen in? Today, you’d be happy to drive a car that’s not very pleasing to the eye, but only takes $25 to fill up the tank, $220 a year in insurance, $13 in property taxes, and $0 in monthly payments.

Remember the huge, fairly-tale wedding that you just had to have? The one that cost you thousands of dollars to put on? Eight months later, now that you and your spouse are separated, you privately envy your friend who go married at the courthouse, has a wonderful marriage and is still in love.

Just like beauty, there is also something about maturity that helps you see ugliness where you never have before.

Remember that person that you admired and looked up to? The one you wanted to be just like? Now that you know them, you use them as an example of who not to become.

Remember that man/woman that you made you glow just to be in their presence? The one that you wanted so desperately to acknowledge you? Now that you know them, you wish you would have just admired them from afar because you see their confidence was a huge façade for their deep insecurity and neediness? They just ain’t the person you thought they were.

Remember that coveted career that you deserted your friends and lovers for? Now that you’ve reached your goal and have no one to share it with, you wish you could trade in a peg or two for the comforts of friendship and a family.

Growing up is funny, isn’t it? All the things you valued when you were younger, you find out have little value at all. And the things you took for granted are now the things that hold the most value. I guess maturity helps you see beauty in the simple things. It also helps you realize that everything that glitters ain’t gold.

Question: What object of beauty (and/or ugliness) did maturity reveal to you? Feel free to answer anonymously. If you are feeling bold, answer both questions about yourself!

Ode (or should I say owed) to the South Carolina Student Loan Corporation

Today, as I do most months (lol), I wrote out a check to the South Carolina Student Loan Corporation. As I added the two final zeros (trust me, degrees ain’t cheap), I couldn’t help but wonder some of the things I could do if I didn’t have make my student loan payments. I could:

Get the oil changed in my car ($125); Get my hair done by a real loctician ($85), Get some cosmetic dentistry ($250); Pay my credit card bills (too much to even think about writing down); Pay Tee Dee to give my house a good Spring cleaning; ($150); Replace the broken glass in my sliding glass door ($75); Go grocery shopping ($55); Take Chi Chi to the vet; ($125); Take Chester to the vet ($125); Go to Mint Julep’s for a few drinks and tapas; ($35), Go play golf ($45).

Although begrudgedly, I wrote out the monthly payment anyway and put it in the mail, because if I didn’t have the student loans, I would probably:

Be hunting a ride to go renew my bus pass; Be rocking a bright red weave that my cousin ‘them did; Be taking my gold grill out to brush my teeth; Not even care about the credit card bills; Spring cleaning? please; Hang a sheet over the sliding glass door; Be going grocery shopping with my EBT card; Be taking my children Chi Chi and Chester to the health department; Be going to Mr. Brown’s Seafood for a $5 fish sammich; Be hanging out at some ball court.

Not to mention: Be dumb, unemployed, and knocked up right about now.

So each month, I write that check, for this education, and all the success, opportunities and confidence that goes along with it, has a price.

God Bless the South Carolina Student Loan Corporation.

Are You There, Men? It’s Me, Teowonna.

This morning, I was almost on time for work. I've really been working on my timeliness ever since my manager gave me a soft reprimand during my annual review about three weeks ago. Since he didn't ding me for it, I feel like I owe it to his good spirit to try and change my bad ADHD, where-the-hell-are-my-keys, rush-out-the-house-at-the-last-minute habits. So far, I've made it to work on time a total of two times in the last three weeks. But today, I was almost on time… until I heard the flub, flub, flub of my flat tire.

After I pulled to the side of the road, I got out of my car with extra care as I had chosen today to sport my new, bold, crisp, bright white pant suit. So what we have four whole days before Spring begins; I've always walked to the beat of my own drum. When I walked to the back passenger side of my car and confirmed my suspicions, I let out a sigh. No chance of making it to work on time today. At least this time I have a valid reason.

I walked back to the driver's side, pulled completely off the road and popped my trunk to make sure my spare tire was in good shape. Just as I was doing that, I noticed a man approaching in a pick up truck. Great! My rescue was coming only within a minute or so of this damsel crying out in distress. Or so I thought. The man in the black work truck drove right passed me. My hopes rose when I saw him break his speed… only to diminish once again when I saw that he had slowed down to make a left turn. Wait… there goes his brake lights again. Maybe he's coming back. Nope…. Just making another turn. Dang it!

I put on my emergency flashers so that the next passersby will know that I actually need help. Within seconds, a man in an SUV drove by but he didn't even break his speed. Didn't even look my way.

Ok. Since the men aren't lining up to rescue me as I thought they would, I decided to go on to Plan B: Daddy. I called my stepfather who assured me he would be there within a few minutes. I thanked him and stood behind my car in my pristine white suit, looking pretty… waiting… hoping. Almost pleading with the men that were passing to stop and help me. About 12 cars passed, many of whom were men. But not a single one stopped.

Like all good daddies, my stepfather came and changed my tire. Within a few minutes, I was on my way to work, armed with a valid reason for my tardiness. But as I drove down the highway, I recounted my unfortunate experience. It really shook me. What is going on in this world where a man won't even stop to check on a woman who is obviously in need of his assistance? What is up with that?

Are you there, men? It's me, Teowonna. I am a woman. I am a lady.

I know I am awfully independent these days. But I am still a woman; I am still a lady. I do a lot of the things you normally would do; many of the things you should do. Yet I do them. Never the less, I am still a woman; still a lady. Even though I can and do take care of myself, that does not relieve you of the basic responsibilities of a man.

Is it so commonplace for a woman to take care of herself that you no longer have the desire to take care of me? Do you, in fact, not look my way for fear of being asked to help? I'm confused. So very confused. And scared!

Yes, I work… very hard in fact. Yes, I own a home and a nice car (which needs an oil change, by the way). Yes, I take a couple of trips throughout the year that I pay for myself. But guess what? I still need you. I still want you!

I want you because there is no one else in the world for me but you. There never has been nor will there ever be a substitution for you.

I need you for all the reasons women have traditionally have needed men. I need you for the love that only you can give. I need you for the protection that no one can provide like you. I need you for that spark for add to my life. I need you for the joy that your love adds to my heart.

But more importantly, I need you because God made me just for you. For no other purpose was I put here but to be a companion to you. So regardless of how much I money I make; how successful I become; how many times you hear me on the radio; how I strut my stuff like I'm the Queen of Sheba; please know my first and deepest desire is you; my most important job is to be a help meet for you.

But in that deal, you have a responsibilities too. You have to love, respect, and protect me. You have to be my provider. You have to come to my rescue when I need you. You have to kill the black snakes in my yard; change my flat tires; lay me down and hold me tight; defend me against those who speak ill of me. You have to save me from my own crazy, talk to much, way-over-the-top self. I need you to help me be the woman I'm supposed to be. I can't do it without you. Please, don't let me down.

Getting My Religion

Have you noticed that people don’t ‘shout’ in church like they used to? Remember when people used to ‘get happy’? I have very fond memories of my grandmother and all the older ladies in the church (and when I say older, I mean 50 or so) doing their dance almost every Sunday. I remember Aunt Flossie in particular. Aunt Flossie used to get the church crunk every Sunday with her own uncontainable exuberant dances that included heavy foot stumping and rhythmic clapping. For us children, that entertainment was reason enough to go to church.

Getting happy came in many forms… from jubilant dances in the aisles to pew-rocking jerks will sitting down. From audible cries with flailing hands to silent tears being wept in as a young mother swayed from side to side. I remember witnessing my mother dabbing her eyes with a tissue many a Sunday morning. One Sunday, I asked her why she cried. All she said was, “You will know when you get older.” She was right.

I remember church revivals being an electric time of the year. Where I grew up, young people were expected to ‘go down and get their religion’. For those of you who do not understand that old time Southern Baptist vernacular, ‘going down to get your religion’ was a very important time in a young person’s life. It figuratively meant you were old enough to recognize the importance of religion and God. It meant you were ready to proclaim yourself a Christian; ready to submit to the Lord. It literally meant going down to the altar. While on your knees, you prayed for forgiveness and invited, asked, begged the Lord into your heart and life. You asked the Lord to save your soul.

At my church, this happened usually during the annual revival while a crowd of other saved people gathered around you, praying and singing... kind of encouraging the Holy Spirit to come into you. And if he came, that was usually demonstrated by a jubilant dance, called shouting or ‘catching the Holy Ghost’.

I was 13 years old when that happened for me. I remember when my best friend, Erica Dewitt, and I decided that it was time for us to ‘go down’. And I prayed, confess, cried and invited the Lord into my life. And he came. It was quite a spectacle to behold.

My grandfather was the only person there to witness my getting my religion. I didn’t tell any of my family that I was doing it. I remember when my cousin Michael Lee went down; he told everybody! I can recall when he announced decisively and confidently to my aunt Vanessa, “Van, I’m going down tonight!” “Really, Mike!” She congratulated him with pride and satisfaction because he had officially come of age; he was old enough to make the decision for himself that he wanted to be a Christian.

I said all that to say this: Where is that good old-time religion? What happened to that good feeling of joy and gratefulness that lead you to momentarily leave yours senses and allow a higher spirit to control you to the point of dancing unabashedly?

When has the last time you heard a child outside of your household proclaim they are going down to the altar tonight, or going to join the church? It’s probably been a while. Do you even have a relationship with a child outside of your own in which they would share such with you?

A lot has changed in the modern church. Instead of driving a few minutes to church, now we drive 20 to 40 minutes because we don’t live in the same community in which we go to church. When we look around the church, we see familiar faces but we don’t know the names. And when church is over, we go home. There’s no more gathering around the front steps fellowshipping. Now we get in our fancy cars and go to Lizard’s Thicket for breakfast for fear of looking like gossips. Remember when there is an event at the church and the entire community came out? Now, mostly members come. The church used to be the center of our community. Do we even have a community anymore?

So, what’s the point of this week’s column? I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t one. I guess I’m just longing for the good old days. Thank you for strolling down memory lane with me.