Try, Try, Try Again

When we were children and we were learning the in’s and out’s of sports we were generally taught that losing is a part of the learning process. When we missed that final basket or failed to catch the football, we were encouraged to shrug the hurt away and to prepare for the next challenge. We learned very early on that life was like sports and that we had to continue to persevere even when things were difficult or occasionally painful. As children, we often fell down, we bruised or scraped our knees, we got scars and injuries like we were purposefully collecting them but we never gave up on playing. We were never discouraged from the simple pleasures of childhood, like climbing the monkey bars, jumping off the swings or playing hopscotch. Instead, we were told to try again, to wipe our tears and to know that it was going to be alright eventually.

As children we learnt to be truly optimistic about our possibilities. We knew with an unshakeable certainty that we were smart, that we were beautiful, that we were wonderful. We didn’t usually have to be told that our parents loved us, we knew that they did by their actions – when they gave us that last piece of chicken because we greedily asked for it; when they bought us that outfit for our special day at school even though they needed the money for something else or when they looked at us in that special way that embarrassed us in front of our friends. We didn’t question their love….. we didn’t need false assurances or platitudes… we just knew.

As adults, as Black women we were encouraged early on to be successful. We had already heard all the statistics, we knew that we would probably make more money than our husbands or boyfriends; we understood the realities of racism – we knew that our men or our sons would have to suffer the indignities of illegal searches, faulty arrests, unrelenting looks and judging stares – so we accepted our lot and we went to school, we committed to becoming that educated, independent woman so glamorized in Black literature and songs. We didn’t give up when we got that first bad grade in college or when we experienced first hand discrimination from peers, classmates or even that college professor. We didn’t shrivel up and melt away when we realized that once again we were being passed over for a promotion because we were too Black, too ethnic, too sexy or too vocal. We didn’t despair when we had to make a choice between filling the gas tank and summer school for our beautiful and deserving child. We just kept on keeping on, every day, all day. We believed in the power of perseverance, we believed in the struggle.

Yet, without exception, when confronted with the realities of dating and the hardships that come to us as we attempt to find that special person, we give up so easily. We lose someone we consider special and we do shrivel up and melt away. Or we do the opposite, we pack on the pounds – we self medicate with alcohol, chocolate or smothered chicken; we become bitter and angry; we start believing the hype that there are no good men out there. We see insult in every smile, we see injury in every kind word or deed. When we are in love, we are needy. We are not the self-assured, confident individuals we know ourselves to be and that we are usually. We require reassurance, we require guarantees, in fact we demand a money back guarantee. He tells us, I love you, we say prove it. He says, I need you, we say show it. We don’t believe his words, we see them as lies.

But there is a reality that we must accept …. there are hundreds of good men out there who would love to be with someone as wonderful and special as you and I. They dream of us at night and pray for us at bedtime. They see us walking by in our high heels and our slowly fluttering sun dresses and ache to be near us, to touch our soft skin, to be enlivened by our smiles. Yet, they despair when they see that anger on our face; when they encounter that sense of dejection and rage that bubbles so rapidly beneath the surface of our brown skin. They know that in our past some man, some fallible creature, has made a mistake. And they, while they would love to know us, pass us by because they refuse to suffer for his mistake.

There is no shame in loving and losing. We are human beings and our destiny since Adam has been our right to be wrong. The only certainty that exists in the world is the reality that we will fail at something at some point in our lives. For many of us, we must suffer the pain of rejection and loss as we battle for our happily ever after. Our human perfection lies only in our ability to rebound from travesty. Children who have suffered the most horrific of trauma and abuse can still smile and take joy at a birthday present or cake; patients who have terminal cancer can still enjoy music and “live life like it’s golden” despite the specter of a looming death sentence and veterans who have gone to war and seen combat can overcome the nightmares of their past and live again.

One of my favorite artists, Amy Winehouse, passed away on July 23, 2011, at the tender age of 27. She lived a short, tragic, brilliant life full of pain and heartache. Her voice was a miracle, full of passion, soul and raw talent. Her death taught us many things, much more than the usual “don’t do drugs.” Her death teaches us to live life as if each day is our last and that death waits for no one, the rich, the pampered or the beautiful.

There is no reason to stay caught up in the anger of past betrayal or the agony of past lost.

We can love again.

We can hope again.

We can believe again.

We can dream.

In fact, we must…… because if we do not, we will indeed shrivel up and die.

We must try, try & try again!