Make Lemonade

by Yolonda D. Coleman (c) 2024

I chose Georgia as a font today, because it reminds me of the day I traveled unknown roads to a place of safety in Powder Springs. I type this to you, my grandchildren, as an expression of love not out of pain. When my mother died, I had not known how much life would be squeezed out of me until months later, but the universe set things in place for me to pick up the pieces yet fallen so that the blow would be soft. 

It was beautiful knowing that our neighborhood Marine organized a motorcade for my mom's farewell ride through Orange County, Florida. I cried seeing just how much she was loved...that others loved her as much as I did. Caring cousins packed their children in cars and headed back to North Carolina. Train tickets were exchanged for seats as uncles and aunts traveled back to D.C. Supportive friends and other family members made their flights back to New York and Connecticut. One person stayed behind to "kick it" just for a moment before the truth set in. With so many expressions of love, I still could not stand the silence of the aftermath of my emotions. Your Auntie Rock was the first person I ran to when the silence consumed me. I sent an instant message with a 24-hour notice. She said, "Come on!" ...and so I did.

My Hyundai and I traveled unknown roads during a time when it was safe for a brown girl to do so without the stress of being pulled over for Driving While Black (DWB). The compact discs (CDs)  in my passenger's seat were my companions. A bottle of Coke and a bottle of water were all I needed to make the trip without stopping; I was on auto pilot. It was like God picked me up from cousin Kevin's condo in Tampa and set me on the doorsteps of the two-level home that would be my resting spot until I could gather the remaining pieces of my existence. My outlet was writing, and Auntie Rock let me do that without judging me for running away. I don't remember eating off anything but my words.

The moment I took a breath, I noticed a field of four o'clock flowers growing on a walk through Auntie Rock's neighborhood. They took my breath away because of all the floral gifts God could show me in that moment, He allowed me to see my mom's favorite flowers. I knew, then, things were going to be alright. This was the first step to understanding how to navigate life without my mother. There has been so much loss that I became numb, but I could not cry. My tear ducts closed after my breakdown in the bank line at Safeway on Good Hope Road. Good...Hope...is all I had left after the last tear dropped.

Life hurls lemons. They are not tossed gently in our direction; they are thrown with fury. How we respond to the gust of wind that comes with the impact reveals who we are and what we are becoming. You might start out zesting your lemons on days that aren't so tough. You may use a paring knife to peel the lemons when you have to exert just a little more strength as you face your giants. Ultimately, you'll learn to halve your lemons with a butcher's knife to slice hard and fast with one hand and catch the juicy fruit with the other. NOW squeeze, my grandchildren. Squeeze them with all the breath you have inside you to make lemonade. You're the sugar that sweetens the bitter. When things calm down, take your power back and grow your own lemon trees to change the narrative. Sit and enjoy the love of our ancestors who will surround you around the clock in four corners of your life through happiness, joy, pain, and grief. Then you are charged to do four things: Dream. Sip. Create. Give thanks.

Love, 

Mama Ife 

The Homecoming Kiss by Yolonda D. Coleman

A Coffeedreamz Experience Presents "The Homecoming Kiss" by Yolonda D. Coleman
AI Art Created by Yolonda D. Coleman

Chapter 1: Breathing in Autumn

An Excerpt from Chicken and Dumplings: Life is Meant to be Savored

           Starting Over and Letting Go: I'm a Rough Draft on My Way to Becoming Excellent

                                                           (c) 2023 Yolonda D. Coleman                                          

As much as I enjoy driving myself around, I love riding shotgun on long-distance trips. Put me to sleep while driving me to a vacation spot so I can awake to a nice stretch. On an autumn ride from Boston, I decided to stay awake and double-strand twist my damp hair. My boyfriend, at the time, made the drive from MA to MD in eight-hours flat. Even if there were potholes, he missed them in his Toyota 4Runner. My hands were steady and the ride was smooth. I had Dale's red detangler comb and a jar of hair gel. I was in the process of "going natural" because I had sworn off relaxers and perms, for the moment. Twisting my hair was self-care at its best. I later learned that letting go is the best self-care for everyone.

In 2002, I started experiencing some scalp discomfort. I ignored the dermatologist's warning that hair loss would progressively get worse over time; I was given at least ten years until my "permanent part" would widen in surface area. I ignored the doctor's orders to wash my hair in cold water and to stop applying heat to my hair. In fact, in 2005, I got a relaxer and a color because I was likely mourning my mother's death and needed a new face; I was going for a black Cuban look. It apparently worked. My bone-straight bronze hair was a great contrast against my coffee skin. I was feeling myself a bit when I walked the strip in Miami. A local resident began speaking to me in Spanish. I was able to speak a bit, but I tapped out beyond regular pleasantries. The hair was doing its thing, but it came with a price. I couldn't keep up with the look, and my skin began to betray me like that of the speaker in Audrey Lorde's Hanging Fire.

Psoriasis, folliculitis, and eczema, were my enemies. It was the constant itching, cracking, and bleeding that sent me to seek medical attention; it was recommended that I get steroid injections, inflammation pills, etc. I neglected the appointments because, hey, I still had hair and was able to get the symptoms under control. I didn't go back to perming my hair, but I did flat iron the hell out of my follicles WITHOUT heat protection (didn't know). Over time, my thick hair became thin like tiny wires.

 After giving birth in 2015, I experienced some postpartum hair loss. It was nothing major, so I thought. From time-to-time, my sorority sister, J9, blesses me with head massages before she plays in my hair. She always sets me up nicely. However, in 2016, she braided it, but I noticed there was a one-inch gap between each cornrow. "This can't be right," I looked at my reflection in the mirror while inspecting my hair. It was indeed a problem happening before my eyes. It was back to the doctor's office. This time, I saw a trichologist and was diagnosed with a condition called CCCA (Central Centrifugal Cicatricial Alopecia). I was going bald. 

Geesh...the one thing that identified me in a crowd was cramping my style. I hid my hair loss behind wigs, wraps, and Kanekalon ponytails in public while feeling ashamed and embarrassed in private. There were silent tears, embarrassing moments, and times I hated looking at myself in the mirror. I can say now that I had some depressing moments, but my miracle child always affirmed me each morning.

"Mommy, you look like a princess. You're the most beautiful mommy in the world," he would say with innocent fawn eyes. His unconditional love pushed me out of my sadness; and when the band stopped playing at my pity party, I started to educate myself on natural ways to stimulate hair growth with essential oils and black soap shampoo. I took vitamin supplements as well as Dr. Melanye Maclin's Bellanurti products to work from the inside out. I shared my journey with my online sister-circle; and they secretly raised money for my new path to a healthier scalp. Once I had all my tools, I called my kitchen "The Lab". It's not just for cooking; it is for all kinds of creations that inspire joy. I began creating my own products for my hair and my skin. When the pandemic hit, I started growing some of my ingredients as well. 

Although I was able to see progress with my hair, the areas that showed no growth were a source of frustration for me. I needed to free myself from negative memories attached to my hair. On what would have been Malcolm X's 94th birthday ('94 was an amazing year btw), my husband at the time, was kind to honor my request to shave all of my hair off. I mean Okoye from Black Panther off--full on baldhead small head off.  It all had to go in order for me to start again. In order for me to truly realize, I am NOT my hair.

The liberation that came along with letting go was magical; it was like an instant relief from life's weight off my head, societal approval, judgment from nonconformity, and the pressure to be perfect. I had to learn to stop fitting into a mold and be the mold. I had to face the harsh reality that letting go of a few more elements were necessary in order for me to be a better version of the woman I was becoming--insecurities, fear of not being good enough, anxieties, and pride. Unfortunately, I even had to let go of my marriage--a mutual, amicable decision that began with a separation two years ago. 

Growing as a result of letting go has been both a struggle and a most exhilarating experience. I learned to be gentle with myself as I prayed, kicked, and screamed in rotation; it is a daily process.  Time is the only thing you can't get back; don't lose it by wasting it. LIVE and let your light shine. Losing my hair was a small inconvenience in comparison to losing my health and my sanity; I had to preserve both. Cutting off my hair allowed me to begin again...to see my full face. I learned to smile with no regrets. I saw me so I can now see me.

I am excited about all the things I've gained even through my losses. Freedom and peace are my currency. My hair did in fact grow back after having Sisterlocks installed. It is not the same mane as it once was, but it is what I am proud to call my own. I'm growing into a new woman with an edge that needs no baby hairs. The new antennas attached to my head make me alert as I pick up wavelengths that add to my life rather than tear away at my spirit. This time, I'm not going to just ride shotgun; I'm going to sit in the driver's seat when I see fit. This next chapter will be a nice ride.

How will you grow in your next season? Please share. I want to know as you grow.

Love you! Mean it!

Yolonda Denise


If you're in the Charlotte, NC area, check out Karmelita Stevens for trichology services. https://bit.ly/hairrehab.

 

The Black Hole: Swim Your Way to the Truth by Yolonda D. Coleman (2023).

How could I be "fine" and drowning all at the same time. Since my biological parents died, I swam through a black hole that choked the life out of me while searching for my truth. As much as I felt elevated, I was breathing through tiny holes of life's shrink wrap. Slowly things I loved were taken from me; I learned that nothing is sealed tight--family, physical beauty, talent; they could vanish like follicles falling from the crown of our heads. I was once fierce and unafraid walking through alleyways in the middle of the night in D.C. to get home. However, the more I lived, the more I began to take on the fears and insecurities of others that I became unrecognizable--even to myself. In my mind, I was the crust of the world, and my shine was being buffed away like muted tones of a brass band. I stopped living out loud. I was burrowed. 

...then 47 hit. Oh, baby! It hit like a Thunder Cat's roar! That light started teasing and taunting me to follow it like a childhood friend. "Come on! Let's go play" it whispered in a dark moment. "God's got us! Just jump in!" ...and into the light I jumped. The black hole is afraid of me now. It's afraid of the purpose I was given since I was hidden in a 14 year-old girl's womb. It is afraid that I'm going to truly affect the lives of little girls and little boys who lack confidence in my classes. It's afraid that my archery game is so sharp that I WILL NOT MISS! I even made it afraid of the son it tried to kill before his conception, during my pregnancy, and 11 months into his life.

It's time to fly as we all remember who, whose, and WHAT we are while refusing to believe someone else's version of us. Let's get it done!

Archived Stories with a Present Twist: Chasing Rainbows

Chasing Rainbows

Captured at Pinefield Park in Waldorf, MD on in 2008.

My sojourn to and from home includes a road of trees that is connected to Washington, D.C. and two different counties in Maryland. The nation's capital, with all its magnificent intentions, was dark and gloomy as the rain poured down on one particular day. I all but cried when I saw the adult faces of despair staring back at me through rolled up windows; but I found joy in looking at rain drops skip between my windshield wipers; they were my entertainment. The rain and the wipers were engaged in a game of catch while I waited my turn to move yet 
another inch in the traffic.

No sooner than I crossed my county line the rain stopped. To my left, just before reaching a Wa Wa convenience store, I noticed colored patches arching through the sky.

"No way! Could it be?" I asked myself while turning down the radio as if silence would bring about an answer. Strangely enough, it did.

I closed my eyes and rolled them around to adjust my contact lenses, to make my vision more clear. I did in fact see two rainbows.

Ever ready, I quickly grabbed my camera out of my purse. Click! Click! Click! I got a shot of them, but I wasn't satisfied. The rainbows continued posing in the sky as I made a left turn into a neighborhood I had passed so many times before but completely ignored---until this day.
I snapped again. This time, I was caught in action. The passengers in the car next to me saw what I was capturing and decided to take a picture of the rainbows too. They wanted memories in color.

I pulled over as I was in the way of passersby who mechanically followed the road to their homes, to their driveways, to a life that was so routine that somewhere along the line, they stopped dreaming. The steering wheel of their cars often felt the pressure of their hands on ten and two because that’s what they believed was the only way to drive through life. My detour home proved one thing.

Click! Click! Click! There was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Instead of a Leprechaun waiting for me, I was the one holding the pot...and tasting the rainbow of my dreams. No matter how many days pass in my adult life, I have to remember to dream. I have to remember to sip the different flavors of life. I have to create a way for my heart’s desires to show the rest of the world that through the rain, through the storms, there’s always something more colorful than darkness.

Here's what I know for sure. At the time I saw the double rainbow, I was single and I did not have a child. Eleven years I watched our son play on that same field where the rainbows made their appearance.



Dreams keep us alive. Like those refracted and reflected lights from the sun, we should all be parading in our colorful dreams so others can see the possibilities of those things that seem impossible. Let your light shine in all colors! Take a detour and follow your rainbow. Follow your dreams.

Hugs and smiles,

Sips with love,
Ms. Coffeedreamz #coffeedreamz38 www.yolondacoleman.com FOLLOW ME: Instagram @coffeedreamz38

Twitter @Coffeedreamz Facebook @coffeedreamz38 This post is sponsored by Felicia Watkins-White, real estate agent. (301) 535-7639 Instagram @felicia.white.1675 Facebook @felicia.white.1675

It Was Always Good to Come Home.

Kenny shares a smile with a former Banneker 
student on summer break (2019).

Disclaimer: I am a Hampton graduate, but before I matriculated at my Home by the Sea, the first HBCU I frequented was Howard University because I attended Benjamin Banneker Model Academic College Preparatory Senior High School--it was right across the street. I also served as an intern at Howard's WHUT-TV during my junior year at Banneker, and I conducted research for my high school thesis paper at the university's Moorland-Spingarn Research Center. As a result, this disclaimer is to make it known that I am a supporter of all institutions of higher learner that support and groom students to explore their ambitions. Please be clear, however, my loyalty is to my pirate blue and white, but I am here to celebrate success no matter the location. In the words of Dr. William R. Harvey, "Let's get on with it." I hate that I had to do this, but the INTERNET...sigh.

I am convinced there is a formula for success--pray and collect or reject energies. Oh yeah, and go where people know your name. As I enter nearly 27 years as a Banneker alumna, I also celebrate the  community involvement that the Howard Deli provided over the years--33 of them I can account for. Due to the pandemic, it has closed its doors, but it's legacy will live on in the hearts of patrons forever.

The Howard Deli, or what my classmates and I called "Kenny's" was a place where we started the day
with a warm blueberry muffin that blanketed the anointed butter that slept in the middle of it or a warm bagel with generous portion of cream cheese. It was also our go to spot for lunch. Even when  the District of Columbia Public Schools (DCPS) eliminated "off-campus" lunch in 1992 due to senseless violence,  Kenny, "Pepi" and Frankie Diaz immediately developed a plan to feed our need for made-to-order sandwiches. Before Uber Eats, before Door Dash, before Grub Hub, we had Howard Deli--pay for our order before 9:05 a.m. and have it delivered at lunch time. It was a plan that worked.

More important than feeding our teenage bellies was the consistent support Kenny and his brother Pepi provided the students at Banneker. They were our community advocates. While celebrities stopped by and offered autographed pictures to be placed on the walls of the deli, the real stars were the students whose names, year after year, were listed as they achieved a milestone--acceptance and matriculation at a college or university. At Howard Deli, we soon realized that we were more than a paying customer. We were part of an extended network that kept rooting for us. It was a home that nurtured our dreams and ambitions with smiles, listening ears, and a big 'ole hug either when entered the door and as we departed.

Want to know what community should look like, see the model that made a difference in the lives of the students at the neighborhood school where 96% of the students are African American, Latinx, or Asian. No one ever feared judgement. No one ever felt anxious. Everyone felt validated, encouraged, and loved. It was always good to come home even after the ink had dried many years after graduation. At the Howard Deli, we were ALWAYS family. It is a place where our aspirations were shared and celebrated and our names were NEVER forgotten.

Thank you, Kenny, Pepi, and Frankie Diaz, for your service to the community that will never forget your names.

From the Archives: My Dreams Stand on Your Shoulders: A Tribute to Langston Hughes

I fell in love with you, risk taker and dream maker. At five, I didn't know I traveled in your Simple footsteps when wearing my red and white sailor suit. The Metro took me to the zoo that was located near the work site of a busboy who was discovered as a poet. It was you, injecting me with your spirit. It was you who touched my foot's sole solely to encourage my soul.

I fell in love with you when I was 12 and introduced to you by name as a voice in the Harlem Renaissance. My uncle Que and Aunt Sue gave me my first type writer, and I pecked away. You were on roster as I took my classes. I was overwhelmingly pacified by Zora when I was 13 as her Eyes Were Watching God, but even Janie's story wasn't the end of my love affair with you. I kept digging for the heart of your existence. The same family pair pushed me toward you in this arranged literary marriage with a gift to strengthen my ties to you.

I fell in love with you when I was 21 and crossed the sands of Delta. It was clear we were connected. We now had Coleman Love in common. My engagement ring of thoughts were peaked. It was at 22 Aunt Sue further invested in me and put me in a position to get closer and closer to you. I was given a hand-crafted desk so I could begin to write...like you...see my dreams unfold. It was when I volunteered with Jeree at the same hotel where you were discovered that you baptized me with your essence.

In 2001, the Dream could no longer be deferred. I married you and began to build a family of children with you with recitations of Harlem, while introducing them to Lorraine, and making songs about your friends in the 1920s. It was during this time, God sent two darlings, Rachel and Rachelle who spoke clearly of what you taught me. They told me to stop teaching and write my book. Thus, the Sugar Rush series was conceived. They spoke your truth. They are our children.

In years later, you continued to be married to my fingertips, my heart, mind, and soul. You showed up on my realtor's book shelf when I was 26. I met the Tingling-Clemmons family and saw the Big Sea in their collection. I met their son who was named after you. I cannot deny you, I will simply love all that you have been in the world and unselfishly share you. In 2019, I wrote a poem to welcome a prince who will one day be king. He has your name. You continue to live on and I can't let your memory go.

You are my literary love. You are the Director of Dreams. You are Langston Hughes, the voice, the face, the heartbeat of my fingertips.

Always and forever yours,
Yolonda

www.yolondacoleman.com