By MALAKA GYEKYE

When I was getting ready to go to college in 1996, that was the big interview question we couldn’t wait to be asked from a potential employer. We had whole sessions about the appropriate answers to give, interview gems and catch phrases that would wow the interviewer and land you the job. Yep, that was during the boom years of the Clinton presidency. I fully expected to get a job earning $45-50K, right out of college, with little more than a bachelor’s degree, as my predecessors had done. Most likely living it up in some fast paced cosmopolitan metropolis with my equally cosmopolitan friends. I had lofty goals in those days. I’d be a svelte size 10, with a weave down to my butt, driving a red Mercedes Benz convertible. 10 years after graduation I’d be in Ghana as the head of my own media company. I couldn’t wait to hit the real world!

Fast forward 10 years later.

I don’t even think most corporate human resources reps ask the question, “Where do you see yourself if five years” anymore. Most Fortune 500 companies’ balance sheets are riddled with more holes than a pitted pomegranate; many of them don’t know if they will be in business next month. The dot com bubble burst, making paupers out of millionaires overnight; Al-Qaeda decimated the stock market when they took down the World Trade Center, and; the freaking Pirates in Somalia and Nigeria finished up the job by affecting the oil supply and jacking up prices. No one saw this coming.

And I certainly didn’t foresee myself where I am today, either.

Nearly 10 years after graduation, I am a tired mother of three. I have an afro puff and am a hefty size 18. It has taken me six hours to sit down and write this note, because I can’t get a private moment to myself. Even now, someone screams “Mommeeee!!” incessantly in the background. My lofty goals of media domination have been reduced to just being happy if I can crank out one good story for my online newspaper sometime during the week. I pray daily that readers will find it in their hearts to click on a few ads to beef up my Google AdSense and generate some revenue. No one is on my payroll. In fact, I am vulnerable to the whims of the federal government, who at any time can stop my unemployment payments, leaving me gobsmacked and one check away from homelessness.

What is the point of this drivel? It’s to ask myself again, where do I see myself in five years. I see nothing but blue skies. I have note one iota of doubt that I’ll be one of the happiest frikkin’ women on earth.

In five years, my oldest child will be 10, able to do laundry and make a mean pitcher of Kool-Aid. The second born will be eight and able to read a book to herself. Both will be in school all day. The youngest will be beginning kindergarten and I can feign the sort of sadness at his departure that make your kids truly believe that you “wish they could stay at home with you all day, you really do, but the system won’t allow them to.”

In short, I’ll be a free woman. Free to write. Free to think. Free to go number two without someone bursting through the door and standing between my legs while I try to deliver a sinful payload to the porcelain throne below.

Free to dream again.

Ms. Celie couldn’t have said it better: I may be black, skinny (hopefully), and ugly (most likely), but dear God, I’ll be here… and FREE!

About our contributor:
Malaka Grant is a “hybrid Ghanaian” who lives in Roswell, GA, with her husband, Marshall, and their three kids—the very dramatic and inquisitive Nadjah, 4, the rambunctious Aya, 3, and the “too-sleepy-to-tell-what-disposition-he-may-have-yet” Stone, 3 months. Having been laid off five times since graduating in 2000, Malaka has given up the pursuit of a stable corporate gig to be a devoted full-time mother. In lieu of drinking, she uses her spare time to write for www.maizebreak.com, Africa’s version of The Onion, and co-authors an African sexuality blog with best friend Nana Sekyiamah. On weekends she works at DSW to fund a compulsive and insatiable shoe addiction.

Mother’s Day is a little tricky around here; it makes me incredibly happy to celebrate motherhood with my family and friends, but incredibly sad, too, because I’m reminded in a big way that my mom is gone from here. This will be the sixth Mother’s Day I’ll have without her, and though I anticipate it’ll be nowhere near as painful as the first, I’ll still wake up Sunday morning wishing I could hear her voice, see her smile, wrap my arms around her waist, and tell her one more time how much I adore her. I’ve been thinking a lot about the following post, which I wrote months ago, when I first founded MyBrownBaby; I thought it would be nice to run it in honor of Bettye Millner. Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy. I love you.

By DENENE MILLNER
I’m not sure what made me think about her today. I was in the grocery store, smelling the over-priced strawberries when my mother suddenly popped into my mind. It happens like that, you know—I’ll be doing something absolutely mundane, and there she’ll be, standing in the bathroom mirror of my childhood home, putting on her lipstick and adjusting her church hat; or standing over me and my Dad, watching us eat that extra sweet potato pie she baked just for us, because she knew we wouldn’t be able to keep our hands off the two she made for Thanksgiving dinner; or singing a silly song to my Mari, which, even loud and off-key, always managed to make my then-baby girl fall fast asleep. Sometimes, the memories make me giggle a little. Sometimes, I can’t quite control the tears, and I’m blinded by overwhelming sadness.

A lot of times, I just miss her so.

Bettye went away from here six years ago—suddenly, surprisingly, heart-achingly. Mari was three, and so she couldn’t quite understand, really, why she wouldn’t be able to lay in her “Gamma’s” arms anymore. Lila was barely two months old, and so all she has is a few pictures of my mom holding her in her arms, nuzzling Lila’s fat cheeks. I was a young mother, trying to figure out how to raise two girl pies and be a good wife and hold down a challenging magazine gig and write books and run a household and live a fulfilled life. None of us was ready for her to go. We needed her.

I needed her.

Still do.

I didn’t always appreciate the mother that Bettye Millner was. She was old school—strict and a little mean and definitely one of those moms who thought children were to be seen, not heard. She reveled in making her kids do chores (I spent so much time scrubbing, vacuuming and doing laundry during weekend high school events that I seriously considered changing my name to Cinderella). She chauffeured my brother, Troy, and I to church every Sunday, faithfully, and with a smile. And most certainly, Bettye believed that any child who stepped out of line had a sound whooping coming right to ‘em (her weapon of choice: a fresh, thin, sturdy switch from the tree in the front yard). She was tart-tongued and quick to tell you about yourself—fiercely protective and ridiculously private (she’s somewhere on the other side clutching her pearls over me writing this blog about her, I’m sure!). And she prayed for us even when we didn’t know it—even when we didn’t deserve it. Especially when we needed it.

I expected her to be a similar kind of grandmother—to apply those strict, old school traits to the way she would love my babies. But she was different with them—all googly and sweet and swooning. She would snatch Mari right out of my arms before she or I could get through the door good, and rush her away to a room full of gifts, and a plate full of food, and a VCR full of kid movies—just waiting for her grandbaby. She’d read to her and sing to her and talk to her and welcome Mari to talk back. She’d dress up her grandbaby and sport her down the church aisle American’s Next Top Model style, showing her off to anyone with eyes. And she’d fall asleep with Mari snuggled next to her in her bed—my father banished to the basement couch to make room for the little girl child she loved so.

And just as she revealed a different side of Bettye as “grandmother,” my mom revealed a different, softer side of herself to me, too. Suddenly, we became fellow moms: Rather than tell me what to do, she encouraged me to do what I thought was right; instead of holding her secrets close, she shared them with the hope that they would help me be a better mom; rather than reprimand me for my childcare decisions, she trusted my judgment. I’ll never forget the day when I came to her distraught because someone very close to us criticized my decision to keep breastfeeding Mari past six months. Honestly, I expected her to agree; after all, what self-respecting, black working mom kept her ninny in a baby’s mouth past a few months when there was work to do and baby formula at the ready?

“Mari is your baby,” she insisted when I came to her, overwhelmed and a little mad at the judgmental mom who questioned my decision. “You’re not ever going to hear me questioning how you’re raising your child. You’re going to make mistakes—all of us did before you, and many will after you. You do what’s right for you.”

What I would do to have her here. To order. To direct. To encourage. And pray for me and mine. There are so many things that I wish she could see—Mari and Lila’s fierce competitive spirit on the soccer field, the rows of A’s on their report cards. I know she would love Lila’s mischievousness, and Mari’s curiousness. She’d hang their artwork up on her refrigerator, and brag about her grandbabies to her friends, and sit them right up there in the front pew, so they could pay attention to the preacher, and the other deaconesses could give them mints and pinches on their cheeks. And my mother would be overwhelmed by my daughters’ beauty—proud of the young ladies they’re becoming. Excited about who they’ll be.

I do wish, too, that she were still here so that my daughters could see first-hand the incredible woman their grandmother was.

We are all missing out on something special now that Bettye Millner is gone.

I’ll tell Mari and Lila about her, though—keep her fresh in their memories.

And I’ll wait for her to come to me again—a lovely, sweet, heartbreaking vision in my mind.

By FELICIA RICHARDSON-BATTLE

This year I’ll be 38 years old. Wow!

I’m happy to report that I am not approaching The Big 4-0 with the anxiety that some women feel as they hit that milestone age. Instead, I’m finding more confidence, humor at every turn, and a healthy new respect for life. But along with this introspection comes some discomfort. Taking a look back at your life with knowing eyes brings to light some things that perhaps you weren’t so willing to face before.

Having my first book published last year was a dream come true. Funny how you can work on something so hard for so long, but when it finally happens, it’s nothing like you thought it would be. Holding a copy of Feel Good, Girl! in my hands for the first time was amazing. Speaking to the crowds that came for book signings, answering questions and being the center of attention was not.

Hello, Fear of Public Speaking! (How many people are in that room?).

Come on in, Fear of Rejection! (NO one will even buy this book, probably).

And who’s this? Self-Doubt! It’s been so long! Come on in and have a seat.

A big part of me wished I’d never written the book—that I could just go home and hide. “You have no business trying to tell girls how to live their lives. You’ve messed up so many times. This book is a joke…and your hair is a mess, too.” Oh yeah, my inner voice is harsh. And bending to it is what I’ve spent most of my life doing. Sitting on the side lines (”Keep those knees closed when you have a skirt on, girl!”). Never talking too much (”No one asked for your opinion.”). Giving in, even when every bone in my body said not to (”He won’t like you anymore if you don’t.”). Words that come from a place inside me that I wish I could shush and never hear from again. But that place is where the book came from. If I’m not able to talk about it—to warn every other girl-child I can get my hands on to never cave to her fears—then what the hell am I here for?

It’s taken me 38 years, two children, a husband and a book to realize that I’ve lived my entire life in fear—guided through situations by a frightened little conductor whose sole purpose was to avoid confrontation, to be liked, and to remain “good” in the eyes of those around me. All at the cost of never speaking up for myself or uttering the word “no”—and rarely standing for what was right if it went against the crowd.

I’ve allowed myself to be driven through life from the safety of the backseat. Oh yes, I’ve lived my wild side; but in a lowly, secreted fashion that can in no way be called “living.” Things I’ve done in the dark to build confidence in the light are nothing but covers for fear and shame. A lonely cry wrapped up in sequins.

I’m so done.

Trust your gut. Speak your mind. Live your dreams. Those are the things that I tell girls in my book. Time to take my own advice.

Tonight, I send my frightened little conductor on her way. Her bags are already packed. I wish her no harm, because she truly believed she was helping me. But it’s time for her to go. She’s boarding a big boat and floating away on her sea of worry and fear. Perhaps she will find some peace on her journey. A bit of moonlight to soothe her choppy waters.

But me, I’ve got work to do. Felicia is ready to take on the world, grab for stars, and taste what it means to stand confident and strong. Even if it means I must stand alone. For the first time, that doesn’t sound so bad.

Life is cheap, bittersweet,
but it tastes good to me.
Take my turn
Crash and burn
that’s how it’s supposed to be.
—”Sure Looks Good to Me” Alicia Keyes

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Felicia Richardson-Battle is a professional writer and author who writes about girl empowerment issues at her hugely popular blog, Reign of the Girl-Child. She lives in Long Island, N.Y., with her husband and two kids—one girl-child and one rambunctious boy. Check out her book, Feel Good, Girl!, here.