Something Like Beautiful (13 page)

And wherever we are, we gaze with amazement at the differences each place has offered: the wide deserts just below the snowcapped mountains of Southern California; the forever redwoods in the north; the mighty mountains in the Berkshires; the ready dance, blues and hues of Chi-Town; the swaying palms and rainbow fish of Sanibel Island; the alligators and swamp-lands of South Carolina and the hot, wet, greener than green of Mississippi; the unimaginable width of the Texas sky; the see-through waters of the Caribbean Sea; the mighty beauty of the Sierra Madres, where mountaintops touch the clouds and where we stood beneath waterfalls; the great sperm whales moving through the waters that hold the Grenadines, with the grace of a creature far smaller.

And all that color and life everywhere, including in the parks and gardens of urban landscapes like our own—we lose ourselves in it, Nisa and I do. We lose ourselves there and in art galleries and museums, in Marsalis's jazz and 50's rhymes, in movies and on Broadway, at the ice-cream stand in the summertime and our sushi spot all year long. We make intricate plans for the trips we have not yet taken together to see the endless lights of Paris; the Eastern Cape of South Africa where Mandela played as a child and Biko struggled as a man; Santorini on her next birthday so we can discover whether the azalea plants are as impossibly pink as and taller than the ones on Kos; and Bora-Bora, so different from all we know, so far away, that we can only imagine it as a land of dragons, unicorns, mermaids, and stardust.

Nisa wants to climb the volcano I climbed in Costa Rica four months before I became pregnant with her. I promise her we will do that trip, and also one to Baja some January during the migration of the pregnant gray whales. If I have to tell the truth, the whole of it, then yes, yes, there were times of utter despair, but even on those days, even then, we embraced it, this life; we have bathed ourselves in it, and we have retained our memories in stories we whisper to each other when it's late and dark but we want, still, to hang on.

When I have thought I was losing everything, every part of my mind, what has brought me back to truth is Nisa, the force of her life. That and learning to rediscover the beauty of living itself by watching my daughter seek out life everywhere and claim it. It is too much responsibility to put on a child, I know, and I swear I didn't do it on purpose, but it is how it went down, me witnessing her, watching her, it carried me through moments when I thought I had lost all my endurance.

Most mornings I am awakened by her laughter and then the inevitable messy kisses planted on my cheek. Her eyes ablaze with mischief, wonder, excitement, and hope, Nisa's query to me each sunrise is the same: “What's our big adventure today, Mommy?”

I grin back at my beloved,
my
child, and my mind begins to work. But before I come up with a plan, this is what I think each time she asks:
Yes, Beloved. Our big adventure, indeed. Ours.

W
hen you finally sit, assume the position, and start doing it, writing the life can sometimes seem actually more challenging than living the life. I can argue either point of view in equal measure, depending on the demands of the day. But whichever sentiment is true, what I know is that neither the living nor writing occurs in its best form without the love, wisdom, and camaraderie of the people who've chosen to stand beside us.

In my own life, particular acknowledgment must be made to the women who, in varying ways, taught me invaluable lessons about being a mother: first, my own mom, Dolores Bullard, and my sister, Anne Coleman. But also the women closest to me: Autumn Amberbridge, Kimberly Elise, Qamara Clark, Susan Taylor, Myrian Tooma, Robin Templeton, dream hampton, Monifa Bandele and her mom, Marie Murray.

There are many men who've shared their hearts with my
daughter and me as well. Two who've especially done so will always have my love, Nisa's love, and unending appreciation: George Caros and Stanley Crouch.

Nora (Stewart) Alexis has helped me care for my daughter so fully for so long and with so much love, I was able not only to write but to grow these last hard years. Thank you.

Audrey Edwards and Robin Stone read early versions of what finally became this book. I am deeply grateful for their editing, counsel, friendship, and lessons in parenting.

Former colleagues at
Essence
magazine and current ones at the Drug Policy Alliance have continually circled my daughter with love the countless times I have needed to file a story or a report with her at my side. We cannot thank you enough.

I don't know an author who can navigate any part of the journey without a fine editor. I am lucky enough to be, eleven years on, still working with the best among us, Gillian Blake. For both the push and the patience, I am forever grateful.

Finally, and for more than I will ever, ever be able to list, my great, great gratitude—and still love after all these years—is reserved for Zayd Rashid, who I hope will one day walk a Brooklyn neighborhood, hand in hand, with our daughter.

For him, for Nisa, for the now millions of children and parents who are divided by bars and barbed wire, your day—unrestricted and unrestrained—will come.

a
sha bandele is the author of four books, including the award-winning memoir
The Prisoner's Wife
. A Columbia University Revson Fellow (2004–2005) and former
Essence
magazine features editor, asha's work has been published in numerous outlets, including the
New York Times
,
Vibe
,
The Source
,
Family Circle
, and
Huffington Post
. Aside from writing, asha also directs a grants program for the Drug Policy Alliance, the nation's leading organization fighting the war on drugs. She holds degrees from the New School for Social Research and Bennington College and lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she is raising her daughter, Nisa.

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Jacket design: The DesignWorks Group

Cover photograph: Delphine Fawundu Buford