My in-laws, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Chiles, cut a fineportrait this weekend, walking down the aisle of a candle-lit room at The WHotel here in Atlanta—she in a stunning champagne gown, with an armful of callalilies; he in a sharp tux, his fingers interlocked with his wife’s. BrianMcKnight’s ballad “Never Felt This Way” filled the air, serving a fittingtribute, as if Brian wrote the lyrics specifically for this posh, goldencelebration: There will never come a day/You’ll ever hear me say/That Iwant, and need to be without you/I want to give my all. And when they reached that magical place at thealtar, with their children and grandbabies and family and friends surroundingthem, we all lost it like we were at a Janet Jackson concert—alternatelywhooping and hollering and clapping and crying like we were a gang of groupiesgone mad.
We had good reason to act this way. Walter and HelenChiles, you see, were celebrating their 50th anniversary.
That’s five decades, dude. Since the two eloped inthe living room of his sister’s home on September 29, 1958, men walked on themoon, black folks waged the Civil Rights Movement, America’s fought in fourwars, and, by God, the Wu Tang Clan broke up. But through it all, Helen and Walterhave remained together, a testament to their generation, which, it seems, hasmade much more of a point to practice what it preached at the altar: Forbetter, for worse, for richer and for poorer, through sickness and in health,‘til death do us part.
For Helen and Walter, you see, being together—stayingtogether—is as important to them as breathing air. It’s not an option. It’sjust what you do.
For the sake of the kids.
Because it’s the right thing to do.
Because a promise is a promise.
Because they love one another.
Helen has been schooling me on the art of marriagesince the first day I presented her granddaughter to her, back in 1999. I wasgiving my baby girl, Mari, then about six months, a bath in Helen’s sink, andshe could see right through my fake smile—right through my tired eyes. WhileI’m sure Nick was helping as best he could, I’m also sure his mom could tell Iwas exhausted and sore and silently questioning just how in the world peoplestayed married and raised babies all at once. You know, without k-i-l-l-i-n-gone another.
“Love,” she said, as she handed me a towel,“changes.” It feels a certain way when it’s new. And takes on a different feelwhen a ring is introduced. A whole ‘nother feel when kids come into thepicture—and when they leave, too. And certainly as you grow older. “Justremember that,” she said. “Love changes.”
All these years later, as they readied themselves forthe big Golden Chiles shindig, my in-laws gave me a few more pearls of wisdomon how to stay together:
Give each other space. You just don’t have to be all up under each other all the time. Thesmothering isn’t cute—everybody needs to breathe. Let them.
Be a loser.Winning every argument isn’t everything. Sometimes you have to take the “L” inthe fight to score the “W” for your marriage. So what you don’t agree witheverything each other says or does. Get over yourself.
Let your spouse be. Walter is quiet and tends to be a bit of a loner. Helen is the exactopposite—always up in the mix, armed with an opinion, and never, ever afraid touse it. Neither ever tries to convince the other that being this way is wrong.It’s simply who they are, and they accept this—no questions asked. It’s what’sbest.
My husband Nick and I are working on incorporatingthese jewels in our marriage. And we thank God every day that we have Helen andWalter’s example, as well as that of my parents, who were married for almost 40years when my mom died, to shine a light on how to make marriages work. Indeed,both couples are a sorely needed example of committed black love—the kind thatslams against the statistics that proclaim we black folks are more likely thannot to be single and never married or divorced and never to be in happilywedded bliss again.
Personally, I think the statistics only tell part ofthe story. Nick and I have been married for 11 years, and there are many morecouples just like us—happy, in love, dedicated, and committed—than theheadlines lead all of us to believe. My list of married friends runs deep: Myin-laws Angelou and James, and my friends Mike and Tina, Mona and Keith, Wendyand Reggie, Jenny and Anthony, Jackie and Harold, Marcia and Jomo, Kathy andBruce, Michelle and Horace, George and Alicia, Stephen and Chanel, Renee andAnthony, Shawn and Desere, James and Bethsheba—each one of these beautifulcouples buck the notion that committed black love doesn’t exist.
The best each of us can do is prove the statisticswrong by keeping our eyes on Helen and Walter’s example—by following their leadand staying together. For ourselves. For our children. For our community. Forlove.
We’ve got 11 years under our belt.
Thirty-nine more to go.
I think we’re gonna make it.
]]>So I’m in the car on my way to Target with my daughters when I realize I pulled out without my pack of homemade kid-friendly/mom-approved CD mixes. Now, this isn’t an issue if I’m driving alone—I simply tune into talk radio (Warren Ballentine has myear during morning errands, Michel Martin’s NPR show Tell Me More is on in the afternoon, and I smile all the way to my exercise torture… er, African dance class listening to Farai Chideya’s News & Notes in the evenings). But Mari and Lila neither understand nor appreciate the finer points of intelligent black thought on the RNC convention and the Kwame Kilpatrick fiasco (hey,they’re nine and six—have an exhaustive talk about SpongeBob, Raven-Symone, orsnot, and they’re all in). So I turned on the radio. It was nine in the morning. I live only about five minutes from Target. “How bad could it be?” I asked myself as I punched in my local R&B station.
And wouldn’t you know—on comes Lil’ Wayne’s “Mrs. Officer,” with Bobby Valentino contributing achorus of police siren noises and dirty talk about what he’s going to do to thelady cop when he gets her in the backseat of her ride. It took Lila, the 6-year-old, all of three seconds to tap into her inner Beyonce and join along:“When I get all up in ya/We can hear the angels calling us/We can see thesunrise before us/And when I’m in that thang/I’ll make that body sing/I make itsay Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee…” she sang with much gusto and way too much glee.
]]>So I’m in the car on my way to Target with my daughters when I realize I pulled out without my pack of homemade kid-friendly/mom-approved CD mixes. Now, this isn’t an issue if I’m driving alone—I simply tune into talk radio (Warren Ballentine has myear during morning errands, Michel Martin’s NPR show Tell Me More is on in the afternoon, and I smile all the way to my exercise torture… er, African dance class listening to Farai Chideya’s News & Notes in the evenings). But Mari and Lila neither understand nor appreciate the finer points of intelligent black thought on the RNC convention and the Kwame Kilpatrick fiasco (hey,they’re nine and six—have an exhaustive talk about SpongeBob, Raven-Symone, orsnot, and they’re all in). So I turned on the radio. It was nine in the morning. I live only about five minutes from Target. “How bad could it be?” I asked myself as I punched in my local R&B station.
And wouldn’t you know—on comes Lil’ Wayne’s “Mrs. Officer,” with Bobby Valentino contributing achorus of police siren noises and dirty talk about what he’s going to do to thelady cop when he gets her in the backseat of her ride. It took Lila, the 6-year-old, all of three seconds to tap into her inner Beyonce and join along:“When I get all up in ya/We can hear the angels calling us/We can see thesunrise before us/And when I’m in that thang/I’ll make that body sing/I make itsay Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee…” she sang with much gusto and way too much glee.
When I tell you I almost crashed the ride into a ditch trying to change the station?
A rambling black-out lecture immediately followed—I think the words “inappropriate” and “mommy’s not mad, really,” and “since you’re not grown,” tumbled from my lips. But mostly, I remember the look of confusion and fear on my baby’s face. Why, I could tell she was wondering, is my mother bugging out over a song?
Here’s why:Because Lil’ Wayne with his “Lollipop” and Bobbi Valentino with his “Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee,” and black radio, with its devil-may-care playlists blasting in the afternoons for all of the Elmo set to hear, are k-i-l-l-i-n-g this generation’s ability to hear and appreciate good music. And frankly, I’m tired of it.
Now don’t get it twisted: I love Hip Hop and R&B. I’m a product of it in every way—sat by the stereo in my parents basement every Friday night listening to Red Alert andMr. Magic; blasted Run DMC, LL Cool J, and Rakim from my stereo in my college dorm room; got through my year living away from home and on my own listening to A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Pete Rock & CL Smooth, Mary J. Blige and Jodeci and; covered some of the greatest lyricists and singers ever as an entertainment reporter for The Daily News in New York. I’m prone to blasting Jay-Z, Nas, Lupe Fiasco, T.I., Ludacris and music by countless other artists whose lyrics are astounding.
But the babies don’t know nothing about them.
That’s grown folk music
And I just wish that somebody who has control over what’s played on my local radio station when I’m driving the kids to school, or picking them up from swim practice, ordriving them to Target would act like they know this, too. I mean, I distinctly remember as a teenager listening to legendary radio jock Frankie Crocker explain why nobody would ever hear Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” before 9 p.m.on his watch. The subject matter, he said, wasn’t for the kids to hear. I didn’t fully comprehend what the big deal was, but then, Crocker wasn’t talking to me, right? He was helping out my mom and dad, who, while at work, just didn’t—and couldn’t—control what my brother and I were listening to on the family stereo.
Sadly, there are no Frankie Crockers, it seems, on the scene today—just deejays who are quite happy to tell moms like us that they just play what the audience wants to hear and if we don’t like it, oh well.
With apologies to black radio, and at the expense of sounding like a played-out mom too old to recognize cool when I hear it, I’m just going to go on ahead and tune out whenmy girls are in the car, thank you. And for other moms considering the same, I’m attaching a list of kid-friendly, mother-approved R&B and Hip Hop hits both you and your kids can enjoy the next time you’re in the car, without fear (all of these can be downloaded off iTunes). If you want to add on to this list, go on ahead and do it in the comments section. Happy listening!
Alright, Ledisi
UMI Says, Mos Def
Mi Swing EsTropical, Nickodemus & Quantic, featuring Tempo
Summertime, DJJazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.
Mind Control,Stephen Marley
Still In Love,Kirk Franklin
I’d Like To,Corinne Baily Rae
Honey, Erykah Badu
Let Go, LalahHathaway
Sittin’ In TheMiddle, Raul Midon
Teenage LoveAffair, Alicia Keys
Golden, Jill Scott
Get By, TalibKweli (get the “clean” version; there is some cursing on the explicit one, butit’s a great message song you’ll appreciate the kids hearing.)
Need U Bad,Jazmine Sullivan
Magic Touch, RobinThicke
Ordinary, WayneBrady
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