Skip to main content

No Expectations, No Let Downs

I set up this blog since August of 2007. Never once did I write a thing in it. Throughout the years I have been good at starting things and not finishing them. But for the past couple of years I have broken that cycle. I've always loved writing and have kept many journals throughout the years. In High School it was an English teacher named Mr. Wax, he was a tall Caucasian man with lots of hair including a big bushy beard, who told me that I was a great writer. I always thought that I was a great writer, I mean coming from a mother who was a High School English Teacher for 30 years  (she's retired now), I thought I was a natural :-). That all changed when I began to doubt myself and compare myself to the work of others. I started to think, your vocabulary is not that broad, you often make major mistakes with grammar and spelling, who's going to read your corny blog? The committee in my head constantly fired shots that told me I wasn't good enough. Fast forward to 2015, working on my insides and remembering the reason why I started. I wanted to share my thoughts and feeling with others, while creating an outlet for myself. I realize that its not about the "Likes" and "Followers," at the end of the day its how I feel about my work. I am  slowly learning to let go of expectations.


Popular posts from this blog

Mothers and Daughters

Brenda Edwards and her mother Annie Edwards circa  1984

I loved my mother very much and still do, but at some point, l realized she wasn't flawless. These were intermittent episodes throughout our mother-daughter relationship when I became aware of her imperfections. Before this crucial discovery, she was a glorious,mystical beauty of perfection who solved all my problems and made the boogie man go away.

Depending on what I was going through in my own life, my judgment of mom wavered from harsh criticism, embarrassment,to downright anger.

Take the time when she decided to awaken my sister and me while we were fast asleep in our cozy beds one winter night, just to fulfill a simple chore of taking out the trash and washing the dishes. I couldn't have been any more than 12 and my sister was about 16. We grumbled, but not too loud for fear of the wrath from mom that would follow. She seemed to feel that this one small error would lead us down…

Dear Grandson

Dear Grandson,
On the eve of your 18th birthday, I am hoping to give you some thoughts that will excite you about delving into what's ahead ofyou're beautiful, incredible and spirited life.
The beauty begins each time you pick yourself up and continue on a positive path no matter what others say or do. And when you realize that much of the hate, violence andsimple apathy surrounding your presence has very little to do with you, but with how the world has been taught to view you as a very tall, very dark African-American male who represents their own confusion, ignorance, and fears.They do not understand that you are no one's enemy and that you are simply attempting to have a beautiful life.
With the wake of the new political administration, these are turbulent times. But guess what, since we as Africans and now African-Americans have arrived here since 1619, we have always endured turbulent times and yet we have done more than just survived.
We have resisted enslavement, refus…

School Busing Days by Brenda Edwards

In 1966 I became part of New York City's School busing program. The challenge was that students from neighborhoods such as mind, the predominantly African-American Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn would attend schools in neighborhoods such as, at that time, the predominantly white Flatbush section of Brooklyn.

This program was to solve some of the inequities and create a sense of desegregation in the inner city schools.

From six to seventh grade, I would travel on the yellow school bus that would pick me up in my neighborhood and travel what felt like an eternity to my new school. The pick up would include cruising through various areas of Bed-Stuy collecting other African-American and a few Latino children to be transported to our various destinations throughout the Flatbush area. We often joked among ourselves as the bus approached the Fulton Street L, that we were crossing the tracks mimicking the Mason-Dixon line that separated the north from the south.
Please do not get me…