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Overview
—Nikki GiovanniAward-winning journalist, and author of The Prisoner’s Wife andDaughter, and performance poet featured on HBO’S Def Poetry Jam, asha bandele once again writes from the heart in her lyrical and intimate memoir Something Like Beautiful—a moving story of love, loss, motherhood, and survival. Sharing the story of her struggles as a single black mother in New York City and her tragically self-destructive near-breakdown, asha bears her soul in a book Rebecca Walker, author of Baby Love, calls “courageous, profound, and achingly beautiful.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061977190 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins Publishers |
| Publication date: | 12/15/2023 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 210 |
| Sales rank: | 931,409 |
| File size: | 742 KB |
About the Author
A former features editor for Essence magazine, asha bandele is the author of two collections of poems, the award-wining memoir The Prisoner's Wife, and the novel Daughter. She lives in Brooklyn with her daughter.
Read an Excerpt
Something Like Beautiful
One Single Mother's Story
By asha bandele
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2009
asha bandele
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780061710377
Chapter One
Love in a time of confinement
This is a book about love and this is a book about rage. This is a book about those opposing emotions and what happens to a woman, a mother, when, with equal weight, they occupy the seat of your heart. This is a book about what happened when they occupied the seat of mine at the very time when all I should have known, all I was told I should have known, was joy. Because what else is there but joy when a mother is staring into the brilliant eyes of the daughter she dreamed of, prayed for, and finally, finally made manifest? My laughter in those hours, days, weeks, and early months when Nisa was new and in my arms, on my breast, then, my laughter was loud, raucous even. It was regular and it was unbidden.
And then everything changed, dipped down so very, very low, but this is not a story about postpartum depression. It's an everyday life story of an everyday mother.
It's a story about the orbit of sadness that begins spinning in you and around you when you discover that the great life and love you had put together, the emotional balance and financial wherewithal, nearly everything you had counted on—everything I had counted on—disappeared, or, perhaps more accurately, shifted just out of focus. You can still make itout, sort of, what the picture was, but you have to squint. And even then, blurs.
The particulars of my own life involve prisons and no parole, single parenting, and shaky finances. But in a sense, they don't matter, my particulars. What I know now, after all these years trying to climb out of a hole, is that I am part of a long line of women, Black women especially, who believe we have no right to pain, rage, sadness, that to acknowledge them, let alone walk all the way into them, walk all the way into the feelings so we can at last deconstruct them, is weak, weird, wrong, just plain wrong. But when we banish them, send them out of our consciences and conversations, where do they go, all those hard, hurt feelings?
For some of us the pain, the rage, becomes a belt we lash our children with. For others it shrinks down into a tight little knot that we come to call our heart. For others still, for me, the rage went inside and became a fist I beat myself with and beat myself with until I was sure that I was nearly worthless. I was sure of it.
And I suspect sometimes that I would have kept being sure of it had it not been for my daughter, my baby, who was just as sure of the completely opposite point of view and told me so with words, but mostly told me so with her life, her full, incredible, indefatigable engagement with life. It was everywhere and every minute, Nisa's engagement with life and love, and finally I could not ignore and I could not deny it. So, yes, yes it was incredibly hard losing so much so quickly: my marriage, the dream of a shared future. But it has also been incredibly wonderful, perfect even, being this child's mother. Which ultimately is why I am writing this book, and why I am writing it specifically as a single mother. I'm writing to say that for all of the challenges, the children really do make it all worth it. And I'm writing to say that I know I am not the only woman to discover that I can look depression in the face and not call it by another name. I can face it, fight it, and finally, I can—and I am—moving past it. But I am also writing to say that this is no simple proposition, not in the slightest, and so this is how it was at times and this is why it was at times, but finally this was the way out. There was a way out.
After Nisa was born, people asked about her father, where he was, if he had a relationship with his daughter. "It's complicated," I would say at first, and then later, depending on the person, I would take a long, full breath and tell them how it was. I would tell them that Nisa meets her father in the place I met her father, the place I have always met her father. It's a place behind that's hidden, that's behind mountains and then more mountains, behind walls and then more walls. I meet him—we meet him—in a place that is beyond what's familiar, beyond what's comprehensible and perhaps even human. That's where we go, I say: a place beyond peace, but once there, we feel something like peace, maybe even something like beautiful.
Besides, I explain, for us, there is no choice. Despite our prayers, our deep magic, our spells, our potions, and all of our tears, we end up here each time. Here where it is barren, dry, bleak, rotting. Here at the prison. Here where my husband lives, where my child was conceived. Here where she learned the curve of his arm, the nuzzle of his beard. Here where I once did. Here in a prison.
Even in the brightest space of summer, when the sun has pushed aside clouds and everything is gray, the prison sinks in the center from the weight of its austerity. Still, Rashid and I had always refused to be broken by our own reality, a reality that has stretched across years. Undaunted, we proclaimed: We will never be broken by this.
We told each other stories about how we could always work together, a couple, a team, to cast aside that which did not sustain us. And when we could not piece together those stories, we figured out how we could at least make them minor factors, irritations, but not defining. Not of us.
Continues...
Excerpted from Something Like Beautiful by asha bandele Copyright © 2009 by asha bandele. Excerpted by permission.
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