Madison Awakening

It’s been two days since I’ve returned from my Hamptons getaway and I’m finally ready to get to work. I woke up this morning to a symphony of construction drilling coming from outside my window. It’s muffled but it is definitely a contrast to the tranquility of the Hamptons.  I blink my eyes, roll over on my back, stretch away the deep sleep, and look around my room. I’m so happy to be in my bed, in my home. The light is streaming in through the curtains and I feel at peace in my space.  

This was my Grandmother’s house. Back in the mid 1980’s when Brooklyn was a war zone, she bought the three floor, four bedroom, three and half bath brownstone on Lafayette Avenue for nothing. She got some money from my granddaddy’s life insurance policy and invested despite how rough the neighborhood was. Because my dad was a cop, people knew not to mess with our house. In my youth I used to have to walk over crackheads at the entrance to the A train to get home from school. But my block had the best bodega, pizza spot and diner in the neighborhood. I learned how to speak bits of Spanish and Greek just by picking up food orders to go. But when it comes to what Brooklyn has become since my childhood, it looks different but still feels like home.

In the past decade, Brooklyn has morphed into the mesh of hipster chic and old city grit; the smells and the sounds all reflecting the steady movement of people. The gentrifiers don’t know the struggles that are inherent to a city life. They are blissfully ignorant to all the dangers that lurked behind the now refaced brick walls. They chalk it up to urban folklore, just a reality from the Giuliani days. But the natives know better. The white washed brick, intrusive steel and glass buildings don’t change the fact Brooklyn is still Brooklyn.

The constant construction is just the new normal as the siege on Brooklyn real estate spreads. After my Grandmother passed five years ago, the home became my mother’s and two years ago when my mother moved to South Carolina, the home became mine. I recently renovated as a way to get myself out of my funk when it first started six months ago. I blew out some walls on the main floor, spruced up the bathrooms, upgraded the garden level apartment and my tenant Nathaniel has been there for about two months. As I look around my room, I’ve created a perfectly zen, modern, chic space with warm tones, light wood and pops of deep purple accents. 

I look over at the alarm clock and see it’s 9 am. I reach over to my nightstand, unplug my phone, sit up on my velvet tufted headboard and check my messages. I have ten emails, a few text messages to answer and phone calls to make regarding some of the vendors. I quickly answer back the ones that can, and make a task list to tackle the rest once I’ve showered. Once I’m satisfied I’ve hit the immediate needs,  I jump out of bed and head to the bathroom.I strip down, turn on the shower and let the water usher me into a new day, focused on productivity.

Thankfully, Jonathan has now become only a passing thought during the day. There is none of the anxiety from before, but more pleasant thoughts. Like ‘Wasn’t it nice that he was so amazing in bed?’ or ‘Wasn’t that a great dinner we had at Deja?’ But I never think about him in the present tense, like ‘I wonder what he is up to?’

Because inherently, that doesn’t help me. The day after I came home, I found myself checking my phone, to see if he texted. But then felt relieved he hadn’t reached out. I’m coming out of my Hamptons sex haze slowly and just keep reminding myself I did what was necessary.

By the time I get dressed, it is about 1030 am, as I go downstairs to the kitchen to grab a quick bite. The stairs squeak as they always do which is a comfort because it’s the sound of home. I walk past the living room with its large portrait window, framing the people of the city. The open floor plan gives you a direct line to my contemporary kitchen of white and pale sage decor with a hint of glam. I place my phone on the large veined quartz island and look in the fridge. There isn’t much in there since I was out of town, so I grab a protein shake from the bottom bin. Just as I take a swig, my phone starts buzzing.  I grab it and see my mother’s face on the screen. I roll my eyes because I don’t have time for a long conversation. I make a mental note to keep it to ten minutes so I’m not late meeting with the kids.

 Sherry Davis is a force of nature and I know I get my fire from her. Being a teenage mother was quite a detour from her original goal. The youngest of three girls, she was a dancer in her youth, and had potential to be in a major dance company. But then my father came along and messed everything up.

Once they got married, my mom’s whole life became about me. My grandma helped out of course, but she was fully committed to the role of an officer’s wife and stay at home mom. When my father died, she became a thirty-six year old widow. Her whole adult life circulated around this man and in an instant he was gone. After some time, she found a new calling in social work, helping abused children in therapy. But the city got too hectic and she craved a slower pace which led her to South Carolina, where her sisters live.

“Hi Mommy.” I say with forced enthusiasm. 

“Hi! How’s my baby girl? How was your trip? You and Ashely have a good time?” She says all in one breath with her Brooklyn accent.

“Mommy, it was a great trip. Ashely and I hung out, ate well, partied a bit and even handled some business.”

“I am so happy to hear that. Did you happen to meet any single, available men at this party?” 

I roll my eyes again, because I knew this question was coming. “Nobody special mommy.” Not a lie, but not exactly the truth. Because Jonathan was special in the way he made the trip better than I could have hoped for. He didn’t have to be as attentive or as generous as he was everytime we were together. I strike the thought out of my head and change the topic.

“So how are you Mommy? How is southern living treating you?”

“Oh it’s good, real good. Cousin Michael had a cookout for the holiday. It was a good turnout and my friend had a good time too.” The way she emphasized ‘friend’ was weird.

“What friend?”

“My friend Keith.”

“And how do you know Keith?” My tone change but I don’t care.  

“Keith owns the coffee shop in town I go to all the time. We got to talking and we’ve been spending time together.”

“How much time?”

“For a few months now.” 

I stay quiet for a moment, thinking how best to react. My mom hasn’t really dated since my dad died. A couple of guys would hit on her especially from the widow support group, but other than that, nothing. I decide on being supportive. Lord knows after the hell my father put her through even after his death, she deserves happiness.

“That’s great mom! I’m happy if you’re happy. Are you..happy?”

“Yes, baby I’m happy. I want you to be happy too,”

“Mommy, I am happy. I don’t need a man to feel that way.”

“I know, I know. It’s just I don’t want you missing out on something great because…of your father.” She says with an empathetic tone.

“Dad is a non factor. I’m just focused on other things. I had school, the renovation and now the Lavender Ball in a little over a week, so men are not my priority.” My volume is rising a bit and I take a deep breath to keep myself from becoming disrespectful. I know she means well but I don’t have time for this shit. 

“Okay baby, I’m just saying sometimes you have to just… jump. There is never a right time, but when you truly want what is in front of you, you have to go for it. Nobody reaches the stars by standing on the ground.”  She says.  

My grandma would say that to me when I was scared to try anything new. I feel tears start to press to surface because I still miss her so much. I take another breath to keep my voice from quivering.

“Ma, I hear you. I love you for loving me. But I need to go. I have to meet my kids to go over the ball details.”

“Okay okay. Will you visit me soon? I miss my baby.”

“Yes Mommy, I’ll be down there for Labor day.”

“Alright. But you can still call me till then…like more than once a month.” I laugh.

“Okay Mommy. I love you. And I am really happy that you found someone to treat you the way you deserve.” 

“I love you more baby. Have a great day and good luck with everything. Bye.”

“Bye Mommy.”

I hit end and wished I could hug my mom. I hate that she’s so far away, but she deserves to do what she wants to do. I didn’t want to be the one holding her back from living her life on her own terms.

Before I put the phone down, I called the last three vendors for confirmation of delivery times and final costs. Then I grab my laptop, to check the spreadsheet of donors.  I add in the new donors we secured yesterday and then I see a donation of $100,000 from the DFF organization. I have never heard of this foundation before, so I shift through my emails and see if I missed something, but everything is in order. Each board member has its own set of contacts, so maybe it’s a donation from one of them. Either way, I’ll take an additional 100k. I check the time and realize I have to get going to meet with my students.