Page 3 of Free to Love You
This notion that I wanted to find a husband was draining. “Mother, I am not trying to find a husband. I am content with being by myself. There is no one in this community that I would want to call my husband.”
Oh, that got her riled up. She stood from my bed. “Well, where exactly do you plan to meet a husband?” She pointed her finger toward the window. “With an outsider at the market? You don’t think I know that you have a little following of men that lust over the pretty, black girl? I see how they look at you.”
This was the first time I believed that I had ever heard my mother reference my race. It was a bit off putting, but I couldn’t say that I was completely shocked. There was no such thing as not seeing color, no matter how much people lied to themselves. “I’m not sure how or when God will send my husband, Mother. What I do know is that he will not be a part of this community. He may be from another community in another town.”
She just stared at me with tight eyes. I knew that she knew I was just talking at this point. One thing that I appreciated about my parents was that they were not very argumentative. They were thewe’ll pray before we arguekinds of people. “Lovina, your father and I want you to get ahold of yourself. God is not pleased.”
Those were her final words before she left my room. Her words tore through me.God is not pleased.This was not the first time that was said to me, but this time it felt different. Before I would recoil at the mere thought, but not tonight. How did she know that God wasn’t pleased?
All my life, I’ve followed His command and our Ordnung. No matter how connected I stayed to a community that often treated me like I was invisible, I still wanted more. Why would God let the desire for me to want more to remain in my heart if that was not what he wanted for me as well?
For the past couple of weeks, the thought of leaving had weighed heavily in my heart. It was a feeling that I tried to shake because in my mind it didn’t make sense. I wouldn’t know what to do outside in the real world. I mean, my world was real to me, but I knew there was a bigger world outside of my own. The fact remained that I would be like a lost fish in a new, larger than life fish tank.
What would my family think if I just left the community? This kind of decision wasn’t one that you ran by them for opinions. There would be one opinion and that would be thatI was falling to the will of the world. That I would be turning my back on my faith and everything that it stood for to be a Christian. The problem was that I didn’t see it that way. I truly felt like I was meant for more, but how would I get more if I was caged in this place?
Fear overtook me as I muddled in my mind over what life would be like out there. I barely know how to use a cell phone. When I wanted to learn something, I would take the phone to work and conveniently take a bathroom break when I saw Beyuna. She would teach me.
I hadn’t seen her since I had been shunned, but we texted at least once a day. I tried to explain the shunning to her, but it was clear that she didn’t understand. Her main question was, “How can people that say they love you, your family, shun you for something so harmless?”She asked me once if I would ever leave. The answer should have been an automatic no. Instead, it was an I don’t know.
I had to do what was best for me, right? One thing that I learned when I listened to some of the churches online was that sometimes you have to step out on faith even when it didn’t make any sense. This made no sense at all. How could it be betrayal if I felt this compelled to leave? With all the ups and downs, I have never wanted to leave.
Lovina, what are you going to do?I knew that I would have to make a decision and stick to it. To stay or to go were the choices. Staying was the easy choice. Did I want to make the easy choice or the hard one and trust God to carry me?
My eyes roamed over to the clock. It wasn’t too late. She told me to call her at any time if I needed anything. I pulled out my cell phone and long pressed the number two. The line rang a few times before it was picked up.“Lovina? Is that you?”
“Hi, Beyuna. Yes, it’s me.”When she asked me if I was alright, I took a deep breath.“I want to leave, but I don’t know what to do.”
A Short Time Later. . .
Here I was explaining to a family from my community that their son would be paralyzed from the waist down because of a bullet. These young niggas shot guns just to shoot them. There was no real rhyme or reason. I hated these cases. The fact was that as the anesthesiologist on the case, I shouldn’t be the one out here. It should have been the lead surgeon. The problem was that Dr. Jordan was a whole scary bitch.
Any time the case had to deal with African Americans from certain communities, I was asked to step in and speak to the families. Although I was the youngest black anesthesiologist at the Medical University of South Carolina, my outward appearance didn’t show that to the naked eyes. My colleaguescame to the assumption that I spoke hood because of my appearance.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, you know that I would do everything in my power to ensure that Kareem gets the best care. That is not an option when it comes to me,” I told them. “If we removed the bullet, you would have been planning a funeral more than likely instead of creating a more handicap accessible home. We have to look at it that way.”
Mr. Dawson shook his head. “You’re right, son. I know you’re right. This shit just hurts. That’s my little boy back there.” He smacked away the tear that rolled down his cheek.
The Dawsons lived down the way from me and my mother in our old neighborhood. They literally watched me grow up. Kareem’s older brother, Rashad, and I ran the streets together tough when we were younger. He was murdered when he was seventeen. After losing one son so young, I knew this situation devastated them. Kareem was sixteen and a good kid, so most would say this shouldn’t have happened. I learned a long time ago from my uncle, Beaunir, that if you played in the streets for even a second, it would tag you in happily.
“Trust me, you know I get it. Unlike most doctors in this hospital, I know what it’s like to be a patient for something like this. You know that as well.” When I was nineteen years old, I was shot three times when these niggas tried to rob me.
Shit was crazy, and I worried the hell out of my mother. Hell, I was worried because I thought I would have to drop out of school. I didn’t want to lose my place in my BARSC-MD program (Bachelor of Arts and Science degree and a Doctor of Medicine). First, that program was hard as fuck to get into. To get into that shit, I had to get at least a damn 1450 on my SAT. For a student like me that wasn’t shit.
I had to apply to the Honors College by the early deadline, then be invited to the program. Once you’re in the program, ifyou didn’t keep at least a 3.6 they would kick your ass out with the swiftness. It was only God’s grace that my professors worked with me. A big part of the reason they did was because my mentors, Dr. Samuel Pinkney and Dr. Croy O’Brian, advocated for me.
Dr. Pinkney was an older black anesthesiologist who saw me and nurtured the potential in me. He was good friends with Dr. O’Brian who was a general surgeon. From that relationship I gained a new mentor. I appreciated those men in my life.
I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Dawson for a few more moments before I left them. I was tired as hell after I worked a shift that should have been twelve hours but ended up being twenty-six. The emergency room was filled with nigga-shenanigans. Sometimes Charleston niggas did too much too often. I could say that shit because I was from Charleston. Straight downtown boy that graduated from Burke High School.
“Erygon.” Someone called my name from behind me. When I turned around, I saw it was Dr. Guster. He watched my legs spread shoulder width and my hands cross over the front of me. He cleared his throat. “My apologies, Dr. Carson.”
You fuckin’ right apologies. From time to time these crackers walked around here with the thought that they didn’t have to respect me. I demanded my respect as I should. They saw a black boy with full tattoo sleeves and a tatted neck. I didn’t care about none of that shit because it didn’t negate my intellect and precision in the operating room. Just like when I was in the streets stirring up baking soda, my hands worked magic in the operating room when it came to this anesthesia thing. I was the same tatted, black boy that graduated second in my class from medical school.
“Yes, Dr. Guster.” My stance became relaxed. I didn’t care for him. He tended to cover his condescension with feign compliments.
“I read your case notes on the McGregor case. You did an amazing job with the notes,” he said. The smile he displayed didn’t reach his eyes because he was full of shit.
This was what I talked about. To the naked eye, you would take that as a true compliment. I knew better. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Let me ask you this, Dr. Guster. Did you think that I wouldn’t do a superb job on the notes? I’ve been writing notes since my residency as you have. I’ve been a doctor for three years at this hospital while you’ve been out of your residency for what, less than a year.”
