Keeping It Mental

R.I.P. Rachel Samuel, a.k.a. Nana

Hotep,

The confines of this concrete box prevents me from jumping in the whip and cruising to the store, to pick up some turkey bacon and soymilk for my birthday breakfast, on this my born day.  I’m unable to sit down with my parents – enjoying good conversation – as we flip through photo albums and view DVD’s of past family reunions.  And, heckling opposing players while watching an Eagles’ game with my brother D, is definitely out of the question.

Ice Cube’s urban classic, “Friday,” was the last movie I viewed with my big Sis and Nyse.  It was 1995; I remember it like it was yesterday.  Chris Tucker was still swearing and we put the pain on that jumbo box of popcorn.  Real talk.  It saddens me that we haven’t done that in so long.

A sharp pain develops in the groove of my chest when I think of how my confinement prevents me from holding the hand of my lady as we stroll the banks of Penns Landing – overlooking the Delaware River and Camden skyline – as we appreciate the sacred moments of today and looking forward to our future.  SMH.

The recent news of my Nana’s passing cuts me deep.  Her physical presence has been a blessing to my first 27 years of existence.  For the last 17 years, our interactions have been limited to periodic non-contact visits and once a year phone calls.  For the most part, Nana was one of the few who didn’t waver in her support for me.  Na mean?

This concrete box prevented me from holding my Nana in her time of physical anguish.  I was prohibited from tucking a pillow under her pretty head, or pulling a blanket up to her shoulders while she slept.  My captors denied my physical support for her in her final moments.  So, this expression is a deep warm embrace for the woman who birthed my mother; a woman under 5ft who stood tall through family strife.  A black woman who defeated the odds of surviving southern racism long before affirmative action provided opportunities for minorities.  Ya heard?

Mrs. Rachel Samuel, your value to my existence was by design.  Your story has been inspiring during the darkest times of my life, Nana.  My bondage restricted me from feeling the warmth of your tiny hands on the sides of my face, but the experience was never far from my mental.  After 96 years, you were still swinging Nana, so I thought to myself, who am I to give up the fight?  It seems God was ready to bring you home to be with our grandfather.

I love you Nana.  From the memories of you feeding me biscuits and buttered rice – to allowing me the use of your car to pass my driver’s exam.  Your contribution to my physical development permits this submission of support for you.  Keeping it mental relieves the stress of my physical limitations.  This concrete box is unable to shackle the deliverance of my memories of a sweet little lady on North 19^th Street.  Rest in peace Nana. 

Your Grandson,

MannofStat, NP 4 Life

Copyright © 2012 by Leroy Elwood Mann