Lemon Slices

Christmas Is Coming

Written By: Nakema Lemon

12/8/22

Christmas has always been my most favorite time a year. Since we lost our Boss Baby, the past few have been a struggle, but I still love Christmas.

When I was a kid, my brother and I would give our mom our wish list and she would do everything she could to get most, if not all the items on the list.

She and my aunt would disappear for hours to shop. When she finally returned home, she would make us go to our rooms while she brought in the packages so we couldn’t sneak a peek. Then she would hide the gifts. To this day I don’t know where she hid our presents. I remember one time, my brother and I tried to find them, and she caught us. She was so mad, she threatened to give our presents away. She then used her jedi mind trick on us. She had us both convinced that her hiding places were rigged. So, if we even came close to the spot she would know. Trust me. we never tried that again.

Shirley Ann was always good with that jedi mind trick. One day I’ll tell you about how she used to tell us she was carrying our adoption papers in her purse, and if we didn’t behave, she was going to give us away. Oh, the trauma. I never recovered.

Any who, when it was time to put up the tree, we would make an evening of it. My mom would put on her Christmas records. My brother and I know every lyric to both the Gladys Knight and The Temptation’s historic Christmas albums. She would sing to us, while she sipped on a glass of wine and watched us decorate the tree. When Glady’s belted out “Let There Be Peace on Earth” or the Temptations crooned “Silent Night” we would join our mother in song screaming at the top of our lungs.

On Christmas Eve mom would send us to our room early, so she could cook for the next day and put our presents under the tree. We never believed in Santa. We didn’t even have a chimney and the whole story never made any sense. When we shared a room, we would lay in our beds so excited that we couldn’t even sleep. The delicious smells wafting up from the kitchen, made our bellies rumble, and the anticipation of what might be waiting for us under the tree overwhelmed us. We talked and giggled all night. Every now and then mom would yell at us to go to sleep. But we just couldn't.

When Christmas morning would finally arrive, we would rush into our mother’s room to wake her up so she could watch us open our Christmas presents. However, the term “Morning” was relative. We would start approaching her room around 2 am. Then she would promptly send us back to bed. Finally, around 6 am, after multiple failed attempts, she would grudgingly get out of bed.

She would watch us excitedly open our gifts. We would then make a big production of presenting her with her gift. She would gush over it, no matter how odd it was. Then after an hour or so, she would return to her bed. We would stay up and play with our toys.

When I became an adult, I wanted to make some memories and traditions with the girls.

Boss Baby would help my mother decorate the tree. We would start putting the presents out several days in advance, and we would add a couple everyday as it got closer to Christmas. The girls never had to try to find the hiding spot, but they were always recounting the presents.

On Christmas Eve, my mom would make gingerbread houses with the girls. And for some reason, every year Ja’lah wanted to make sugar cookies. She didn’t even like sugar cookies. Nobody did. But they represented Christmas to her, so we indulged her. Every year. They were always hard as bricks, and nobody ever ate them. Then the girls would always get to open two presents, and those presents were always Christmas pajamas, and a movie to watch before they went to bed.

On Christmas day, when the girls opened their presents, my mom would make them pose with each gift so that she could take a picture. We literally have one billion Christmas pictures and counting. I always gave the girls a gag gift with money it. I loved watching their faces when they finally figured out the gag and found the money.

One thing that didn’t change from my childhood, was my anticipation of Christmas morning. I would still be so excited; I could hardly sleep. I would lie awake in my bed waiting for the girls to come to my room to wake me up. However, by 6am I would not be able to contain my excitement. I would end up going to their room, to drag them out of bed so I could watch them open presents.

Another thing that never changed…. on any given Christmas Eve at the Two Lemon Women household, you may hear someone randomly belt out “In my miiinnd!” IYKYK

Kitchen Science

Written By: Nakema Lemon

11/11/22

 As we approach Thanksgiving, there are a lot of posts on social media popping up about “low vibrational plates” (TikTok refence), and the most important part of the holiday. The meal. I am seeing videos of family meetings just to specifically discuss the Thanksgiving menu. And boy, the Big Ma’s and Grandma’s are arguing with the Aunties and Cousins about who is going to make the turkey, dressing and macaroni cheese. The hollowed trifecta of the traditional Black family Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t know if my family ever had these kinds of meetings. If we did, I was never invited.

We have lived away from our extended family for several years, so I can’t remember the last time we had Thanksgiving with anyone outside our own immediate family which is relatively small. However, my mom often still cooks like she is trying to feed all her siblings their children, their grandchildren, and so on.

So, because it is virtually impossible to make a small pan of dressing, we rarely have the traditional Thanksgiving menu. We haven’t had turkey and dressing in years.

This year will be the same. It will just be four of us so we’re trying to keep the menu simple. For my part, among other items, I am going to make rolls (my grandaddy’s rolls were legendary) and my grandmother’s famous 7up pound cake.

I generally see things in terms of math and science, including when it comes to cooking. There was a time when I never cooked, but over the last five years or so, I find myself cooking a lot. While the concept of cooking in of itself does not excite me, the thought of mixing together a bunch of ingredients to see what happens does. In fact, a lot of times when I am trying to make something new, I’ll get two or three different recipes and try to come up with my own creation. I end up with more hits than misses. Usually. However, there have been a number of times when the science experiment went terribly wrong.

Last thanksgiving, I attempted to make rolls. I wasn’t even trying to reach granddaddy status. I was just trying to make your basic dinner roll. Anyways, they turned out terrible. They were dry and hard. However, nobody would state the obvious. My brother is scared of me, so he wasn’t going to say anything. And my mother did the “mommy” thing where she tried to make me feel better by lying and saying they weren’t that bad. She actually tried to eat them. No amount of butter, honey or strawberry preserves could make those things edible. We eventually threw them out. I later realized I had added too much flour and had not kneaded the dough enough. So, I’m going to try it again this Thanksgiving, but I will have a back-up pack of rolls from the bakery on standby.

Now for the pound cake, I am much more confident that the final results will be favorable. I’ve made several over the years and they usually turn out pretty good. Not gramma good, but still good. However, that first time was a disaster. I called her up and got the recipe. She listed out the ingredients and their measurements and I wrote it all down. She said everything should be at room temperature when I started. Then she told me how to mix the dry ingredients, and the wet ingredients in separate bowls. One of the most important parts of the recipe was that you had to alternate when you added everything to the mixer. Dry ingredients, wet ingredients, and 7up. So, the next day, I bought my ingredients and then I attempted to make the cake. I started noticing something interesting with the cake batter after I added my second round of 7up. The batter was looking a little fizzy and frothy. Like a real science experiment. I got a little worried, but this was my grandmother’s recipe, so I decide to just trust the process. After everything was mixed, I poured it into a cake pan, and stuck it in the oven at the right temperature. When I checked in on it at the specified time, it still looked like cake soup, so I cooked it a little longer. Eventually it started to burn, but it still didn’t look like a cake. So, I showed it to my mom, and she did the mommy thing again, and said “Well at least it tastes good. We can still eat it.”

Eventually, I worked up enough nerve to call my grandmother and tell her I messed up the cake. She of course was dumbfounded. So, I replayed what I did, and then she gasped when I described how much 7up I added to the batter. I added 3.5 cups because I thought she said 3 or 4 cups. You know how our ancestors make food. They don’t measure anything. So, 3 or 4 cups sounded like something she would say. But what she actually said was ¾ cups of 7up. Which explains why I ended up with burnt cake soup.

So, while we whip up more science experiments at our home, we hope that everyone has the opportunity to have a wonderful meal this Thanksgiving.

Castor Oil

Written By: Shirley Lemon

11/8/2022

One of the worse memories of my childhood was about Castor Oil. My parents would line us all up after the Christmas holidays were over and give each of us three tablespoons of this nasty tasting remedy. They warmed it up and shoveled it into our mouths. They had this ridiculous rule that we were not allowed to throw it up. I broke that rule most of the time and there were penalties! Castor Oil! It was my enemy. It was the one dark spot that hung over the holiday season… because I knew that in the end it was coming for me. 

My mother said that castor oil was supposed to clean our systems of all the candy and other sweets we ate during the winter season. It’s true we did eat a lot of stuff. It started with Halloween. My brother and I went out trick or treating and we did not come home until our sacks were full of candy. We always had huge sacks. He had a system and it always gave us a maximum haul. Then there was Thanksgiving. Besides the turkey and dressing there was always tons of food. During Thanksgiving lots of vegetables and fruit were included in the meal so it could still be described as a healthy meal. 

However, at Christmas all the stops were pulled. My mother began cooking pies and cakes a full week before Christmas Day. The buffet cabinet and all other top surfaces in the kitchen and dining room were filled with desserts. There was a gigantic turkey and ham in the refrigerator and side dishes were crammed in around them. And then she cooked all day on Christmas Eve.  We were a family of eleven and so large amounts of food was always served. But Christmas was monumental. After a week of salivating over the smells and sight of the food being prepared we were like a bunch of  bulls charging from a stall running to the red flag. Food!

As a parent, I never tortured my children with Castor Oil. There were too many other remedies for colds, constipation, and broken bones. (My parents thought castor oil was the answer to all illnesses and injuries.) “Aw baby did you break your back?  Take some castor oil, you’ll be alright!”

In recent years I have found that there are other uses for this demon oil, I mean castor oil. It can be used on your hair and your skin. It contains healthy fatty acids and Vitamin E. It can be used to treat fungal infections and ring worms. Pregnant women have used it to induce labor. I could see why a baby would hurry up and be born when it finds out that the castor oil monster was coming for it. It was even used as a lubricant for bicycle pumps and jet engines.

There is an International Essential Oil Day in July. And yes, the vile Castor Oil is listed as one.  But looking at all the things this oil can do, maybe it should have a day to itself. A day where we as a nation stand together holding hands and drink the loathsome liquid.

Maybe Castor Oil might be the thing that can bring us all together. Yes, if this miracle oil can do so much, surely it can cleanse us of our feelings of anger and frustration. Can it stamp out racism? Would the red and blue join hands and find common ground? Could it bring peace, harmony, and good will to our great nation???

COULD IT?!

Having said all of that, the most important question is, “ Would I be willing to take the three odious tablespoons of Castor Oil needed to solve all the problems in the United States of America?”

If I have to keep it down, I think we are doomed y’all.

Living Single

Written By: Nakema Lemon

10/28/2022

My dad often tells the story of how he got a little sad the first time he held me as a newborn. He says he started thinking about how one day, he was going to have to give me away in marriage. Well, he needed not have fret. That never happened. Marriage was never in the plan for me.

Women, especially, are programmed almost at birth to seek marriage. Which, I think, is perfectly fine. I believe in the concept of the nuclear family, and I believe that statistically speaking, children tend to thrive better when conceived and raised within the confines of a healthy marriage. So that was my goal. I really wanted children (I have always loved children), and I wanted to wait until I was married.

The problem was, deep down inside, I never really wanted to get married. Marriage has always represented restriction and confinement to me. I was very young when my parents divorced so, I have very few memories of our home life when they were married. After my parents divorced it seem like everyone’s parents were divorced. Including many of my first cousins and a lot of my friends in the neighborhood.

When we were all little, we all loved to play together, and we were always asking to spend the night over somebody’s house. Whenever, I was in a home where there was only one parent, the atmosphere seemed to be much more relaxed. However, whenever a significant other was present (husband/wife or boyfriend/girlfriend), the opposite was true. The atmosphere was always more strained and stressed. The rules would always be different. Now of course, there are valid reasons why the rules might be different when there is a couple versus a single parent. But to my young brain it always seemed that when adults were coupled up and cohabitating there was less freedom for everyone involved.

But like most girls from my generation, I grew up praying for a husband. I would ask God to send me a husband with a list of attributes I believed I wanted. But I would always end the prayer with a disclaimer, “I don’t want to get married only to find myself wishing I was still single.”

Right before I turned thirty-nine, I found myself in a hapless relationship because I had started to panic. I was worried about my biological clock as well as the social stigma of being “40 and never married.” Nothing about the relationship made sense and to this day I still chastise myself for wasting the time. But I had been sold on this ideal that in order for my life to be complete, I needed to marry.

Now, God had already blessed me in so many ways. He gave me practically everything I asked for, including children (Ja’lah & LaiQuan, the true loves of my life.) The one thing that seemed to be elusive, was the husband.

One day, I had a lengthy conversation with my grandmother. She had been married for over fifty years. And while I know it wasn’t always smooth sailing, by the time my grandfather retired, and all the kids were gone they seemed to be really happy. I lived with them for a brief time after I left college, and I can honestly say that of all the married couples I’ve spent any significant time around, they were the sweetest. They doted on each other and never seem to bicker or argue. So, to say that my grandmother was pro-marriage is an understatement. But more than that, she was incredibly wise.

During our conversation, I expressed my desire to have a child, but I was getting concerned about my age and there were no prospects for a husband in sight. At first, she seemed taken aback. In her high pitched voice, she said something like “Do you really want a husband? Girl, you got a good life! You can do what you want and come and go as you please. You are living a blessed life. God has been good to you! If you want a baby, you can adopt one. If you really want a husband, then we’ll pray for a husband. But if you just want a baby, you don’t need a husband for that.” I was shocked! That was the last thing I was expecting to hear.

After I picked up my jaw off the floor, I realized that my grandmother was right. It didn’t make sense to get a whole husband when that was not what I really wanted. And as it turns out, I didn’t really need a baby either. Because except for the pregnancy part, I had already experienced motherhood.

So, at the end of the day, all along, not only was my life already complete, but God had indeed answered my husband prayer.

Arguing With My Mother

Written By: Nakema Lemon

10/14/22

One of my most favorite pastimes is arguing with my mother. She’ll probably tell you that it annoys her, but I disagree. I know she loves it. The mental sparring between us keeps her mind fresh and sharp!

I am an Aquarius, and aquarians like to argue just for arguing’s sake. As an auditor by profession, this personality trait has served me well. But in my personal life I don’t often get to debate with others because, well, there are no others. I am not social at all. I am the textbook definition of an extreme introvert. While I can generally be social and hold a conversation with just about anybody, social interactions wear me out.

Since, my mother is often the only person that I talk to she is usually the one that gets to benefit from my supreme debating skills. Even when I agree with her, which is most of the time, I have to pose a counter argument. It can get really ridiculous. It’s almost a compulsion. The good thing is, she doesn’t get upset. Most of the time the arguments are meaningless, and they often end in a draw. We never get offended or hold any type of grudge. A lot of times they end in fits of laughter because they were so absurd to begin with.

I do check in with her to make sure she still enjoys it just as much as I do (she enjoys it no matter what she tells you). Even at this big age, I never want her to be angry at me. If she ever tells me to cut it out, I would. Although, if I can’t argue with my mother, then my child might have to be the next victim, I mean sparring partner. Because I’ve got to do it with somebody. Ja’lah? Will you be ready?

Of course, I think my mother is brilliant and wise. And while, I may have more book knowledge in some areas, she is and will always be smarter than me. But I think that’s one of the reasons why I like to argue with her. Most top competitors like to compete against those who are better skilled because it helps improve their game.

I am not the only one who thinks highly of my mother’s intelligence and wisdom. Many people seek her advice on an array of topics. I am always pleased and even amazed with how she is able to give such wise council almost on demand off the top of her head. I like to think that some of it is because I always keep her on her toes with my brilliant arguments. She has to think quickly to be able to keep up with me (I crack myself up). So, if you’ve ever received good sage advice from my mom, you’re welcome.

Whenever we have to make life impacting decisions, for the most part, she lets me take the lead. And I haven’t led us astray yet. However, when she does disagree or have a different opinion about anything that really matters, I listen. Because not only do I believe she’s wiser, but I also know she is often guided by the Holy Spirit. And she hasn’t led us astray yet.

Arguing With My Daughter

Written By: Shirley Lemon

10/11/2022

This is a topic that I am sure every mother can relate to. Daughters think they know more than you. Am I right?

On subjects of real importance that deal with our daily lives my daughter and I are usually in agreement. On those occasions when we disagree, I give in to her most of the time. As long as it’s a good decision. Most of the time she has sensible ideas and a fresh perspective. Why question that? I raised her to be better than me. I am a proud mother.

But there are times that I know that if we don’t do it my way it will be detrimental to our wellbeing. Then I play the mother card because I am wiser than her.

I can’t pinpoint the moment that my daughter became a know-it-all. Maybe she has always been this way. Fortunately for me she grew up at a time when children didn’t give their opinions unless they were asked. So, if she thought she knew more than me back then she kept it to herself.  I think that she was just patiently waiting for the day when she could let loose. 

And let loose she has! If I say black, she will say white. If I say up, she will say down. Even if she begrudgingly agrees with me on an issue, she has to find a subsection of said issue to disagree with me about. On social and political issues there is always a lot of back and forth. Sometimes it might sound really serious to someone listening in, but for me it is just child’s play. She is my child after all. 

One thing I can say about us is that no matter how intense the dialogue gets, we don’t take it seriously. We both realize that neither of our opinions are going to change the world.  It’s just a chance to flex a few brain muscles and see who can hold on the longest. 

I never get angry. She asked me one day if she was annoying, always disagreeing with me. My answer was “Yes, very annoying, like a bee that keeps buzzing around my head. Sometimes I just want to swat it and make it go away.”

Being the wise and knowledgeable mother that I am, I am serene and composed as my daughter flutters around me thinking that she is surely going to win the next discussion. I have traveled this road much longer than she has. There is nothing new under the sun. You can dress it up, rearrange it, give it a new name… at the end of the day the truth will always remain the same.

I am her mother, and I am always right.

Clean The Kitchen

Written By: Nakema Lemon

9/16/2022

So far, mom and I have talked a little bit about the changes we’ve observed in each other as we’ve aged. And we’ve talked a little bit about how she raised my brother and me. So, let’s now talk about how I went from being her child to being grown. There was a shift in the hierarchy of our relationship.

Even after I turned eighteen, I was still the child in the relationship because she was still taking care of me. Then there was a period, where I would have considered us to be roommates. We lived together in an apartment where we shared expenses. At that time, her income far exceeded mine and therefore she paid the bigger share. Even though we were past the stage of her telling me what to do, there still seemed to be this lateral hierarchy. I was still her child, just her adult child.

To be clear, my mom let go of the parental reigns right away. She supported me and my brother as much as she could, but she recognized us as adults and did not try to control our life decisions. Now that doesn’t mean she didn’t share her opinions or lecture us when she did not approve, especially when our choices impacted her directly (ma, can I borrow….), however; she recognized that it was our own lives to live as we saw fit.

Fast forward to 1999, when my mother came to live with me. This time, I was the sole financial provider. This led to the shift, although I didn’t realize it at first. When she indicated she wanted to move in with me, there was never any discussion about how we would manage. We just naturally fell into a rhythm. I was working and going to school. I would take care of all the finances (pay all the bills), and she would take care of the house (cook and clean) and kids.

One night, I came home from school after 9pm. I was exhausted. She mentioned that there was food on the stove if I wanted to eat, but then the conversation got really weird. She stated that she hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up the kitchen because she was tired and not feeling her best. Now my first thought was she was going to ask me to clean it. Which would have not been an issue, except that I was tired too. I had worked all day and then sat through a 90-minute class. The last thing I wanted to do was clean up the kitchen. But, while I was sitting there trying to think of a way to tell my mother I didn’t want to do it (something I had never done in my entire life), she says:

“Do you mind if I clean up the kitchen tomorrow?”

Let me tell you. I was confused, concerned, flabbergasted, and dumbfounded. My Mother was asking Me if she could do something. I’m going to be honest; I don’t even remember how I responded because I think I blacked out. I believe I offered to do it instead, but she said she didn’t want me to because she knew I was tired.

My first concern was whether I had done something to make her feel like she needed to do the dishes or else. Had I been too overbearing now that I was controlling the purse strings? Which was laughable in those days because the purse was always empty. Then I was worried that it might be something more serious, like maybe she was sick, and had forgotten that she was the mother, and I was the child. This troubled me for a few days. I watched her and I watched me very closely. Because one of us was off.

But one day we were discussing a big financial decision, and I asked her opinion. She gave her insight but then said, “Ultimately, it’s your decision. ” That is when it hit me. Oh, my momma thinks I’m grown grown. We were in the midst of another hierarchical shift. This time the line was horizontal. And it has remained that way for many years.

Now that we are both getting older, I feel another shift happening. I’m not going to try to predict when it will happen or what the final results will be. But since I’ve been semi-retired, guess who’s now cleaning the kitchen?

The Men All Pause

Written By: Nakema Lemon

9/1/2022

In 1984 the R&B group Kylmaxx released their hit song The Men All Pause. I was 13 at the time, and I remember they played it everywhere including our middle school dances. The girls loved the song because it was a true ladies’ anthem. As soon as those drums kicked in, we would all start strutting to the dance floor. “Don’t you know the men all pause, when I walk into the room.” That was the jam, and you couldn’t tell us nothing. The boys on the other hand turned the song into a joke. To them, “men all pause” sounded like the word “menopause”. That was the joke.

 So, let’s talk about menopause, shall we. It is a biological phenomenon that happens when the ovaries stop producing functioning eggs or when they are removed. Menopause will happen to everyone with ovaries at some point if they live long enough. Most of us are familiar with the symptoms, you can look them up if you’re not. My biggest most severe symptoms have been night sweats and mood changes.

 With the night sweats, there is nothing worse than waking up in the middle of the night freezing to death because your sheets are soaking wet. I start off feeling so hot that, I don’t want anything touching my skin, but then I get literal chills after I’ve sweated everything out. This goes on all night. Back and forth, hot then cold. So, if you think I look tired all the time, this is why.

 Now the mood changes are something else entirely. I can get so irrationally angry, that it’s a little scary. Sometimes I even get on my own nerves. I remember seeing an interview with David & Tamela Mann. They have been married around 30years. They were discussing how David noticed changes in Tamela before she did, because she was having a lot of mood swings. He was the one who insisted that she go to the doctor because she wasn’t acting like herself. I appreciated the fact that instead of getting angry with her or blaming her, he recognized that something was different, and he wanted to get her some help.

 My mom has been living with me since 1999, and she birthed me into this world, so she knows me better than anyone. One day she said to me “It’s like we’re living through your terrible twos. You literally just threw a real live tantrum like a toddler”. In her defense, I got mad because someone had left something on top of the trash can. I started yelling and threw the offensive item across the room. In my defense, why didn’t they just put the item in the trash can? They were right there! All they had to do was step on the lever to open the lid and drop the item in! Now B.M., (before menopause), I would have just made a sarcastic remark and thrown the item away. But D.M., (during menopause), I remember feeling so angry that I wanted to scream (and I think I did). My mom just chuckled and said something like, “Yeah, I recognize this. I think we’re starting to get some menopausal symptoms.” Now B.M., I would have chuckled with her, and we probably would have cracked a few jokes. But D.M., I was highly offended and confused. How did she not understand that I was justified in my anger about the trashcan. So, I got even angrier, and stormed off to my room and slammed the door. I did not come out again until the next day.

 I wish I could say that was the worst of it. I have had breakdowns at my house, other people’s houses, the store, the parking lot, etc. When I feel the wave of irrational anger coming on, I try to isolate myself. I spend a lot of time alone in my bedroom. When I’m not able to get away, my mom will literally try to talk me down like a two-year-old. “Calm down, Nakema. Tell me what it is you want.” It can get really ridiculous.

 The beauty of the whole thing is that she’s been through this before. She has nothing but empathy because she understands. So, from time to time, when I forget myself and snap at her it doesn’t always bring out the old Shirley Ann (the one who would have popped me for talking back.) Instead, she remains calm and tries to talk me down. If I piss her off though, a little of the old Shirley Ann surfaces, and she’ll snap back. We never go back in forth (even D.M., I’m not insane), so instead I go to my room to calm down. Even if it takes a day or two, I always apologize. I feel terrible when I upset her.

 It is a blessing to have someone who’s been through it before and doesn’t hold it against you when you act a little bit out of character (ok maybe a lot). She knows this isn’t the real me and that it’s just the “Men All Pause.”

 Side note: My brother says he doesn’t see a difference. According to him, I’ve always been scary.

The Menopause Monster

Written By: Shirley Lemon

8/20/2022

When my daughter was a baby, she was a happy, healthy little bundle of joy. She did not cry or fret about anything. She was almost always happy. When you walked into her room, she would flash her dimples and laugh. She loved music and Sesame Street. Never fretful. Not through teething, or colds or even the terrible twos. In fact, she was never terrible at any time during early childhood. I didn’t experience the terrible twos until her brother came along. He embraced his terrible twos with gusto. He is two years younger than her, and it was his mission to make sure I did not miss out on all the fun. Maybe it was necessary training for what was to come.

 When my mother started menopause, I remember that my father went to the doctor with her to discuss this new phase in her life. Menstrual pain and labor pains were not enough. No, now as the body transitions from a baby making machine, you have to experience some final torture and indignity of the mind, body, and soul. They came home with a bunch of pamphlets explaining this phenomenon called Menopause. I sat down and read them. I didn’t fully understand what it was saying at the time, but it was an interesting read. I understood it better when I began to see some of the symptoms exhibit themselves in my mother. The hot flashes were bad, but the mood swings were much worst. On those days you didn’t want to be in her line of sight when it hit her. 

 It’s no joke. I have heard horror stories about the things that some women have had to endure going through this cycle of life. It’s not the same for everyone. Some blessed women have very mild symptoms. I asked a close friend if she had gone through menopause.  I had never heard her complain about the effects it was having on her. She responded, “Yes, I went through it last year.”

 Wait… what?  Last year?  “You only had one year of menopause, and it was over? What heavenly connection do you have? And could you please put in a good word for me so that my suffering will be over?”

 When I went through menopause I just had to grin and bear it. The symptoms were bad but tolerable. My children were grown so I only had to take care of me. My biggest issue was just getting through each workday so that I could go home, close my doors, and be left alone. I didn’t take any medication to help me. It was a cold turkey, let’s just do this, kind of deal. I made it through. 

 Then my daughter started menopause. She has gone from being the sweet, happy, calm, stable young woman to literally Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She has had a really rough time. The night sweats and chills are bad. But the worst thing that I see in her are the mood swings! Godzilla reborn! I was watching her have a tantrum one day for no good reason other than she just felt like it, when it hit me. The terrible two’s have finally arrived in my 50-year-old daughter. The reasonable woman that used to be my daughter is gone. She has been replaced for the time being with an exasperating alien being from planet Menopause! 

 She can’t always be contained. I have found myself explaining to family members who she comes in contact with that Nakema is not available right now. Menopause woman has replaced her and will be residing in her body until further notice.   

 She is a strong woman. She will get through it. It is another milestone in the cycle of life. I am happy that I am here for her and can support her while she swims through these waters. In the meantime, I will gird up my loins for this ongoing challenge. 

I Was Raised to Be Human

Written By: Ja’lah Lemon

8/12/2022

I didn’t have a traditional childhood (although in today’s times nontraditional is the new tradition.) I was raised by my grandmother and my paternal aunt. I was the first child, grandchild, and niece, so my birth was a big deal. I was told that I was spoiled. In fact, my great grandma used to say I was “ruint” (her word for spoiled), and some of my family members still call me “Princess Ja’lah” to this day. I don’t think I was spoiled. I was just extremely loved and cherished, and maybe a little bit catered to.

 When I was very young, my gramma and auntie worked a lot. They would have to work their schedules around me and there were many times when I got to hang out at one of their jobs, while we waited for the other one to get off. They both pampered me. But I was not spoiled. They made me feel like I was the center of their universe. But I was not spoiled. They showered me with gifts on my birthdays and Christmas. They were always buying me new clothes and pretty dresses. I used to love my pretty dresses. But I was not spoiled.

My gramma stopped working when I was around six or seven. While that meant there was less money (although it didn’t feel like it), that meant there was more time with gramma. My auntie traveled a lot for work, so a lot of times it was just the two of us. In those early years, I even shared a bedroom with my gramma. When we lived in two-bedroom apartments, gramma and I would share the master bedroom, and auntie would take the smaller room. We often would sit up in the bed eating snacks and watching scary shows like Tales from the Crypt or Interview with The Vampire (still one of my most favorite movies to date.) My gramma would let me cuddle or lay on her as much as I wanted (still does), and she never seemed to mind when I would talk her ear off (still doesn’t). Eventually, I did get my own room but then I had to share it with my little sister. 

For the first seven years of my life, I had them both to myself. When my sister was born just a few months shy of my eighth birthday, things changed. I had to learn to share EVERYTHING including their time and attention. My gramma and auntie still pampered me, but they pampered her as well.

While sometimes having a little sister could be a pain, it did add balance to our family group. Even in some of the simplest ways - like when we sat at a booth in a restaurant. I would sit with my gramma and my sister would sit with my auntie and no one had to sit alone. That was always our dynamic. The two of us and the two of them. Some of my favorite memories of our foursome include game and/or movie nights, road trips and visits to amusement parks. 

I didn’t really get spankings. However, I got hollered at a lot by my gramma and she would sometimes put me on the standard types of punishment like losing phone and computer privileges. My auntie, on the other hand, would make me do extreme household chores, like cleaning walls and scrubbing floors. Other times she would make me read bible chapters or write thousand-word essays. Needless to say, I was not a fan of Auntie’s punishments, because WHY?! 

My gramma and auntie were/are spiritual but not religious. They didn’t make us go to church every Sunday. However, we did have bible study practically every week. They would make me, and my sister take turns reading and leading prayer. My gramma would anoint our foreheads with prayer oil. She would pray for us whenever we went to visit family or just to hang out with friends. Whenever they would do a forty day fast, we would participate by giving up things like chips or candy - I was too skinny to give up anything significant.

They were not super strict when I was a teenager. They gave me a car when I was sixteen and I had a little part-time job. I could pretty much come and go as I pleased as long as I kept my grades up, followed curfew, and checked in frequently. They were strict about how I dressed, though. Crops tops, “booty shorts,” and miniskirts were not allowed until after I turned eighteen. Even when I turned eighteen, I still wasn’t allowed to wear any of it when I was around them. 

They were very open when it came to discussions around sex and contraception. We also had a drinking and driving pact. Instead of driving while intoxicated, I promised to call them no matter the circumstance and they would come get me, no questions asked.

Not going to college was never a choice. They began preparing me for it from the beginning. They did not play around about my grades in school. I was often rewarded when I did well. Starting in kindergarten up through the first or second grade, my Auntie would give me a dime or a quarter for every workpaper that had a perfect score. If I wanted designer clothes or shoes or something expensive, my Auntie would say bring me a 3.5 or a 4.0 on your next report card and I’ll get it for you. If I brought home a C, I got a lecture. “You can do better. You just need to study.” If I brought home anything less than a C, there were consequences and repercussions. Needless to say, that only happened once or twice.

My gramma and auntie tried to arm me with all the tools I would need to not only survive but thrive. They taught me how to set goals, make lists, and plan ahead. By watching them, I learned how to be kind and show compassion. All in all, they raised me to be a good Human.

I Was Raised to Be Heathen

Written By: Nakema Lemon

8/11/2022

A heathen is defined as “person who does not belong to a widely held religion (especially one who is not a Christen, Jew, or Muslim) as regarded by those who do.

This definition does not apply, because I was raised to be and still identify as a Christian.

 Heathen is also synonymous with the word uncivilized. I have an aunt that is only nine years older than me, and she would often get stuck watching me and my cousins when we stayed at grandma’s house. Whenever we got a little unruly, she would yell in her high-pitched voice and refer to us as a bunch of wild heathens. So, for the purposes of this article, this is the definition we’re going with.

Now to be clear, Shirley Ann did not play. There was order in our home. She did not spare the rod and to this day when she throws a certain look or uses a certain tone, my brother and I still fall in line. My mom could be very stern, but she wasn’t always strict. We had to follow her rules and show her respect, or there would be hell to pay. However, she chose not to inflict on us some of the strict rules she endured and hated when she was growing up.

My parents divorced when me and my brother were very young, so we grew up in a single parent household. For the most part, we were latchkey kids and were often responsible for getting ourselves up and ready for school, preparing our own meals and keeping up with our chores. We had to clean the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom daily. We were also responsible for doing the wash and taking out the trash every week. While we had to keep up with our chores, she didn’t force us to make up our beds every day or even keep our rooms clean. As long as the rest of the house was clean (relatively speaking, since my brother and I were doing the cleaning), she didn’t care if we wanted to sleep in a pig pen (her words).

On the weekends she would allow us to sleep in. When we woke up, we could watch cartoons until they went off, usually around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Then we were allowed go outside and play until the streetlights came on. Her philosophy was that if we worked hard during the week, we deserved to rest on the weekends. She didn’t even make us go to church on Sundays.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. No church?? But my brother and I got plenty of church whenever we visited our grandparents or dad. After growing up in such a strict religious household where all they did was go to church, she decided she wasn’t going to force her children to do the same. I later learned that on some of the weekends we weren’t home, she would slip into the back of a local church to get her fix. She eventually emersed herself fully back into the church when my grandfather became a Pastor and by that time, my brother and I were teens/young adults.

Another thing she hated during her childhood, and never forced us to do, was eating together at the dinner table. Usually by the time she got home from work, we had already eaten. When we did eat together, it was often with her in her room because she had the big color TV. Some of my favorite memories were when my mom would get off work, and we would go to the video store and pick out four or more videos (they were two for a $1). Then we would head to the corner store get our snacks. Candy, chips, and pop. Then she would take us to three different fast-food restaurants so that we could each get what we wanted. Burgers for my brother, chicken for my mother and Tubby’s Submarines (a MI delicacy) for me. Then we would pile up in my mom’s bed with our food and snacks and watch movies all night.

Hanging out with our mother was always fun. She took us to drive-in movie theaters or the park. She would take off the T-Tops on her Cutlass Supreme and we would cruise around the city of Detroit. We could listen to whatever kind of music we wanted to as long as it wasn’t rap. She hated rap music. Still does. For some reason, the only rapper she has anything positive to say about is Common and she always gets Kanye and Diddy mixed up. On our birthday’s we would go to our favorite restaurants Maria’s (Italian) for me, Xochimilco’s (Mexican) for my brother and Kitty’s (Chinese) for my mom. Even though we were broke most of the time, mom always found a way to make us feel like we were living it up.

She wasn’t too strict about what I wore as long as it wasn’t too short, tight, or revealing. I got my first pair of kitten heels when I was ten or eleven. She let me wear makeup (eyeliner on the bottom lid and lip gloss) at fifteen.

I was also allowed to start dating at fifteen. I had one boyfriend throughout high school. He was allowed to come over as long as someone else was at the house. I had reasonable curfews that got later each year. However, my brother (who was two years younger!!) got to stay out later when he was old enough to date. He was given extra time to make sure his date got home first. I called BS, but she didn’t care. Even my liberal mother sometimes fell victim to the patriarchy. Don’t get me started on how she bought him condoms, but that benefit was never extended to me. But I digress.

Overall, my mother raised me to be an independent and resourceful woman, by demonstrating daily that she did not need a mate to take care of us. I watched her time and time again, work her way through set back after set back. No matter how hard it got, we always had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs and food in our bellies. Statistically, I’m sure we fell somewhere below the poverty line, but she made sure we had a very rich life. There is nothing I would change about my childhood, and I know my brother feels the same way.

When my girls were born, my mom and I co-parented them. With a desire to give our girls a better life (as most parents do), we raised our girls to be Human.

I Was Raised to Be Holy

Written By: Shirley Lemon

8/9/2022

I had a very sheltered childhood. My parents were extremely religious. That meant that everything outside our doors and our church was “of the devil”. Literally. I am convinced that the only reason we were allowed to go to school was because it was the law. We had to obey the law. It’s in the bible.

In my humble opinion, because we were taught to be humble… my parents took their charge to make us holy a teeny tiny bit too far. The answer to everything was no.

“Can I go see a movie?”

 “No.” 

“Can I visit my friend?”

“No”. 

“Can I paint my nails?”

“No.” 

“Can I listen to some music?”

“No, if it’s not gospel music.”

“Can I breathe?” 

“Only if it’s good clean Christian air.”

When I was four my father would take my brother and sisters to the movies. He told me I could go when I turned five. Wouldn’t you know it, that just before I turned five, he found Jesus and going to the movies became a sin.

I had to dress holy. I wore dresses and skirts that were well below the knee. I was always completely covered from the neck down. It’s a good thing I lived in the mid-west and most of the time the weather was conducive to my attire. In the dog days of summer, I just had to suffer. I was not allowed to wear pants until I was 12. Word from heaven must have finally reached the church that it was no longer necessary to dress like a nun. Somebody in the church told my parents the good news. Some of the “Saints” must have had to test the theory before they passed it to us church peons because their kids had been wearing pants long before we were allowed. Or perhaps my parents wanted to watch and see if anybody was struck by lightning before they gave us the ok.

I grew up in Motown. Motown was at its heights when I was a child. One of the things we siblings collaborated on was watching for when the coast was clear, and the parents were out of the house. Then we could turn on the music. We would all gather in the living room and dance and sing until we were tired or until we heard the car pull up into the driveway. Whichever came first. It was so much fun. Once or twice, we got caught. My parents would circle back home and sneak up on us to see what we were doing. They say they had forgot something, but I think not. All of us who danced together were punished together.

The bible says, “He that spareth his rod hateth his son!”. They must have really loved us because I can assure you that the rod was never spared in our house.

My parents believed that keeping us busy at home would keep us from getting into trouble in the streets. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop”!

My father was a WWII veteran. He bought his military training home with him.

We got up every morning at 6am. Even on weekends and in the summer. My father was an early riser, since his childhood. Even after he retired, he would get up every morning at 3 am. So, he probably thought he was letting us sleep late.

We had all of our meals together around the dining room table. We made our beds and had to fix our sheets like they did in the military. My father showed us how they did it. And we cleaned every room in the house. We had schedules so that everybody knew when it was their turn to do a job.

When you washed clothes, you washed for the whole family. Everything was done by hand. Clothes were hung outside on lines. It had to be done in batches because you couldn’t get all of the clothes and linen of a family as big as ours on the lines at one time. It took the entire day to complete the job. On weekends and in the summer, I went into the basement after breakfast, came upstairs for lunch and returned to the job until evening. There was a lot of clothes every week.

Washing the dishes took forever. There was a lot of dishes. We had to clean the walls and cabinets, along with the refrigerator and stove and mop the floor. Everything had to be dried and put away before you left the kitchen. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”. 

My parents bought a home when I was twelve and they purchased a washer and dryer. That made things a lot better. I think God must have told them that it was ok.

We spent a lot of time at church. Twice on Sundays, every Tuesday, and Friday. If there was a revival it was Monday thru Friday. Then there was the Purity Class for teenagers. There we learned how to be pure. You know, sit right, dress right, talk right. We learned how to be proper ladies and gentlemen. Wednesday night choir rehearsal. I actually liked singing in the choir.

In those days, my father was a Deacon in the church. So, our lucky (I mean blessed) family was always first to arrive and last to leave. Yeah, good times.

The devil could not get to us because my parents had all angles covered.

The few spare minutes that I had I used to read. We would gather together on the few evenings we had free and watch tv. Usually, it was something that I had little interest in. My father loved baseball, boxing, westerns, and the nightly news. Good holy togetherness!

The point that they wanted us to lead Godly lives has not escaped any of us. We have a Pastor, evangelists, missionaries, deacons, Sunday school teachers and a worship leader among us siblings. We all believe in living holy.

After I left home and married, I followed their path for a while. But I have discovered over the years that I can be holy without being at the church every time the church doors open. I am only speaking for myself. I remember a song they used to sing in church “Take the Lord Along with You Every Where You Go.” That is what I do. I could preach a sermon here because I am qualified. But I won’t. What I will say is this; “Him who the Son has set free is free indeed.”

My parents raised us the way they thought was right. There were nine rambunctious kids running around that house. They did the best they could with what they had to work with. With hindsight I am thankful.

 When my children were born, I scrapped many of the practices I was raised with. I have a small family. Two children. I chose a different approach to raising them.

I raised my children to be Heathen.

You Just Like Your Mama

Written By: Nakema Lemon

8/4/2022

One day when I was in my late forties, my mom said, “Oh my goodness, you’re turning into me.” I swelled up with pride before I realized she more than likely did not mean it as a compliment. While I don’t quite remember the incident that triggered the comment, I am almost certain I was not demonstrating any of my most endearing qualities in that moment.

 See, on the day that I turned forty-six, it seemed like menopause descended down on me in all its full-blown glory, complete with hot flashes, severe mood swings and bouts of unreasonableness. So, I am almost certain that when my mother said, “Oh my goodness, you’re turning into me.” I must have been trippin (acting out).

 When I was a child, I had a reputation for being a “good kid,” but I could sometimes be a little bit mouthy. We called it “talking back.” Now I never talked back to my mother. I was not insane. However, I was not afraid to talk back to others. Sometimes I did it when I felt the need to defend myself. For example, there were certain people who would always comment on my weight. I was an adorable (says my dad), but chubby child (still am). I can’t tell you how many times these people would make comments like, “You would be so beautiful if you just lost some weight.” Or they would just make crude references about my size, and I would feel compelled to respond in kind.

 Other times, I talked back simply because I was a smart aleck. I was a know-it-all (still am), with stellar skills in sarcasm and wisecrakery. Sometimes when I bucked up to certain people, they would often reply in a snide tone, “You just like your mama!” Because, well you know, I got it from my momma. If I am the queen of comebacks, my mother is the empress of going off. Don’t mess with Shirley Ann.

 The irony of it all was that while they meant it as an insult, I took it as a huge compliment. If the goal was to in some way try to shame me, it had the opposite effect. I felt emboldened and even empowered because I have always wanted to be just like my momma. She is beautiful, nurturing, smart, spiritual, talented, resourceful…I could go on and on.

 My brother, and I will tell anyone who will listen, that we have the best mother in the world. She did not spoil us (she didn’t have the means to) and she did not spare the rod…at all (one day I’ll tell you about the ping pong paddles), but she always made us feel like we were her number one priority. She gave us her love, time, and attention. Money was always a struggle, but she always made a way.

 One day our car broke down in a parking lot. We were stranded on the east side of Detroit (we lived on west side). She didn’t have AAA, and she would not have been able to afford a tow truck. She called my uncle from a payphone (remember those?). He agreed to pick us up, but we had to wait for him to get off work in four hours. So, we had to sit in the car for four hours, on the scary side of town and it was starting to get dark. My brother and I began to get antsy and nervous, and there may have been some whining involved. The car was facing the side of the building, so it looked like a blank wall. My mom, told us to look at the wall and pretend like we were at the drive-in. We each had to make up scenes in the movie. By the time we finished, our imaginary movie was a combination of Star Wars, Fame, Jaws, and The Exorcist. We laughed and scared ourselves silly. Before we knew it, my uncle was pulling up in the parking lot.

 I have a million stories like this because our mom was and still is awesome. I still want to be like her when I grow up. So, when anyone, including her, tries to insult me with “You just like your mama!” my response will always be “THANK YOU!!”

I Want to Be a Gramma

Written by: Nakema Lemon

7/7/2022

I have started fantasizing about becoming a grandmother. In fact, most of my FYP on TikTok is videos of babies and toddlers having fun with their grandparents. I especially love the ones where the children are quick to kick their parents to the curb when grandma is on the scene. Now of course, there is the possibility I may never become a grandmother. That’s fine. If my daughter doesn’t give me a grandchild, I have two nephews. I’m sure at least one of them is going to make me a great-auntie. Close enough.

I think one of the reasons I have become fascinated with becoming a grandmother has to do with the fact that my rank in the hierarchy of the family has changed. My parents and their siblings are now the matriarchs and patriarchs of the family, and my cousins and I have now become our parents. In fact, several of my first cousins are already grandparents. There are even a couple that have great grands! My mom became a grandmother at 39 and my grandmother was also in her late thirties/early forties when she became one. I am in my fifties, so I am a little behind the Eightball here. I know that many women have chosen to have children in their forties and fifties so there is no specific age. For me it’s less about the timing and more about being in the season of grandparent-hood.

I, as well as my children were fortunate enough to experience the love and wisdom of three generations, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. My great-grandmother lived until I was a teenager. My oldest and youngest were twenty and thirteen years old respectively, when their great-grandmother passed away. Having these women in our lives as long as we did was a blessing and I know not everyone has been so blessed.

When I was little, my grandmother would take me, my brother and cousin down south to North Carolina to visit her mother. We will call her Grandma D. She looked a lot like my grandmother, and she had long beautiful grey hair. I was a little scared of her at first. It was hard to fathom that there was someone who outranked my gramma. Because everybody stood at attention when my grandmother spoke, even granddaddy. But when my grandmother responded to Grandma D with “yes ma’am,” I knew this lady was important.

The first time I visited her, I ended up sleeping in the bed with Grandma D. I can’t remember if my cousin and brother were with me or if they were in other rooms, but I do remember being scared. I was in a house that was not familiar, and I was convinced my own grandmother had abandoned me. But I survived that first night. She turned out to be very sweet and the next morning she made a huge breakfast. One of the best I ever had. After that, I came to the conclusion that she was just another wonderful grandmother.

The funniest memory I have, is one time when Grandma D visited us in Detroit. We were watching “All My Children.” When an intimate scene popped up on the screen, Grandma D started giggling. She then said to my grandmother, “That’s how me and N do it.”  N was her second husband. I kept thinking; do they know that I’m sitting here? I was young, but old enough to understand what she was insinuating. Well, I turned into a statue. I didn’t move a muscle. I was afraid that if they remembered that I was there, I would somehow get into trouble. Even though they were the ones doing all the giggling. Needless to say, I couldn’t look Grandpa N directly in the eye for a while.

Anyway, there is just something special about grandmothers. I was blessed to have wonderful relationships with both my grandmothers. My father’s mother died when I was twenty-eight. I was forty-one when my mother’s mother died so we had more time together and we grew to be very close. In my eyes, she could do nothing wrong (especially after we got past the “bring me a switch” stage). Even as a grown woman her hugs and kisses meant everything. Her wisdom was otherworldly, and I just loved listening to her speak. Though no two people could be closer than me and my own mother, even Shirley Ann knew she could get kicked to the curb when my gramma was on the scene. My daughter is the same way. The only time I get the call is when her gramma doesn’t answer the phone, or she needs money.

If I am blessed to become a grandmother, I am going to be ridiculous. My grand(s) will be beyond spoiled because I’m pulling out all the gramma stops. I am definitely going to be the favorite. Sorry to the other grandparents. I’m envisioning glorious temper tantrums whenever my daughter comes to pick them up. “I want to stay with my gramma!” So, just step aside when you see me and my grandbabies on the scene (in our matching fits), because we will be kicking everybody to the curb.

Trading Places

Witten by: Nakema Lemon

7/1/2022

Not too long ago, my mother made two different statements on the same day.

“When I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, my mother’s face was staring right back at me.”  

“On my goodness, you are turning into me!”

Lately, I’ve become pointedly aware of this interesting position I now find myself. Not only am I watching myself age, but I am literally observing in real time as my mom becomes my grandmother, I become my mother and my daughter becomes me. I am nineteen years younger than my mother, and my daughter is twenty years younger than me. We are each aging gracefully within our individual generations, and it is fascinating to watch.

With the passing of my grandmother (my last living grandparent) in 2012 there was a shift in the hierarchy of our family. A changing of the guard if you will. My mom became the matriarch of our branch of the family. And now that my daughter is in her thirties, when the three of us are together, I get little flashbacks of the times my mom and I spent with my grandmother. Whenever we were together, we would just automatically fall into our respective roles. My mother would act as the manager in charge of dictating the schedule and itinerary. I would act as the dutiful assistant, chauffer, and gopher. And Gramma was the star (no act). It was all about her. I miss my Gramma!! She was everything!

Now, the relationship between the three of us is somewhat different than the relationship between the three of us. My mother’s matriarchal branch is closer and tighter knit than my grandmother’s. We are closer in age and closer in proximity (my mom, daughter and I lived together until she went off to college). It was just the three of us for many years, and then when my youngest was born it became the four of us (until my youngest joined my grandmother in heaven). It was never like that with my grandmother. We were close but we always had to share her with a legion of children, grands, and greats.

 We are now back into this mode of just the three of us. My mother and I still live together, and we communicate with my daughter almost daily. Because of the losses we’ve experienced I think we’ve all tried to be as present as we can each moment we’re together. We know how fleeting these moments can be. Because I have been so intentional in mentally making and recording memories, I often feel like I am watching my daughter travel up a road that I have already been down, while watching my mother navigate the road ahead.

Not too long ago my daughter made two different statements on the same day.

“I’m grown now.”

“I’m becoming Auntie!” (My daughter calls me Auntie).

Literally trading places in real time. It’s fascinating to watch.