Live. Don’t Die. Declare God’s Glory

  By Bummi Niyonu Anderson | December 11, 2012 - 12:47 PM |
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I was struck to my core a few days ago when I had a chance encounter with a young man who, as he showed me his wrist, told me he had attempted suicide numerous ways to no avail. Let’s call him Darwin. I immediately pondered in my heart exactly what was relevant to say to him at the time, knowing full well, this one moment could undoubtedly transcend a lifetime. I felt a connection to this person because, in him, I saw myself. I’ve been unsure, felt unloved, deeply depressed, among other things. I battled suicidal thoughts throughout my teens and early college years. Seemingly, every time I felt I was at my breaking point, a hand or encouraging words pulled me out of great despair. I struggled with not belonging, always feeling like I was some sort of misfit. I believed I would never be compatible with the regularity of life so I wanted out. If life was a circle, I was a square. Those who knew me intimately knew of the strangeness I felt, but did they really know? In my own mind, I was better off dead than alive.

Fast forward to my early life as a Christian: I loved God, but struggled to know if He really loved me. Not only did I struggle with God’s love, I struggled with loving myself. I found myself right back in the thick of despair, longing and wanting to throw in the towel. Life was too hard. My dream of being a world class writer was going absolutely nowhere. I had reached the perfect time to bow out of life and I believed no one would notice.

One night I decided it was time. I took an OTC medicine for allergies. This medicine always put me to sleep so I expected the same result. I figured I’d drive out to the church I attend because I felt the distance would give me enough time to fall asleep at the wheel. After taking the medicine, I waited a while before I got into my car. I didn’t leave a note. My plan was to fall asleep and run off the road or into another vehicle. As I drove, my eyes opened as soon as they closed. I told God if I made it to my church, it would be because He wanted me to live.  The distance seemed so short, shorter than it had ever been. As much as I felt I wanted to die, I couldn’t. In as much as I thought I should die, I didn’t.

I unlocked the door to the church. I went inside, awake beyond imagination. I went to the altar. I prayed. I worshiped. I wept. I wanted to know why I was still here. How could a life I felt was going nowhere be practically indestructible? Even I couldn’t destroy it. It was in that moment, I understood my worth. There had to be something in me worth saving. I was worth saving, and even though at times I am challenged by life, I know I am supposed to be here.

My message to Darwin: you are supposed to be here! You are in the plan of God! I told Darwin to live. Don’t die. Declare God’s glory! No matter the adversity we face or the challenges we endure, inside of each of us is a strength that is unparalleled. Finding and drawing from that strength may at times seem insurmountable, but by no means is it impossible. Don’t be a prisoner of your own fears/inadequacies nor a slave to the perceptions of others. Get more out of life. Live! I’m glad I did.

*If you or someone you know needs help, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Those Who Don’t Know Their History Are Doomed

  By Bummi Niyonu Anderson | November 26, 2012 - 10:51 PM |
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Photo Credit: Femi Anderson

I recently sat in on a girls’ mentoring session. My sister founded this organization and I serve as a mentor. I was asked to come share with the girls about the importance of Black History. I began by asking them why they felt knowing black history was important. Although mumbled, I got a few replies albeit many of the general kind. Almost every answer was the same: “it’s important because it’s important to know where you came from.”  I went on to give them a little quiz. I asked, “Who is Dwayne Carter?” They replied, “Lil’ Wayne!” I asked, “Who is Ralph Bunche?” Looking puzzled, they asked, “Who?” I went on to tell them that Ralph Bunche was a diplomat who worked at the United Nations and was the first black person to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Not Dr. King. “Oh,” they said. Then I asked them about another rapper. They knew him too. I then countered with, “Who is Sonja Sanchez?” Sadly, they had no clue. I wondered aloud how can someone say knowing their history is important and not know much of the history at the same time. Is it possible to know it’s important yet it be not important enough? Yes! I went on to tell them, with a deep sense of frustration in my voice tone, how my parents had raised my twin and me. How growing up in the 1970s, we hardly saw blacks in a positive light on TV or in magazines. I shared them that we never owned a white doll, not for any reason other than my parents wanted us to see ourselves in everyday, ordinary things. My parents were both involved in the Civil Rights Movement so we were brought up to value all people. We were also encouraged to value ourselves, to know our history, and to appreciate the beauty of our darker skin. I went on to tell them about the first book I ever read relating to black history. At the age of 6, I read about Martin Luther King Jr.’s life as a kid. I could still vividly recall going into the library and choosing that book. For as long as I can remember, knowing my history has always been important to me. Knowing my cultural significance has shaped me, influenced many of my decisions, including my personal mandate not to embarrass the race. I can’t embarrass what I cherish. I can’t disgrace what I value. I can’t deny what I know.

What I learned from that experience with these young ladies is to somehow pass this knowledge on others. We, as a people, cannot depend on our school districts to take the responsibility. Apparently, such exposure is lacking in our homes. Black kids need to know where they come from. They need to look into the faces of people just like them, faces of courage and perseverance. We have done great things as a people. We are not just President Barack Obama, we too are Shirley Chisholm. We are more than Dr. King, we are Nat Turner. We are more than slaves, we are the first kings and queens of civilization. If today’s black youths have no clue of who came before them, they risk the chance of not fully knowing what lies within them.