Naleighna Kai's Literary Cafe Magazine NK LCM February 2018 Anniversary Issue | Page 15

“I have an everyday religion that works for me. Love yourself first, and
everything else falls into line.” —Lucille Ball
Every Sunday morning, somewhere in the great USA,
men dress as though they stepped off of the pages of
GQ; women drape their bodies in awards ceremony
sparkling dresses trailed by well-dressed little boys and
fancy little girls in lacy dresses and frilly socks as they
file into somebody’s church to learn how to be a better
Christian. Hopefully, an even a better human in the
process.
One of the church tenets is “Love thy neighbor as thy
self.” This is a clear directive given by Jesus. I know a
few people who have told me that they have difficulty
understanding most bible prose let alone the language
of the popular King James Version that most church
leaders hold dear. However, this is the one scripture that
doesn’t need any further interpretation. I’m a hardcore
Jesus freak, but not a bible scholar (gasp!) This scripture
is one that I practice—to love my neighbor as I love
myself. The interesting thing about this scripture is that
I know just as many nonbelievers that practice this,
as I know believers that don’t. I used to wonder why
the very people who were told to show the world how
loving their neighbors works seemed to struggle with
demonstrating it.
Generally speaking, before we are old enough to
understand what it means, we are taught to put other
people’s needs and feelings before our own. The first
voices that we consider “voices of love and acceptance”
come from our parents. Then other voices enter—family
members, friends, etc.. We hear things like, “Mama likes
it when you keep your room clean” or “You make Dad
proud when you do well in school.” But what if your
mama treated you like Dough Boy from Boyz In The
Hood? What if your daddy wasn’t around? What if your
siblings told you that you were stupid? As we get older,
not only do we adopt the words spoken to us as truth,
we use those words and experiences to define who we
are and how to love ourselves. We compare ourselves to
the imaginations of our mentors. We repeat whatever
narratives were blessed upon us in our childhood into
our adult lives. And then we’re told to love our neighbors
as we love ourselves.
How do I love my neighbor if I don’t know if I love
myself? How do I love myself when I don’t know what
that kind of love looks like?
In my childhood, my father was absent even when he
was physically in the home. When he wasn’t at work,
he was in the streets, or emotionally detached from his
family. His actions seemed common for most men of
that time, maybe even now. I knew I did something good
when he smiled; at least, when he was around to smile. I
loved to sing in the church choir as a child and was the
lead soloist for several songs. Somehow I never thought
I did it “right”.
“You should’ve sung your song like Aretha Franklin,” he
said once. Who? I guess my dad forgot that we listened
to The Ohio Players and The O’Jays at home, not Aretha
Franklin. I knew I didn’t sing like any of the O’Jays
nor did I sound like Aretha or any other proclaimed
anointed voice that I was told to emulate to improve my
technique.
My mother struggled with showing her emotions. She
often said that I was vain and a natural-born flirt, so I
suppose telling me that I was pretty was unnecessary. My
mother would say that she was proud of me for doing
something good, but I always knew her true love was
a hot grill, ready to prepare T-bone steaks for dinner
every Friday night. Fried catfish, scallops, clams, and a
house salad accompanied the sizzling steak. Now that
was love, but I can’t recall hearing the words “I love you”
often. I had elder relatives that would openly ridicule my
too-plump-for-my-age frame who would then offer me
a plate of food that was no more appetizing than their
mean words.
From about the age of eight to eleven, crying and telling
myself that nobody loved me happened to many times to
count. How on earth was I being taught to love myself?
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