Resolve to Love

 

 

Izzy. The day I met her, I deemed her presence in my life unnecessary and completely unacceptable. Up until her existence, my sister and I were the only girls on my mother’s side of the family. “The Girls,” they called us, because they were so very creative. But then, out of nowhere, came Izzy. Literally out of nowhere. We weren’t even notified of her birth. So, when she showed up in the living room of my grandfather’s house, where my siblings and I were stationed during my parents’ vacation, demanding that we change the channel, we were more than shocked and less than impressed. “Izzy,” she said was her name. So we called her Liz. She stood before us, in her stupid pajamas, with her straight-across bangs, in my grandfather’s house, calling my Pap-Pap her Pap Pap and insisting that he said that she could watch Out of the Box. Unacceptable and Unnecessary.

“No.” Sharonia said, arms crossed, gripping the remote. I imagine she was saying no to more than just Out Of The Box. I imagine it was a no to turning off The Emperor’s New Groove. No to this dimple-faced imp taking Sharonia’s spot as the youngest, no to her being in our Pap-Pap’s house during the week of our stay, no to her being grouped with us in the worthy title of “The Girls,” and probably no to those bangs too.

Pap-pap finally came down the hallway. He had some ‘splaining to do. “You’ve met your cousin!” he said to us with the type of cheerful smile you earn with your promotion from father to Pap-Pap. His hand was huge on Izzy’s 3-year-old shoulder.

“No.” said Sharonia. Arms still crossed. She had no problem giving adults sass. “Mhm,” I said at the same time. I typically wavered on the cautionary side of the attitude meter. He chuckled. Precious girls we were, so cute, so silly. He went out to the garage.

It was a showdown. Nobody moved. We, The Girls, had our advantages. We were bigger. We had the remote. And we had the boys.

The boys are the group of our four cousins and my brother, all older, bigger, and rowdier than we. And they, too, had an issue with this runt parading through our grandfather’s house with her whiny “Pap-Pap, Pap-Pap”‘s.

By the end of the first day, we’d made a sort of agreement, us and Izzy.  She showed us where Pap-Pap hid the candy, and we showed her the latest WWE moves (on the mattress of course). By we, I really mean the boys. At the age of 8, I was kind enough to leave Liz alone unless she bothered me, but smart enough to leave the boys alone too. Too many times had I been triple, or quadruple- teamed, by those blood thirsty fools I called cousins and I would not lay my safety on the line for this little punk.

One night (or every night) Izzy decided to provoke the boys. She flounced down the basement stairs in her stupid, stupid pajamas and stared at us.

“What’re yinz doin’?” she asked. The boys were playing some video game on the pull out mattress. Sharonia and I were playing with our new dolls, courtesy of Pap-Pap. Eminem’s The Real Slim Shady was playing in the background.

She asked for it. Leaping up onto the bed she started jumping and singing along with the song. “I’ma Shim Shady! I’ma Shim Shady!!”

One of the boys yelled “BODY SLAM” and grabbed her ankles. She went flying in midair and landed on the mattress head first. She huffed, scrambled to her feet and made a beeline for me, plopping down in my lap. As the maternal one, I hugged her. Sharonia was furious (and, as I recall, quite jealous) and when Izzy decided she was still a “Shim Shady,” Sharonia joined in on the pummeling. Each time, Izzy would proclaim she was the real Shim Shady, get tackled by the boys, and run to my lap. I would tell her to stop being a brat, but, without fail, she would get up again, scream “I’m a shim shady!!!” and get back into the ring.

Until, finally, she fought back. She sat in my lap, huffing, after a good round. R.J., my cousin, spoke and Greg laughed obnoxiously. Izzy jumped up, growled, and ran toward him at full speed. She head-butted him hard and Greg fell back, actually crying. It was glorious. Izzy backed up and ran at him full-speed again. But this time she had her arms out. This time, she wrapped them around Greg’s neck and squeezed. The little weirdo was hugging him. She did it to all of the boys: ran at them and embraced, ran at them and embraced. We were all dumbfounded.

Whenever someone pushed her off, she would simply rise, bangs sticking to her forehead, and love them. She was up, fighting and loving and fighting to love.

I’ll never forget that night. Through the years, little Izzy has continued to impress me with her ability to love in all circumstances. She has also become progressivey less annoying. She’s made attempts to love her mother through addiction and the trials that come with it. She loved us, though we picked on her and laughed when she fell at the playground. No matter what, she would always be excited to see us, arms open, dimples deep. That girl loves hard.

Izzy texted me recently, saying she’d read my blog anddeclaring her hopes to be half the woman I am. And Izzy, Liz, you really should know that it is I who strives to be like you. You have an amazing quality that many people, myself included, struggle to achieve every day: the resolve to love.

I’ve taken a long time to get here, to the point of this narrative. And really, it’s symbolic of my own journey. I’ve taken a long time to get to this realization in real life,too. Only recently did I even begin to make an attempt to work on my resolve to love. Once I discovered this superpower though, it has done wonders for my peace of mind.

You see, it’s easy for me to hurt people, especially verbally. I have a very sharp tongue to match my quick wit, and I can cut you down and make you re-evaluate your life in two seconds flat. God made my tongue too easy to load with venom, he made my verbal aim too good.  But, I resolve to love.

Instead of gripping the steering wheel, wishing it were your neck, I drive home in peace. Instead of heaving my chest,  devising a million comebacks for that rude comment you threw my way, I’m chillin’. I resolve to love. Instead of analyzing the when’s and why’s of you hurting me, my mind is at ease. Because whether I decide to cut you loose or keep you close, I resolve to love. I love  in spite of nastiness.

I’m not spent from anger, my supply of love cannot fail, and tomorrow, there will be plenty more where that came from. Whether I understand you or can’t stand you, I’ll have my peace. I resolve to love.