Yesterday, I Cried_ Celebrating the Lessons of Living and Loving - Iyanla Vanzant [2]
When I met her, at the age of twelve, she was a handful. Some called her rambunctious and loose. I called her talented, creative, but unguided and powerful. She was my younger sister’s best friend and became a part of my family. At the time, I was her “older brother.” My task was to guide and protect her. I did so with such fervor that my own sister became jealous. She did not realize or understand, as I did, that Iyanla was my “child” born to others, but destined to be a part of my life forever.
As a young woman, Iyanla was politically and culturally active and aware. She was a dancer and an organizer. She and my sister started a dance group, which I managed between the hectic duties of my own life. In the early 1960s, African culture had not yet become fashionable. It was new, something that was questioned and scrutinized. Yet it was a part of Iyanla’s soul. When she moved to the drumbeat, she was amazing, and I was amazed. How did this young woman, born and raised in the United States, have such a feeling for the culture of her ancestors? Iyanla did the research and the study required to embrace and understand what being a young African woman really meant. It was more than just an interest to her. It was an identity, something she needed. I supported her in her study, and in the process, I too learned.
When most high school girls were chasing boys, Iyanla was on the picket line. As a student leader, she ran the risk of being thrown out of high school, and she challenged the authorities. The curriculum did not meet the needs of the students. There were no African studies. The teachers, who had been engaged in a long strike, were demanding that the students attend school for additional hours to make up for the time they had lost. Adults who watched from the sidelines seemed not to know what to do. They talked but took no action. I was not surprised to discover that Iyanla was on the committee of students that was making certain demands of the school system. I knew she was a leader. I knew she had the gift of gab. I was, however, quite surprised when my sister called to say that Iyanla was in jail as a result of a student protest.
In the midst of it all, there were problems at home. Problems Iyanla rarely spoke about, but problems she wore in her eyes. My role in her life changed. She needed a father, and I was willing to fill the need. When she told me she was pregnant, I was, like any father, disappointed. I was concerned. This was a young girl who had rarely been cared for—in fact never, as far as I could see. Now, she was faced with having to provide care for another human being. I watched her dance her way through a pregnancy. I watched her plan and prepare for a baby. She never spoke to me about her fears or her pain, and I never raised the issue. When the baby was born, I realized it meant that I now had a son to raise.
I think it was her fire that sustained Iyanla. She has always been ablaze. There was so much she wanted to know and do, and she was willing to work for it. It was that fire that enabled her to complete high school. It was that fire that kept her alive through dismal relationships. It was that fire that kept her eyes bright and her heart open as she lived through one abusive situation after another. It was Iyanla’s spiritual fire that brought us to a point where there was little I could do for her or say to her. I had to let her go. She had to walk a path that most fathers pray their daughters will avoid. I had to pray Iyanla would survive.
When I saw her again, she had three children, two