Marrying my husband was good for me. Yep. (A Love Letter to Chuck)

A friend of mine who's known me since 1987 and went to middle school, high school, and (unofficially) college with me stepped to me a couple of weeks ago at our reunion. I hadn't seen him in about 2 years but it's safe to say the dude knows me up and down, back and forth, in and out. We always pick up right where we left off whenever we see each other. You know that type of friend. Anyway, this was one of our many short check-ins during the evening:

Him: Yo, Dawnn. How's Chuck*?
Me: He's good. You know, he's Chuck. He's doin' really well.
Him: Yeah, he's married to yo' ass, so I know!
Me: *sips wine*
Him: For real, though. He's good?
Me: Yep.
Him: Yeah, okay. I'm gon' have to check in with him.  I know yo' ass ain't no walk at the beach! *laughs maniacally*
Me: *eyes narrowing*
Him: *strides away*
Other friend standing nearby: Bartender!

Muthableeper, please.

Let me make it clear: My old friend is right. And wrong. Waaaaay wrong. I am not a walk at the beach. But if I'm not a walk at the beach, my beautiful hubs ain't necessarily a hike on a serene trail. Not by a long shot. We are what I've heard folks refer to as fire and ice, Mars and Venus, apples and oranges. We are on different planets most of the time; however, if there were a planet strictly focusing on music, food, and books, we'd be golden. Add money management, how to handle conflict, and picking up socks off of the floor and we've got a problem.

I love Chuck. I love him more than any other man I've ever loved in my life. I've always started relationships and always gone back to him when the relationship was over. Sometimes, I'd go back to him in the middle of the relationship. Yeah. It's like that. We got married last year after 17 arduous years of off-and-on dating/living together/having babies together/paying bills and not paying bills together. Technically, we're newlyweds. Our first year of marriage proved that. It was hard. I don't know why we made it that way, but it was. There is something to be said about having a full-on family and then deciding to become one. Expectations are the same but change, too. Perspectives shift. Shit gets realer. Taxes are filed together. Shit. Gets. Realer.

We met in 1995, the greatest year of all time in my opinion. He was a junior; I was a sophomore at a UC in Southern Cali. I was awestruck by his proud embrace of his Latino heritage, and spellbound by his African-ness. He was tall and serious with a huge afro and a love for his people, both in his close circle and within the Diaspora. In our African American Student Union meetings, he would speak so profoundly about shit and I thought this was a dude to know. Not on THAT level, though. He wasn't friendly (I later found out what that was about) and he wasn't struck by my humor or cute shorts. Weird dude, I thought.

That fall, when he became a senior and I a junior, we connected one night over a rap verse. No shit. He rapped a random line from Q-Tip's verse on "Jazz (We Got The)" and I finished it. Cue love music. What followed were three whirlwind, unseparable weeks together over winter vacation. Dope. We were both vulnerable, though: He had just come out of a long-term serious relationship that he would go back to off-and-on, and I had just ended a relationship with someone I'd been in love with since I was 15. Vulnerable as hell. Green in the relationship arena. Two non-daters. Two hard-lovers. Looking for solace. Looking for compassion. Grasping for straws. Loving and not loving and being young and effin' each other over and seeking one another for comfort and hurting each other again. It was a delicious and nerve-wracking and beautiful and dramatic time. The next four years would see other lovers come and go and our relationship ebb and flow and all of our closest friends and family members would serve as counselors, confidantes, and support. Enter one child in 2000, 3 apartments, 7 jobs, 60 more break-ups,  2 music groups, 1 move to Oregon, the second child in 2009, the death of two uncles, three grandparents, and a father, and here we are, one year after our wedding day and me understanding the non-regret that is marrying this man.

It's been hard. My expectations of myself are high. I am self-deprecating and extremely mean to myself. By default, I am these things to Chuck. He is mild and smooth, quiet and pensive, processing things forever, making decisions slowly.  I need to be these things, and most of the time I can be. Wait a minute...hold up. That is NOT true. Most of the time, I am NONE of these things, dammit. Really, I am not. I will ask him his opinion about something and tend to do what I want in the end, anyway. I make decisions based on emotion much of the time and I am most definitely not quiet. I come in like "Kaboom! Guess who stepped in the room!", while he's easier to approach. It's been hard for me to understand him most of the time, and it is only after being with him for so long and learning about the road in which he's traveled that I get him. He's long said that he loves me more, understands me more, finds compassion for me more, than I him. Sometimes he's right. Sometimes.

Our first year of marriage was met with our son in the midst of middle school and having a struggle. Our family was in the throes of a battle and it tested my and Chuck's ability as a couple to handle every challenge as a team, an unbreakable, unbendable, strong-as-a-muthaeffer legion that would go into the fire unapologetically. There were so many sleepless nights and late-night talks and disagreements and compromises about how to move forward as parents to this child. We got through it stronger than ever, more confident in each other and who we were and are to one another. We understood that this step was important for us to be who we needed to be as heads of the household, as decision-makers, as role models for our babies. When we celebrated our one-year anniversary in Seattle a couple of weeks ago sitting in our hotel room eating pints of Ben and Jerry's and watching "Roadhouse" after a day at the EMP Museum and traversing the transit system and filling our bellies with Filipino food and making new friends,  it fully occurred to me that I do not regret marrying this guy whose verse I finished in '95.

This guy who introduced me to yucca and garbanzo beans in yellow rice.  This guy who shared my love for Sade and played me Bob Marley's full catalog. This guy who read his favorite Bible verses to me at age 22 and cooked Jamaican rice and peas when we didn't have anything but ramen and Hamburger Helper in our food arsenal. This guy who speaks fluent Spanish and watches The Honorable Louis Farakkhan on public access television. This guy who took care of me when my lightweight self drank five Smirnoffs at a house party, held my hand when my labor pains were unbearable and held up a picture of my goddaughter as inspiration through the intensity. This guy who told me a myth about the moon and brings me ice cream whenever I ask. This guy who has nicknames for all of his girl cousins and my girl cousins and buys the kids too many damn tokens at Chuck E. Cheese's. This guy who moved here after I left with his son and understood that this is what needed to happen so our family could be a family. This guy who adds garlic to everything and plays with puzzles on the floor with his kids. This guy who is patient with my mother on the phone, calls my grandmothers by the same pet names I call them, and was just as, if not more, devastated as I was when my father passed away. This guy who teaches his son Supreme Mathematics and prays fervently and holds his daughter up on one foot in mid-air. This guy who loves his students and worries about them and takes them to the movies and out for milkshakes and takes it personal because it is for him. This guy who wants his mother to be proud and loves and honors music and doesn't know his own greatness. This guy who celebrates his friends' victories and considers himself last after everyone else. This guy who wore Chuck Taylors in his wedding and lets his wife do whatever she wants...lets his wife do whatever she wants because he loves and trusts her THAT much.

This guy who lets me tell our story. This guy who is the man I married. This guy who is numero uno on my list of non-regrets. This isn't our whole story, of course, but it's enough for you to know. I don't know of any other man who could love me through what he has, hang with me through depression and grief and more depression and more grief, and give what it takes to love me. My friend was right: I ain't no walk at the beach. But muthableeper, please: LOVE ain't no walk at the beach. Year one is in the books for us. I can't feel anything but joy about that.

Start another verse, Chuck. I'll be glad to finish it for you, love.


*Name has been changed to protect the dude who this is about. Straight up.