Yesterday, I Cried Read online

  Other books by Iyanla Vanzant

  Acts of Faith

  The Value in the Valley

  Faith in the Valley

  One Day My Soul Just Opened Up

  In the Meantime

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

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  ISBN 0-684-87382-6

  e-ISBN: 978-0-684-87382-4

  Excerpts from A Course in Miracles Text: Workbook, and Manual for Teachers, First Edition, used by permission of The Foundation for A Course in Miracles ®: Chapter 1: Workbook, page 351; Chapter 2: Text, page 132; Chapter 8: Text, page 13; Chapter 9: Text, pages 5 and 607; Chapter 10: Text, page 285; Chapter 12: Text, page 244; Chapter 13: Text, page 136; Chapter 14: Workbook, page 213; Text page 11. Excerpt from The Return of the Ragpicker by Og Mandino, copyright © 1992 by Og Mandino.

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU, GOD, “DIVINE MOTHER,” by all the names you are known and called, for all the second chances you have given me, and for never asking me to do anything I was not equipped to do. It is only by your grace, and through your divine mercy, that I have made it this far. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

  Thank you, God, for spirit in the body that I know and recognize as Blanche Richardson of Marcus Books in Oakland, California. Had you not shown up as Blanche to breathe with me through the process of this birth, I know this project would not have been born with such great joy and love and ease.

  Thank you, God, for Terry McMillan, who said yes to what Blanche and I needed.

  Thank you, God, for all the Mothering Angels you sent to love me in the most intense hours of my insanity. I thank you for showing up as Elvia Myrie, Wilhelmina Myrie, Tulani Kinard, Roseanne Logan, Stephanie Weaver, Denise DeJean, Linda Beatty-Stevenson, Melba Ramsay-Fernandez, Majorie Battle, the entire Inner Visions team, and of course, Carmen.

  Thank you, God, for being a strong shoulder I could rest upon in the bodies of the Reverend Dr. Barbara Lewis King and David Phillips, Ph.D.

  Thank you, God, for showing up at Simon & Schuster in the bodies of Christine Saunders, Trish Todd, Sue Fleming, Victoria Meyer, Annik LaFarge, Carolyn Reidy, Marcela Landres, David Rosenthal, Chris Lloreda, and Mark Gompertz.

  Thank you, God, for the staff of the Oakland Marriott Hotel for their support throughout the writing of this book.

  Thank you, God, for my friend, my lover, my pumpkin, my husband. Thank you, God, for making a way out of no way, and for making me a brand-new instrument.

  Thank you, God, for Mahogany, a Division of Hallmark Cards, Inc., who donated the beautiful cover art and supports my work and my vision and helps me spread the message.

  This book is dedicated to Ms. Oprah Winfrey, for your “holy boldness” and willingness to demonstrate to the world how to heal in public without losing God’s grace or your own dignity; and to my children, Damon Keith, Gemmia Lynnette, and Nisa Camille for all the yesterdays you cried when I didn’t have enough compassion for myself, or the strength required to wipe your tears; and in loving memory of Sarah Jefferson, my mother, Lynnette May Brown-Harris, my “Mommy” and best friend, Nancy McCullum, my aunt, Ruth Carlos, my first real sister.

  Contents

  Preface

  Introduction

  The Beginning

  1. What’s the Lesson When You Think You Figured Out the Lesson, and You Really Haven’t?

  2. What’s the Lesson When You Are an Unwanted, Neglected, and Abused Child?

  3. What’s the Lesson When You Do Not Realize That You Are a Teacher?

  4. What’s the Lesson When You Don’t Realize That Life Is a School?

  5. What’s the Lesson When You Are Poor, Ugly, and Feeling Bad?

  6. What’s the Lesson When You Are Raped as a Child?

  7. What’s the Lesson When You’ve Been Taught That You Are Unlovable?

  8. What’s the Lesson When You Don’t Reconcile Your Past Before Moving Ahead?

  9. What’s the Lesson When You Engage in Self-Destructive Behavior?

  10. What’s the Lesson When You Are a Motherless Child Raising Children?

  11. What’s the Lesson When You Learn the Lesson, Then Forget It?

  12. What’s the Lesson When You Begin to Recognize Yourself as Who You Really Are?

  13. What’s the Lesson When You Lose Someone You Really Love?

  14. What’s the Lesson When You Have Mastered All the Wrong Lessons?

  15. What’s the Lesson When You Try to Cheat on a Test?

  16. What’s the Lesson When You Don’t Love Yourself First?

  17. What’s the Lesson When You Get the Lesson but Don’t Know What to Do With It?

  18. What’s the Lesson When You Let the Past Pass?

  19. What’s the Lesson When You Do It All Wrong and It Turns Out All Right?

  Epilogue

  Preface

  Dear Iya:

  Yesterday, I Cried will be a blessing to the world as you have been a blessing to me. I remember when I first heard your voice on tape (the National Black Wholistic Health Retreat tape). I could not sit down. I started pacing. Was this because of the truth you were sharing? I thought so then, and as the years have passed, I know that it really was because I was hearing a member of my “soul’s” family.

  When I met you in the flesh, I could see your apprehension, and your love. I remember how much you gave of yourself. Iya, you were so available to the women who were present. I felt very protective of you, then and now. I did not want people to use you up, or burn you out. I also remember how unconcerned you were about the money. It wasn’t because you were financially set, either. You set the basket of money in the sun, telling me it would grow, and the very next day, one of the women we were working with gave you a large sum of money.

  I remember all of the little notes to yourself (on the walls, in the bathroom, near your bed) in your house on Pine Street. I remember how thirsty you were for truth and the “clarity” of truth. I remember all of our conversations, processing, laughing, cussing, crying, and laughing some more. I find it absolutely incredible how you have moved through some very serious and heavy stuff with a sense of humor. Your humor is a gift!

  I want to say some things to you that you perhaps do not realize about yourself. You have really, really paid your dues. People don’t know the risks you took to be where you are, the “stable” jobs you said no to so that you could remain free enough to walk on nothing, absolutely nothing, but faith. You put your trust in the process. I have been a witness to your “acts of faith.” You are more focused than you realize. People don’t know how you opened your home to everyone and anyone, and how you gave of yourself so unselfishly. People don’t know about the health challenges that presented themselves, or how you said no to them, aligned yourself for healing, and found it. People don’t know the toll and the price you have paid, traveling with the “word” in your belly.

  What I have loved about you is your honesty, even about your dishonesty. I love that you have the tenacity to operate effectively in the world. I have enjoyed the process of watching you grow and heal yourself and others. I am so very proud of you. I feel that I am a part of the process and of you. When they speak of you, I feel they’re talking about me too! You have been a sister to me, a friend,
a teacher, a student, and my baby. I really believe I came into your life to love you unconditionally.

  When you became famous, I really missed our time—you eating coffee ice cream and me subs. But you stayed connected, and I adjusted. I was happy with you, and for you, for the way Spirit was using you. Yet I felt the loss. This was all a part of the process. Your process. My process. Our process. I have watched you reframe your history. I have watched you take leaps. I have watched you, and it has been a joy. I’m loving you, Iya.

  Shaheerah (Reverend Linda Stephens)

  Detroit, MI

  Introduction

  I AM NOT THE TYPE OF FATHER FIGURE that showed up when things started going well—when the child did or became something, someone a parent could be proud of. It has been my duty and honor to be a constant in Iyanla’s life. Ours is a relationship born in our souls, many centuries ago. It is a relationship that I have not always understood but always respected. Today, I realize that trying to define and describe my relationship with Iyanla would be something akin to a television miniseries. She is, as I am sure you, her readers, know, a mouthful.

  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 exes, and a college degree. When she announced to me that she going to law school, I almost had a heart attack! “How,” I wondered, “is she going to do that with three children and no help?” But Iyanla had help, the help of invisible beings who walk by her side. She had always had my prayers and my love. She was earning my respect. I realized that Iyanla was now a grown woman, and once again, my role in her life had changed. I was a mentor and a friend. I was the one person she knew believed in her, stood by her, supported and loved her. I had always “been there and done that.” I was not about to stop. Before I could figure out what to tell her, she had a law degree and was off in another direction in her life.

  I have never once told the woman you call Iyanla what to do or what not to do. I have always helped her question and explore why she was doing a particular thing, in a particular way. She has always taken my words in, understanding them at a level well beyond her years. To say she is an old soul would be an understatement. She is an eternal soul, filled with a light that many seek, some try to buy, and few ever realize. I have done my best to guide and protect her. It has not always been easy. Iyanla has been her own greatest challenge. She has a strong mind and an even stronger will. Iyanla has to try something before she will be willing to give it up, and even then, she will want to know how or why it didn’t work. It is the questioning and her willingness to try that gives her the fire. It is the fire most people see, do not understand, and cannot contend with. It is the fire that has kept her alive.

  I have never known this woman to do a mean or malicious thing. She has made mistakes. She has made poor choices. Yet, I know she has done everything to the best of her ability in order to stay alive. The aliveness she sought was not in the physical world. It was a spiritual aliveness. She has endured life circumstances others cannot imagine and things the impact of which others cannot understand. Through it all, she has been available to help others and share whatever she has had. It is this about Iyanla that has endeared her to so many. I am among them.

  Many have not understood Iyanla. They have questioned her motives, her authority, and her wisdom. This is because for most of her life she did not understand herself. Others have been quite openly demonstrative of their disdain or dislike of her. Rather than crushing her, it sent her on a soul search. Quite frankly, I believe it has been the work of her greatest adversaries that has fostered her greatest growth. As her friend, I am excited by and supportive of what she is doing and all that I know she will do. As her mentor, I am proud of her accomplishments, knowing that something I had to offer has been useful in her life. As her father figure, I am humble and grateful that such a human being is a part of my life. The love we share goes beyond words or comprehension. It is, as she has told me, the love of God, alive on the planet.

  And So It Is!

  Awo Osun Kunle Erindele

  Yesterday, I Cried

  Yesterday, I cried.

  I came home, went straight to my room, sat on the edge of my bed,

  kicked off my shoes, unhooked my bra,

  and I had myself a good cry.

  I’m telling you,

  I cried until my nose was running all over the silk blouse I got on sale.

  I cried until my ears were hot.

  I cried until my head was hurting so bad

  that I could hardly see the pile of soiled tissues lying on

  the floor at my feet.

  I want you to understand,

  I had myself a really good cry yesterday.

  Yesterday, I cried,

  for all the days that I was too busy, or too tired, or too m
ad

  to cry.

  I cried for all the days, and all the ways,

  and all the times I had dishonored, disrespected, and disconnected my Self from myself,

  only to have it reflected back to me in the ways others did to me

  the same things I had already done to myself.

  I cried for all the things I had given, only to have them stolen;

  for all the things I had asked for that had yet to show up;

  for all the things I had accomplished, only to give them away, to people in circumstances,

  which left me feeling empty, and battered and plain old used.

  I cried because there really does come a time when the only thing left for you to do is cry.

  Yesterday, I cried.

  I cried because little boys get left by their daddies;

  and little girls get forgotten by their mommies;

  and daddies don’t know what to do, so they leave;

  and mommies get left, so they get mad.

  I cried because I had a little boy, and because I was a little girl, and

  because I was a mommy who didn’t know what to do, and

  because I wanted my daddy to be there for me so badly until I ached.

  Yesterday, I cried.

  I cried because I hurt. I cried because I was hurt.

  I cried because hurt has no place to go

  except deeper into the pain that caused it in the first place, and when it gets there, the hurt wakes you up.

  I cried because it was too late. I cried because it was time.

  I cried because my soul knew that I didn’t know

  that my soul knew everything I needed to know.

  I cried a soulful cry yesterday, and it felt so good.

  It felt so very, very bad.

  In the midst of my crying, I felt my freedom coming,

  Because

  Yesterday, I cried

  with an agenda.