As senior editor for the just released Chicken Soup for the African American Soul coauthored by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Tom Joyner and Lisa Nichols, I was charged with reading thousands of stories in the search for the one in a hundred that stood out as a great story. This is much like the process of reading through profiles online, seeking the man or woman that stands out. One could even liken it to the process of going out on a first time date, hoping that the other person stands out enough that there will be a second date.
One thing I have definitely discovered working on Chicken Soup for the African American Soul is that everyone has a story and dates and emails are a great time to share them! The criteria for a good Chicken Soup for the Soul story is that it has to inspire the reader and touch them emotionally—making them laugh, cry happy tears or get goose bumps. A big part of the process for selecting a good Chicken Soup for the Soul story is finding the ones that reveal the emotions of the author—and evoke the emotions of the reader. In other words, the stories have to make the readers feel. This translates beautifully to finding love online in that if we were to aim for the same sort of criteria in our profiles—tell a story that makes the reader feel—we would definitely stand out! Through sharing stories and anecdotes and aspects of our lives, we discover if we have common human experiences and a common sense of humor that are so critical to compatibility.
So, how do we write a “Chicken Soup” profile or message? It is important to use a “show, not tell” style of writing. Use anecdotes and short stories that illustrate who you are and what matters to you. Instead of saying, “I’m a romantic,” describe your idea of a romantic date.
Coauthor Lisa Nichols says, “I want him to feel me, not just hear my words; that is what we looked for in our Chicken Soup stories. Working on this book has helped me explore how I can share my emotions more. It has created a sensitivity in me that how I word things can impact his emotions. I want to captivate him with my words and I know that showing my feelings with my words can, indeed, touch his heart. When I receive an email now, I feel like I’m getting a “heart in print.” I can look at it and visit it and ask if that heart is in alignment with mine.”
A lot of people wonder about a white woman working so intimately on a book specifically by and about African Americans. The experience of reading all those “hearts in print” and hearing the personal stories of so many people has blessed me with greater understanding, more compassion and empathy. Just imagine if women experienced more empathy and understanding for men through reading their stories online or if men gained more compassion for women from reading their profiles. What if, through sharing our stories, we discovered we are from the same planet (rather than Mars and Venus) after all!
I Owe You an Apology
(Excerpted from Chicken Soup for the African American Soul)
As I sat with my sista-friends relaxing, relating and releasing, we began to speak of all the men we had dated or “kinda-sorta” dated. As usual, we segued into an energetic comparison of our “R.D.—Relationship Drama.” We were sharing the woes brought on us by our black men and I was leading the pack with my male-drama, historical reenactment of “Heartbreak Hotel.”
I began with the fact that at age sixteen, I was afraid of their smooth talking ways and their quick unrefined moves, but by the time I was eighteen they intrigued me; ultimately, they piqued my curiosity. When I was twenty-one they were using the word “love” to spend the night at my house, but I never could get them to stay for breakfast.
We were on a male-bashing roll. “Yeah Girl, he ain’t worth a two-dolla bill. . .ain’t that right. . .gimme a high-five on that one!”
I went on to add that by age twenty-five we were both in “the game;” they were out to get theirs, and I was out to get mine. “You betta believe Girl, we gotta teach’ em a lesson,” one of my diva sista friends retorted.
Feeling like I was putting it down and keeping it real, I then mentioned, “When I was thirty, they were saying that they were not looking for Mrs. Right, they were simply looking for Mrs. Right Now. Then they would mention that I was ‘too nice a person’ for them and that they didn’t deserve me. . .Yea, right!!! What the heck does that mean? That ole too-nice thing has gotta go!!”
Then it happened, out of the blue something came all over me. I couldn’t see straight. I felt a churning in my stomach, a queasiness that was indescribable. I felt a strong distaste in my mouth, like I had been given a spoon of Castor oil! I was becoming sickened by this conversation, for what we were saying about Black men, our Black men. My head was spinning, my mouth was dry, and for some unknown reason I could not continue the verbal judo and image-shattering of Black men. In that moment, I was convicted with guilt and personal accountability. My head was screaming at me, What have you done to them, Lisa? What is your role in your miserable B movie? What should you apologize for?
This was not cool. I’d been leading the pack! I could have won the “pity-party” award with all of the junk I’d thrown out about the Black man. Now what? I sat with this internal struggle for what seemed like forever, but was actually about five minutes. I was still, completely consumed with both frustration, disgust, confusion and conviction. I began to ask this voice—or was it a feeling?—whatever it was, I asked it for direction, took a deep breath and held on.What happened next blew my mind. I expected the next words to come out of my mouth to be something like, “I’m strong without them,” “I don’t need a man anyway,” or “They’re just intimidated by our strength,” but to my extreme surprise and to the astonishment of my true blue sista-friends, I broke the “sista code” and changed directions mid-pity party. I began to apologize to Black men, to my Black men.
My mind was screaming, WHAT!!! Why are you apologizing to them? It’s them that should be apologizing to you!! Remember when that guy. . .?Remember the time. . .? But my mouth was on automatic pilot and could not be turned off.
“Black Man, I apologize for putting you down when I get around my girls and forgetting to lift you up as you deserve to be lifted up.
“I apologize for allowing my insecurities about my shape, my hair or my skin tone to be projected onto you and blaming you for my lack of self-love.
“I apologize for expecting you to teach me how to love myself.
“I apologize, Black Man, for judging you when I should have been providing you with unconditional support.
“I apologize for pressuring you to adapt to corporate America by my standards instead of allowing you to find your own way and encouraging you to keep going.
“I apologize for not hearing you when you said you just wanted to be friends, assuming I could change your mind, then blaming you for misleading me.
“Black Man, I apologize for loud-talking you and making you feel disrespected and unappreciated.
“I apologize for prioritizing my career and business over you, causing you to feel devalued, dismissed and hurt.
II apologize for talking and yelling at you more than listening to you and allowing you to fully express what’s on your mind.
“I apologize for not being that one safe place where you can let down your guard, stop fighting the world and just be you—with me.
“I apologize for forgetting that you are a king, a descendant of royalty. A survivor, a builder, a confidant, a creator, an entrepreneur, a friend. And that I am your queen - acknowledging you, supporting you, encouraging you and loving you.”
I ended my apology by saying, “Black Man you are my partner in this journey and I owe you an apology for forgetting your importance to me. I am honored to be by your side. Any other message I give you is simply untrue.”
When I finished I looked around the room into still-glossy eyes fighting to hold back tears. Without speaking a word, we began to embrace each other, one by one, as the tears flowed more freely. We were all ready to stop struggling with the men we loved, our Black men, yet not knowing how. We sat, we rocked, we cried, we prayed, we laughed and then cried some more.
Then, as if by magic, our cell phones began to ring one by one.
As if in unison, we all said, “You know, I owe you an apology. . .”
From that day on, our pity parties changed to just parties and our “R.D.—relationship drama” changed to “R.D.—reminiscing and dancing.” And most of all, we began to bring our black men with us.
Lisa Nichols
You can purchase the book and find story submission guidelines for the second edition of Chicken Soup for the African American Soul on www.AfricanAmericanSoul.com
