Regina Lynette

When I was in grammar school, standing in the school lunch line was the closest equivalent to the water-cooler conversations you could have as a child. Even though we weren’t supposed to talk, we did.

I remember practicing the latest snaps from the “Men on Film” skit on In Living Color. We talked about The Cosby Show episodes. I remember having debates that included everything from the way to pronounce the words milk and pickle – I said milk and she said murk; I said pickle and she said purckel – to scriptures – I told her God is a jealous God and she swore He wasn’t.

But one conversation where we shared our tips and tricks to manipulate our parents to indulge us sticks in my mind significantly, because it was the first time that I paid close attention to the fact that my parents loved me.

One of the tricks one of my friends shared with me was to pretend to cry and say “You don’t love me anymore” to a negative response. It was the only trick left on the table that I hadn’t tried and even though I really didn’t think it would work, I held on to it planning to try it out when all else had failed. I knew Mommy wouldn’t even go for it – pulling on heartstrings wasn’t the way to get what I wanted from her. But Daddy was all emotion with me, so he was my target. Besides, he said “no” less often than Mommy, so my odds were already increased.

The day came when Daddy was being unreasonable and not giving in to my every demand and I decided to pull out the last arrow in my quiver. I turned my mouth upside down, puckered my lips, willed tears to form, and drooped my head. I said, “You don’t love me anymore.” And before I could even put the period on the sentence I burst into laughter.

I tried to compose myself as I listened to my father, extremely offended and dumbfounded, telling me that he knew that I knew that he loved me. I put my hand up in surrender and between muffled guffaws, I told him I knew he loved me and that I was sorry. He told me never to say that again and I agreed. The idea that my father didn’t love me was so absurd that I couldn’t even pretend that he didn’t.

I was born at 9:01AM in the 901 (Memphis’ area code) on a Sunday morning. The story of that day is like a fairy-tale in my mind – even all these years later. I have combined my parents’ stories and tell the story with the same sweet tones Mommy used and the glimmer in Daddy’s eyes.

Once upon a cold Sunday morning, a beautiful girl-child would be born. It snowed for the first time that year on her birthday, making for a picture-perfect wintry scene. Laying in a hospital bed, under rosy pink bed sheets, Mommy laid all tucked in and warm. When it was time for the little princess to be born, the doctors came in, opened Mommy’s tummy, and gently lifted her up and out of the womb. Mommy and Daddy were so proud of their perfect baby girl and beamed when they admired her every little detail. She had all her fingers and toes and weighed 8 pounds and 11 ounces. Mommy said, “Oh Bob, she has your hair.” Then they passed her on to the family friends who came by to witness the birth of this little girl-child. One of those gentlemen held her and commented, “She looks just like a little Indian!” and then the baby sneezed on him. Mommy had to stay in the hospital longer than was necessary for her youngest daughter, so she spent time recovering in the hospital holding her newborn and feeding her from a bottle.

At the end of their story – along with the embellishments from my very active, creative, and detailed imagination – I felt like the entire world rejoiced at my presence. My youngest sister insisted that my birthday be celebrated separately from the Christmas holiday because I was born almost 2 weeks before Christmas. My youngest brother rescued me from all the love that just gushed out of my family’s hearts in the form of hugs and kisses when my introverted self could take no more. And I had made life special for everyone because they had been blessed with the opportunity to spoil me. There is no way I could feel that way except that my parents made me feel that way – because the story I just told you was loosely based on short answers given to an inquisitive child.

As an adult I heard other events of that day and better understand some of the details. Snow in Memphis wasn’t exactly uncommon in that time, but snow in Memphis was seldom a Winter Wonderland. And if it was, the whole city shut down and that would be a major inconvenience in trying to get to and from the hospital. I was a rather large baby and it would be dangerous for Mommy to give birth naturally so she needed a c-section. And since they recommended the c-section, she decided it was time to officially close shop and have those tubes tied. Have you seen the way doctors yank babies from their mothers’ wombs during a c-section? I have. It’s not glorious nor gentle. Mommy was on morphine for pain after her surgery. She said it made everything beautiful. One time while feeding me from a bottle, she fell asleep. When she woke up, I wasn’t there. She very nervously looked over the sides of the bed to see if I had fallen to the floor – and I guess died if I wasn’t crying, right? But then the nurse brought me back and fussed at Mommy (gently) for falling asleep with me in her arms, telling her to be sure to call the nurse if she felt sleepy while holding me. And when the doctors asked if she wanted a prescription for the morphine when she was released, she refused it. Because it made everything so beautiful she decided it was dangerous and didn’t want to risk a habit forming. And my sister, the one so insistent about how I should be treated, was looking for her boyfriend who happened to be in the hospital while I was being born. I have never heard a thing about what my brother was doing on that day. His recollection of my going to him to get away from everyone else was likely after I was walking – or at least crawling – because, though precocious and smart, I don’t believe I was able to communicate a need to be taken to my brother to be left unbothered the day I was born. I was swollen on my birthday and Mommy was disappointed that whoever was involved in having my picture taken at the hospital didn’t lift me up high enough for my eyes to open more – they had to know I was swollen and if I was to have a good picture, I needed to be arranged properly.

All the characters in this story. This is posted without their permission so don’t tell them.

The “real” story isn’t exactly like a picture book tale, but it’s still beautiful. The most important part of that story isn’t in the details of either version. My parents loved me. And I knew it without any shadow of a doubt. That love would take me through the years that Mommy was not present because she suffered from undiagnosed depression. That love carried me through the years that my father abandoned me emotionally because of a mistake he made when trying to give me what he thought I needed. That love is why I know when someone is lying to me about love or being manipulative citing love as the reason for bad behavior. I know real and true love. And because I have known it forever, I have no idea how to explain it. In all my relationships, despite any person’s missteps, I know what it feels like to be loved and I reject anything less from those who proclaim love.

I am Regina Lynette. My parents loved me. (I use past tense because they are both deceased.)

10 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Parenting

I am Regina Lynette. People used to call me healthy.

December 14, 2020December 14, 2020 Regina Lynette

The first time I heard the word “healthy” as one of my identifiers, it was at the pediatrician’s office. The nurse couldn’t lift me up on the table and said, “Ooh! She’s healthy!” in a very perky everything-will-be-okay voice. She found a step stool so I could climb on the table, and I did so with ease and plenty of side-eye. That nurse truly offended pre-school me.

I remember vividly thinking she was so rude, and I was wondering why she didn’t already have the step stool at the table – where it had always been anyway because I was always already on the table even though everybody else in that office could pick me up to put me on the table. And I thought it was ridiculous for her, a medical professional, to use the word “healthy” when she so obviously meant the opposite. (It’s fun for me to recall my thoughts from before the age of five. They are just flashes, but I was a wonderfully precocious child – much to the dismay of all the adults in my life.)

I would go on to be called healthy by a myriad of characters, major and minor, in my life story. I can remember visiting with my childhood best friend’s extended family and hearing many versions of, “Ooh! She healthy! You sure you don’t want some more white rice with margarine butter and sugar on it?” usually in that sugar-sweet-southern-black-Grandma tone of voice. I was the healthy one and my friend was called skinny, and unfortunately neither of us was celebrated for our sizes.

My childhood BFF’s family offended elementary school me. I remember thinking it was incredibly rude to call me fat – because let’s be honest, that’s what it was – and then decide I must need more food than my friend, not the same amount and not less.

As an adult looking back on white rice with butter and sugar, I shake my head when I think of the poison that she was putting down my throat. Okay, maybe not quite poison, but I’m melodramatic and a bit in my feelings right now so I’m sticking to poison. Among the recollections I have around my being ~~healthy~~ fat include being told that I was too heavy for my father to pick up and the cause of his hernia surgery, hearing as part of my birth story that my size as a fetus was so dangerous to my mother that a c-section birth was required, and having to wear Pretty Plus clothing sizes.

Before I was officially in Pretty Plus clothing sizes, I was close in size to a childhood friend – two years older than me – who was the daughter of one of my mother’s work friends. They would go to a store on their lunch break and buy bags full of matching clothes for us to wear. We tried them on and our mothers would return whatever didn’t fit. Thankfully our entire wardrobe didn’t match but only because we didn’t have identical bodies and different items were returned. That would take me to the most memorable moment of feeling like a fat child and the first time I almost lost my whole life.

There was a dress, I called it the American Flag dress because it was white with red stripes and a blue sash, that both my childhood friend and I owned. We wore it at the same time like Bobbsey twins and continued to grow, as little girls are prone to do. One day I could no longer fit into the dress, but my friend’s still fit her perfectly.

*This was taken on my ninth birthday. My friend is wearing the American Flag dress after I couldn’t fit into mine anymore.*

One very dreadful day, Mommy gave some sort of lecture about how my friend could still get into her dress as if I should be ashamed that I couldn’t get into mine. I don’t remember everything she said, just the way it made me feel, but I distinctly remember what I said. It was only one word, but it was full of tone and sass and attitude and exasperation – “And?” The look in Mommy’s eyes when she turned her head to look this child dead in her eyes to be sure it was really the one she gave birth to who dared to get smart-mouthed with her. She made eye contact and confirmed that it was indeed her own daughter who dared to utter that word in that tone to her own mother and the room grew very cold. One word almost cost me my whole entire life. My heart is pounding in my chest at the memory. I stammered, “And… that’s good for her. I mean, I … uh …” and finally I just gave in – “I’m sorry Mama. I didn’t mean it.” Because there was no fixing the obvious stank in my response. And once she turned back to whatever she was doing – I think folding the dress to give it away – I ran out of the room and stayed away from her until she looked and sounded like Mommy again.

From the perspective of an adult who can hold two seemingly contradicting truths in her mind at the same time, there was absolutely nothing I could say or do particularly at that age to change the fact that I couldn’t fit into that dress anymore. And the only thing I could have done to change the fact that my friend still fit into hers was to destroy her dress (I didn’t). But silence would have been 100% better and more respectful than “and?” as in “what you want me to do about it?”

I know that I wouldn’t have told that story about the dress if Mommy was still living. I’m not a parent, but I know that no mother would want to know that her actions or words were heartbreaking to her child. And for all my parents’ flaws and imperfections, I know without a doubt that I was loved and loved unconditionally. I’m blessed to have been born at a time when they were at their best as parents – a benefit of being a “pleasant surprise” well after they both thought they were finished with their “multiply the earth” duties. So just in case you are judging Mommy, please reconsider (and don’t you dare tell me, ‘cause them is fightin’ words).

There are many photos of me as a child from the first one in the hospital when I was born to my senior heads in photo albums and boxes. For years I have looked at those pictures and saw a fat girl. But about seven years ago, I really looked at those pictures and wondered what people were talking about – there was no fat girl in those pictures. I had a big ole butt and that was the reason I had to wear Pretty Plus clothes – I just needed room in the hips. I had a big ole butt that astonished grown folks and it was the topic of so much conversation, talking about me in front of my face when it should have been behind my back (or not at all but people aren’t flawless).

I had a big ole butt and shouldn’t have been picked up so much after I started walking. I had a big ole butt that all my childhood friends wanted in middle and high school and I would have gladly passed it on to them all. And I grew relatively fast – everyone thought I was going to be tall. I am 5’4” so not quite tall.

And what breaks my heart most of all is that I believed I was a fat girl and that there wasn’t anything I could do to change it – no diets, no exercise ever got rid of my big ole butt. And then one day as a young adult I saw I had what I called “fat girl” knees. Shirts were tight on the arms. I couldn’t find pants that fit over everything unless they were two sizes too big. Skirts hung high on my butt and dipped low in the front. And I remember the day I had to start shopping in a different section of stores. I skipped all over Juniors which is where my friends shopped. When I saw that I was going to be a fat woman, I stopped trying to be anything else. This was not body acceptance. This is to say that I accepted what everyone else told me as a child that I would be – that I received all of those thoughtless comments and believed I had no other choice but to be a fat girl. I stopped exercising because I was only exercising to lose weight and I wasn’t losing the weight I wanted. I stopped eating with intention and settled into eating for comfort because if I am going to weigh about the same eating kale everyday as I would eating lemon-pepper wings everyday, why not have the wings?

My name is Regina Lynette. People used to call me healthy.

5 Min Read, Bookish, Social Media Handles

I am Regina Lynette, Tsundoku Sensei.

December 7, 2020December 7, 2020 Regina Lynette

When I was a baby I fell off a bed head first into a bookcase with glass doors. The glass shattered and a shard of glass was stuck in my right eyelid. I needed stitches and it left a scar that moved, as I grew, a little higher on my eyelid, just under my eyebrow. Since I’ve had it for so long I never see it. But as people get to know me, in time they ask about the scar. When they ask, I always subconsciously search for it with my hands or look for it in a mirror, and then tell the short version of the story quickly because it all sounds horrific.

I suspect it was an early sign that I would be bookish – I needed to be with the books so desperately that I dove right into a full bookcase.

I remember reading for pleasure in the summers while in grammar school, almost always while laying on the bed under a ceiling fan and eating a granny smith apple. As life changed and I grew up, reading became a pleasure for my screened porch and my special strawberry lemonade. When it was difficult to maintain a quiet reading space, I made a reading soundtrack (curated on Apple Music and Spotify if you’re curious) and reading then became what I did in between loading and unloading the machines for weekend cleaning (washer, dishwasher, etc.). I bought fashion handbags based on whether or not they could hold a book and became a shuttle bus commute reader. I got the very first Nook for Christmas. And about eight years ago the unimaginable happened – I found it difficult to read anything at all. I just didn’t even know who I had become.

After years of having a bookshelf filled with books I’d already read, my accumulating stack of new books to be read was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. For a while I continued to buy new books because I believed that when my desire to read returned, it would be wonderful to just pull a new book off the shelf at home and read them all back to back without searching for a new read at the store. But then I stopped buying books because I wasn’t reading them, and it felt like a waste of money. Not buying books felt like giving up on my life. It sounds a bit dramatic, but it is honest. So I thought maybe I should become a book collector. But I didn’t become an avid book collector of pristine first editions and other valuable books nor did I have much interest in carefully preserving the books in my collection. Books are meant to be treated with respect, but they should look loved and that means some of them have battle scars. Spine creases are like laugh lines – little wrinkles that come from repeat happiness. Handwritten treasures, worn covers, and doodles all add to a book’s value to me.

Several years ago I received a book that had been sort of re-gifted – it was a book on grief and was given to me when my father died by someone who had received it when her father died. There was a note inside from the person who gave it to her, and she added a note for me. Then when someone I knew lost her father, I wrote a little note inside and passed it on to her. I just imagine this book being passed around the world forever and having all those little notes inside make the book more valuable in my eyes.

When I first heard the term Tsundoku Sensei, I added it to my list of social media bio identifiers. A Tsundoku Sensei is a master at collecting books whether or not they will be read. Because that’s what I’ve been doing, collecting books regardless of whether or not I will ever read them. I ‘tsundoku’ for a variety of reasons. If you identify with the list below, you might be a Tsundoku Sensei, too.

I began collecting copies of the same book. I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho at the end of every year so I buy a new copy every December. Whenever I see a copy of The Color Purple by Alice Walker or Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston that has a cover I don’t already own, I buy it. And I have a few copies of books in different formats – e-book, audiobook, paperback and hardback – just because I changed my mind about the format I wanted or because of needing a physical book or new book for a book signing.

I started buying books by recommended authors. Since I haven’t been reading a lot of books lately, I have been collecting books by authors I imagine I would love based on various recommendations or general media exposure. Edwidge Danticat is one of those writers and I was right – after reading her book of short stories, Everything Inside: Stories, I fell in love with her writing. Thankfully, I already have five of her books waiting on the shelves. I am slowly reading through Well-Read Black Girl: Finding Our Stories, Discovering Ourselves by Glory Edim because every time I read an essay I go on a book buying spree.

I buy entire collections or series of my favorite authors. When I find a book I like, I generally go back and read everything I’ve missed and buy everything that comes out later by that author. Even though I consider this a tsundoku-related pattern, I generally read most of the books I buy from these authors like Tayari Jones, Kevin Young, and Pearl Cleage to name three. I don’t have everything that Walter Mosley has written, but I do own the entire Easy Rawlins series (and will be buying the newest one – Blood Grove – early next year), even though I haven’t read the last three.

I buy children’s books. This started primarily when I was in college, majoring in Early Childhood Education with the intention of teaching pre-school until I got married and had kids who I would then homeschool. My plan was that I would buy books for my own teaching purposes to be sure I kept pristine copies for reading to the kids. And these books would eventually line the shelves of my own children’s rooms. That hasn’t happened but I still add to my collection of children’s books to eventually give to [insert kid from the future here].

I buy books written by recently deceased writers. When Toni Morrison died in 2018, I already had more than half of her novels, several audiobooks, one children’s book and a book of essays. However, upon learning of her death I sought out hard copies of the entire collection of novels. I did the same thing when John Lewis died this summer. I bought his children’s book, the graphic novels set, and two biographies.

I buy books that I feel I should own. Most often they are about cultural awareness. I get curious about the literature of certain times and places and collect books on the subjects. I don’t believe I will ever read the books I have about Emmett Till but I want them on my shelves. I may or may not read Michelle Obama or President Barack Obama’s books but I want them on my shelves. And I don’t read or speak or write in French at all (yet), but I own several books in French with no English translations. I’m currently trying to justify purchasing a cookbook that’s written in French – proceeds go to support a cause (in France) but shipping is more than the book but it will be signed by the chef but I won’t use it… All I need is one more ‘pro’ and it’s justifiably mine.

If you identify with me as a Tsundoku Sensei, take a look at some gear for you masters in my shop at ImperfectlyByRegina.com. If you’re not quite a Sensei, I’ve made a list of some of the books that I mention above in my Bookshop.org storefront for quick click shopping – you’ll be master in no time flat.

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Tsundoku Sensei.

10 Min Read, Bookish, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker

I am Regina Lynette. And I am a proud Book Lover.

November 30, 2020December 7, 2020 Regina Lynette

I grew up in a family of readers. My parents invested heavily – with their own sweat equity – in my reading and education. I was reading by age three and no matter what word I was facing, they insisted that I knew how to read and refused to accept my asking what a word was or telling them I didn’t know it. I began to believe them. I approached everything with the attitude that I knew how to read and therefore I knew how to read all the words. What they obviously wanted me to do was try on my own, develop my own understanding of phonics, and extrapolate my learning independently. Because when I read Chevrolet starting with a ch- like in cheese and ending with a hard t sound, they corrected me quickly with a laugh. And they corrected my mispronunciation of Arkansas – I just stuck an ar- sound in front of the Kansas – with a tone that I understood to communicate that they were proud of me.

I was in kindergarten the first time I saw any library. Once a week we went to the school library as a class to select a book to read for the week. Mommy was very excited by this prospect and when she asked me about my experience it was with the energy of a little girl opening a present on Christmas morning. She couldn’t wait to hear about it and to see the book I selected and expected to be bathed in a euphoria of hope for her child. Unfortunately, she was very disappointed. I explained to her that we were assigned a table with about five children or so, that had a stack of five books or so in the middle to choose from. We could begin reading our books at the table and then we’d do it all again the following week. Mommy was not only disappointed in the book I chose but in the whole system. But she figured if I selected the biggest and hardest book on the table, we could still get to whatever it was she expected would result from my reading and going to the library. That following week, she was more disappointed to see what the hardest book on the table was and gave me a new directive. I was to ask the librarian if I could select my own books from the shelves and this met with a quick no from the librarian. I wonder if it’s important to note that the first time I saw the quote “Ignorance is bliss” was on a poster hanging on this librarian’s desk. Anyway, Mommy took matters into her own hands that very evening – we went to the nearest public library to get my first library card.

The very beginnings of my bibliomania started the first day I entered a public library. The library was not far from our house, but we headed there with haste because they would be closing soon. The goal was to get a library card and then to learn how to pick books to read. We’d return the following Saturday to actually pick books. I have audibly gasped entering two buildings in my life. The second was in 2018 at Basilique Du Sacré-Cœur de Monmartre in Paris, France. The first was the Whitehaven Public Library in Memphis, Tennessee in 1981.

I’ll be describing my experience from the perspective of that five-year-old girl in 1981 entering her first public library going forward. It’s important that I explain that because if you know the Whitehaven Public Library (or ever visit it – if it’s still there) you will be perplexed by my description.

When we flung open the doors to the library, I gasped in awe, and Mommy was so pleased. There were books EVERYWHERE! And there were people – and by people I mean children my age – looking at books and there were just so many! Who knew there were so many books in the world just for children? The sections for children’s books seemed larger than the entirety of my school library. I was about to explode. Mommy calmed me and we walked over to the desk to request our library card. I couldn’t look away from the world of books that was about to be all mine.

The second thing that happened that would change my life was Mommy asked that the library card be in my name. Oh that woman – actually both women, my Mommy and the librarian – became good fairies when they insisted I have my own library card. I never had anything in my own name before and surely this thing would give me immeasurable power. And then she took us on a tour to show me all the sections of books that were available to me. All three of us beamed that evening.

I got my card and I couldn’t resist taking a few books home so I filled my arms as quickly as I could until Mommy stopped me and we checked out. To my disbelief, I would have these books for what felt like an eternity. That these guardians of wonderful books trusted me to care for them, read them, and return them in that much time – I was dumbfounded. And a book enthusiast had found her happy place at just five years old.

Forget that little school library because it wasn’t for people like me. It was for people who weren’t as intimately involved with the written word as people like me and still needed to be gently introduced to the world of reading and of books. I’d also found my people and the best part about my fellow bibliophiles was that there was no age restriction in this group. For the first time in my life children were regarded with the same respect as adults and I felt empowered.

The last time I visited the Whitehaven Public Library was while in high school. I felt like there was barely room for three books and it looked quite small and sad. I stopped going inside because I didn’t want it to lose the grandeur I’d projected onto it as a five-year-old. And it will forever be sacred to me.

I am Regina Lynette. I am a book lover.

* I’ve curated a Bookshop storefront where you can shop titles from my shelves. Click the Bookshop link above or click HERE to see the books I’ve purchased and read for 2020. I am an affiliate of Bookshop.org and I will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase.

10 Min Read, COVID, Fasting, Holidays, Spirituality

I am fasting in a time of feast.

November 22, 2020November 19, 2020 Regina Lynette

When I experience emotional pain, I build a fort around myself in an attempt to feel safe. I don’t generally respond this way for sudden and traumatic experiences that cause pain but in response to the microaggressions, sarcastic and sardonic remarks, insults delivered with kind tones, and all the other little pin pricks that wear away at your resolve on a daily basis. For me, this fort manifests in different ways. To keep myself safe from my own thoughts I keep the television on as much as possible, only turning it off to focus on a game that requires little skill but keeps the mind engaged. To be safe from people coming too physically close, I allow clutter to accumulate, not only making it an unappealing space to share but also literally leaving no space for anyone to get close. To avoid spending time with people who don’t treat me with respect, I get deeply involved in secret projects where I have to deny invites with cryptic excuses and sometimes outright lies.

When the fort I build around myself becomes a prison – junky rooms, mountains of paper on my desk, isolation and loneliness – I have to begin to deal with the pain in more constructive ways. I have to allow myself room to think which means having some quiet time – no listening to anything, no talking to anyone. I have to clean up and organize the chaos and mess. I have to stand up for myself and demand respect when necessary as well as give of myself to others who value and love me and let them in.

Along with the entire world, I thought that COVID-related challenges would be temporary. I never believed that we’d close down for two weeks and resume business as usual as many people talked about just before April 3, 2020 – the start of confinement where I live – but imagined it would be closer to two months and I was hoping that I was being overly pessimistic about that much time. Never could I have thought that I would be masking up seven months later with no end in sight. I found myself drinking too much because I mixed cocktails at home rather than going out to have one or two a month on average. My at-home pour is heavy and when I stepped back to look at monthly expenses, I couldn’t believe how much I was spending monthly on alcohol. I am now addicted to lemon pepper chicken wings and coffee. I eat bacon and eggs literally every day. And my grocery and eating out expenses have tripled. I have cancelled doctor appointments for anything preventative – I am at high risk for various cancers and have not had any regularly scheduled preventative screenings. I haven’t had professional dental cleaning and x-rays. I haven’t had my hair professionally styled. I look and feel a whole mess. And my confinement is showing symptoms of agoraphobia.

I refuse to enter 2021 in this weakened state, so I am taking a 40-day fast from November 22^nd through December 31^st.

I don’t typically fast during the end of the year winter holidays because it is a time for feasting – October: candy; November: Thanksgiving; December: my birthday, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. It’s a time to enjoy extended family and indulge in mac-n-cheese, brown liquor, and pound cake. It’s a time to watch holiday movies and catch winter finales of my favorite series. Holiday music is a constant soundtrack of the season. And it’s a time to dismiss the insensitive remarks from family and friends for the sake of creating pleasant memories.

Because I have no idea what the holidays will bring – I forgot when Halloween happened until I looked at the date on that day and we totally forgot that Thanksgiving is upon us – I am doing a modified fast. While I’m not missing out on my sister’s mac-n-cheese and tropical pound cake that only makes an appearance twice a year, I have a list of foods that have become a comfort and a crutch that I will be abstaining from during this time. I’m limiting my television time to one news show, one feature length film, and one hour of sitcoms a day – I will not miss out on my annual viewing of Miracle on 34^th Street, This Christmas, The Preacher’s Wife and It’s A Wonderful Life.

Since there will be no travel or visitors during the holidays, I will be completing several declutter challenges to get my space in order, and thus get my life together. My holiday decorating will be limited to my Advent calendar, turning on the birch trees that stay up all year, and glimmer strings in my lanterns and on my shelves – which means the only thing I’m pulling out of storage will be 4 DVDs and my Advent calendar. I also have some organization projects related to work that I will be tackling during this time – I look forward to seeing the top of my standing desk and emptying the storage bins where I dumped things I haven’t sorted.

I won’t have to make a lot of time to avoid people and have meaningful times of silence due to COVID-related restrictions, but I will be making some strides against the cabin fever and agoraphobic-ish reactions that are becoming harmful to my spirit and mental stability.

Every day I will get outside for some movement – temps where I live are like Spring and Fall with very little rain so I have no excuses there. Every day I will run an errand using the necessary precautions versus having everything delivered. And I plan to go to the beach at least once a week, likely on Sundays for some quiet time in nature and time to write.

With these sacrifices, I expect to tear down my fort of safety and the self-made prison so that I can receive spiritual rejuvenation and answered prayers that will bolster my resolve and give me strength to tackle 2021 come what may.

10 Min Read, Bookish, Brothers And Sisters

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Silver Sparrow.

November 16, 2020November 15, 2020 Regina Lynette

Silver Sparrow is the title of a novel by Tayari Jones about two half-sisters, their shared father, and how life unfolds for them and their families*. I went to see her at the Decatur Book Festival and while discussing her book, Tayari Jones asked if there were any Silver Sparrows in the room. I raised my hand. The feeling of pride that accompanied that acknowledgement surprised me.

The story of me and my half-siblings has always been shrouded in shame. I never took on the shame directly, but some people look at me as the shame – I was a catalyst for change in my parents’ lives. But I never even remotely accepted the blame for my parents’ decisions.

My father was married with children at the time he met my mother, and she was divorced with children. They began their relationship while my father was still legally married. I have 3 half-brothers and 4 half-sisters. I shared one half-brother and one half-sister with our mother. I shared two half-brothers and three half-sisters with our father. I’m the only and last child between my parents and all my siblings are “half”. No one in my immediate family used the term “half” so I’ll be dropping that now.

It was easy to share my mother with my brother and sister because they lived at home with me and neither of their fathers were involved in their lives. It was a little more complicated with sharing my father. His oldest children were close to my mother’s age, so he wasn’t co-parenting young children but adults. They were married and having their own children – I have three nieces and a nephew who are older than I am. So, while I was technically sharing my father with his older children, what was happening day to day was that I had a father (and in some respects my mother’s children had him as a father), and his older children were abandoned. With young children, fathers typically make some legal arrangement to share custody with mothers and all the children manage to grow up together in some manner. With adult children, what happened in our circumstances, is that I became a secret.

I didn’t realize I was supposed to be a secret, mainly because I knew the truth about my family structure and we never treated it like a secret. But when I spent time with my father’s children and I met people from their everyday lives, I had to be explained. “Who is this small child with you – too young to be friends with your own children?” people would ask. “This is my baby sister. Yep, there was one more who came much later.” Or if my nieces were asked then it was often, “This is my baby Auntie.”

And I almost got pleasure that we’d shocked someone because our family was a little unexpected. As a teenager and young adult I started to feel more sensitive to other people’s reactions.

The moment I felt for certain that I had been a kept secret was at my niece’s wedding. I was a bridesmaid and was approached at the rehearsal by two ladies I didn’t know. They asked who I was, and I told them the bride was my niece. They assumed I’d sort of adopted my way into the family – not that she was my biological niece. I explained – no, her father is my older brother – and the look on their faces, the sudden silence to me, and the whispering behind my back but in front of my face felt shameful. That is what I felt.

I feel compelled to provide some disclaimers. First, I do not know those ladies and if they were standing in my face this minute, I wouldn’t know they were the ones with whom I spoke and couldn’t tell you what the significance was of them being at the wedding rehearsal. Second, there could have been any number of reasons they weren’t privy to details about our family that had nothing to do with feelings or opinions on how I came to be – I have no idea what the relationship with these ladies is between my family. And third, though it’s no secret that this brother had a difficult time with our father and his choices, neither he, his wife, or his daughter ever made me feel anything less than precious when I was with them. This is just a recollection of a moment in my life where I felt shame and realized I was a secret – not a factual account of anything done to me by anyone. I was old enough that I could understand that my existence and the circumstances around my conception was not necessarily something to boast about and not necessarily information that just anyone needed to know. Yes, I am very aware that the compulsion to offer that disclaimer speaks rivers and yes, you likely will hear more about that later – I’m trying to keep these entries brief.

The first time I noticed how easy (and benign) it was for me to have become a secret was the first time I realized my siblings had become my secret. Years ago, an associate at work was leading a professional development workshop and as part of his intro and opening comments he would ask if anyone in the room had older brothers. This was much more about a segue into an anecdote about him having older brothers and less to do with getting a census of the participants. Though I had been in the room when he did this presentation several times, this was the first time I was a participant in the workshop, and so this was the first time I raised my hand. He was so startled that I felt a little embarrassed. He was silent for just a beat too long before he said that he had no idea that I had brothers. I said something to try and explain that there was no reason for me to have mentioned my brothers in our previous interactions – we had a professional relationship that was also relatively friendly – and before it became too awkward, he moved on. This would be true for most of the people I interact with on a daily basis. Just because I see or speak to someone everyday doesn’t mean that I’ve had any interactions with them that require them to know anything about my family structure. This has absolutely nothing to do with how I feel about any member of my family and everything to do with the point of whatever I am trying to say at that moment.

So since that revelation, I look back on my memories with a different lens and with much less sensitivity than I used to. If you call me Regina, you do not know the whole story, trust me (even if you already knew everything I just shared). And there are no secrets – just rooms to the house you haven’t been invited to enter, so to speak. If you know me well (likely you call me Gina) you probably get the explanation of my family structure because you probably need it – anecdotes can get complicated if you don’t know the key players. But if you were introduced to me as Regina, and now call me Gina, (or vice-versa) you are missing some details – they aren’t secrets but you find out things on a need-to-know basis. And I determine when you need to know.

The pride in raising my hand at the book festival to identify myself as a Silver Sparrow was because it was a pretty name for something complex that I now find beautiful. My parents made the choices they thought were best at the time. I say that they weren’t always the right choices. Maya Angelou said “Just do right. Right may not be expedient, it may not be profitable, but it will satisfy your soul.” Some of their choices were expedient at the cost of being right. Some of their choices were profitable at the cost of being right. And some of their choices were easy and comfortable at the cost of being right. I know my parents sometimes didn’t consider – and at times didn’t understand – the impact that their decisions would have on the generations to come after them. And there is a lot of pain associated with all of us who suffered consequences of their choices. But, the day I raised my hand proudly declaring myself a Silver Sparrow was the day I saw the beauty of what they gave me. I was exposed to many different philosophies of life – all my siblings were adults and I was often in a position to be taught by them as parents to children. The brother who I mentioned earlier in the wedding story taught me how women should be treated by what I saw in how he treated his wife and daughter. All my sisters wanted me to look and behave ladylike, even though they all had slightly different ideas of what that meant and different deliveries of the message. Everyone expected me to be studious and ambitious and encouraged me to be the best they thought I could be – whether they really knew what that was or not. If I had not been a Silver Sparrow, I wouldn’t have had the siblings I have, and we wouldn’t have had the life experiences that have made us all more intentional about our life choices and aware of what we are contributing to the following generations. And while my life experiences range from horrible enough to repress to so joyous it is heartwarming, it’s that spectrum that gives me pride.

I have 3 brothers. I have 5 sisters (fictive kin included). I am Regina Lynette, and I am a Silver Sparrow.

*Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones is one of the books that I hugged after I finished reading it. I have read all her books and have recommended all of them at one time or another to friends and family – and now to you.

My Tayari Jones books are enjoying a sunset on the lanai.
Pictured from left to right – An American Marriage, Leaving Atlanta, The Untelling, Silver Sparrow.

10 Min Read, Why This Blog?

I am Regina Lynette. I was listening. Now I’m speaking.

November 9, 2020November 9, 2020 Regina Lynette

I remember knowing about MySpace without fully understanding it. The next thing I recall hearing about was Facebook. And by the time I’d heard about Twitter, I’d fully judged social media as an avenue for the self-absorbed, self-centered, egocentric, pretentious, and self-important to make their presence known. I would think of it as digging through the garbage cans of people’s lives, or as feeding the desperate attention-grabbing attempts of the vapid members of society. When I judge, I go hard in the paint.

Years ago, I was asked at work about my opinions on how we should use Facebook or Twitter for professional updates and I couldn’t offer any insight because I had no experience. This person, both my superior and my elder, was visibly stunned and asked me, “How old are you?” Immediately – literally, immediately – I opened a few accounts. I still had absolutely no interest in social media, but I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to contribute during strategy meetings and be marketable for any other opportunities.

Essentially, I’d bought the idea that social media promotes speaking at the cost of listening. I didn’t articulate it in that way until after watching Michaela Coel’s I May Destroy You, Season/Series One, Episode 9: Social Media Is a Great Way to Connect. That concept struck me and stuck with me for quite a while after the episode aired. Not only did it give me a concise way of articulating how I felt, but it also gave me food for thought as I was designing and creating this blog.

When I decided to disallow comments on my posts in this blog – speaking, perhaps at the cost of listening – it felt true to the purpose of the blog. When I began blogging about Vulnerability, everything was wide open and I got what y’all give – criticism and compliments. And in trusting y’all with my vulnerabilities (the whole point of that journey) I had to take the criticism and the compliments. No, I chose to take the criticism and the compliments. Now that I am blogging about Identity, the whole point is to strip off other people’s labels so I can bask in glory of who I am. So comments are disabled because for over 40 years y’all have been speaking and I have been listening.

The idea of exploring Identity in general, my identity in particular, online feels self-absorbed, self-centered, egocentric, pretentious, and self-important. This blog, this personal journey, is indeed self-absorbed, self-centered, and self-important because I have unilaterally decided that you should know certain intimate things about me as I know and grow to learn about myself. It’s egocentric, and it’s pretentious because, well, who cares about who I am? And the focus of all of it is telling you who I am. No argument there. That is speaking without listening.

Before deciding to write this blog I had been listening to people ask me “why” and “how” about my motivation and drive in certain aspects of my philosophies of life. I’ve been asked in so many words how I manage the cards I’ve been dealt. When I respond, much of what I say calls to question the aspects of my identity. In order to write this blog, when I write I have to decide that I am not speaking at the cost of listening because I listened first and am speaking now. Maybe that’s the right answer. Maybe that’s the wrong answer. I will accept the responsibility of my words, continue to consider what these words mean, and accept the consequences of my words.

I am Regina Lynette. I was listening. Now I’m speaking.

3 Min Read, Social Media Handles, What's In A Name?

I am Regina Lynette. My first official handle was WoundedHealer76.

November 2, 2020November 2, 2020 Regina Lynette

The introduction of all things Internet – email in particular – presented a need to create a handle. Creating a personal email address required the perfect handle and I took some time to make a meaningful choice. This was going to be another name, chosen by me this time, and I wanted it to be one that could describe my identity for eternity. I landed on godzgrl (God’s Girl). I was choosing Christianity for myself so to speak at that time and full of unbridled zest for the religion to be sure to be a living representation of Christianity at its finest, evangelizing by the blessed life it would soon manifest. I’ll leave that there for now.

Between a spiritual crisis of sorts and people’s misunderstanding of the handle – for some reason many went to Godzilla Girl – I decided to find a more suitable handle when opening my social media accounts. I chose the handle WoundedHealer76 for several reasons but the most important is because of what it means.

A Wounded Healer is a person who is compelled to heal others because she herself is wounded. Generally, the Wounded Healer manages to heal others but is unable to heal herself. At the time I took on that name, it fit well. The pain I needed to heal from at the time was emotional. Whenever a pity party felt imminent, the laundry list of all things unfair that I’d suffered during the first 25 years of my life was long. And I had no idea why these things were happening to me. So trying to figure out the existential question, “Why?” with no response (from God), I settled on the next best thing – become a martyr of sorts.

I was sexually abused as a toddler and on and off for 20 years of my life because I was supposed to help victims of sexual abuse. I suffered under the hands of an abusive step-monster while my father emotionally neglected me because I was supposed to become a great parent (or at least a good stepmother). I lost my mother 14 days into my teen years because I was supposed to help young girls grieve their mothers. And I was vigilant when presented with the opportunity to help anyone in this way. Fortunately I know that I truly helped many people. But I remained wounded. I couldn’t find my way out of my own suffering. Nor did it seem like anyone else could help me navigate my way out of my own pain. Thankfully I had enough sense to seek professional help. But as I said, unable to heal myself.

If I wore my name Regina like a diamond tiara, then I wore Wounded Healer like that super cute hat or beautiful wrap/scarf that is hiding unruly hair between whatever treatments and styles you usually wear. It’s cute, like I said, and you are working it, but it’s covering up the imperfections and the secrets and the ugly things. It doesn’t actually resolve anything.

I have tried to release the handle WoundedHealer76 but I just can’t let it go. I no longer believe myself to be a martyr. I accept that there are things in my life that though they happened for a reason, I don’t yet know or understand that reason. Maybe it’ll all make sense in the end. I’m no longer driven to make it purposeful. But as with God’s Girl, Wounded Healer was a perfect name for a season. And as I believe that I am the sum of my life experiences, I will always have a part that is called God’s Girl and a part called Wounded Healer.

I am Regina Lynette. And I have been a Wounded Healer.

10 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker

I am Regina Lynette. I was the one who found her.

October 26, 2020October 26, 2020 Regina Lynette

My memory of the last quarter of 1989 is a bit spotty now as I have suppressed some details that were hard to process at the time. The piece that is perhaps most critical to this story is that my mother, in the doctor’s words, “literally blew her top” while we were out of town visiting my sister. Her blood pressure rose so high that she had a seizure, and she was hospitalized until it lowered some. When we eventually returned home, we were vigilant about her salt intake – the only factor we were aware of in our limited education that would affect her health. Somewhere in those weeks I had my thirteenth birthday (which I do not remember celebrating at all) and a stomach virus. I was feeling better by Christmas Eve 1989.

On Christmas Eve 1989, I baked sugar cookies with red and green sprinkles. No one had the “Christmas Spirit” and I was trying to rustle up some cheer. My sister was having a challenging first pregnancy and was on the other end of the state. My brother was having other challenges – I don’t recall what and don’t remember where he was; just that it was a long-distance call and I knew where to find his phone number. They were both married and “the kids” were now adults and had their own lives to deal with. Logically we all understood that we weren’t central to their lives anymore. But we all felt the absence because this was the first Christmas that no one was coming home.

Daddy had been at work on his part-time security job and returned home tired and cold. We spoke briefly and he went to his room. Mommy was relaxing on the couch watching television when I went to ask Daddy if he wanted any cookies. I walked into his room, called his name, but he didn’t stir. He didn’t look right – slumped over with a book falling out of his hand. It scared me and I called his name again much louder. He found his way out of his slumber and answered. I asked if he wanted cookies, said something about regretting waking him up, maybe even told him to go back to sleep. I ran back to the kitchen and prayed – “Dear God, please don’t let my daddy die.” I wiped the tears that were falling and pretended to be tired and went to bed.

Christmas arrived rather uneventfully. I remember getting a Juicy Fruit watch, a Nintendo game (I don’t remember which one), and Karyn White’s self-titled debut album on cassette. I spent the day learning all the words to “Superwoman” and playing whatever game I got. Apparently I got some cash because Mommy and I planned to go to shopping the day-after-Christmas sales. And later that night Daddy left to work an overnight shift.

When I woke up the next morning, I remembered having a dream that featured Malcolm Jamal Warner and smiling because I had a crush on him. I lay back down almost hoping to catch the rest of that dream and then a series of events occurred that under other circumstances would mean absolutely nothing. Daddy came home and I remember thinking he was making too much noise. Mommy liked to wake up naturally, not from other people’s living sounds. He went to the back of the house for a moment and when he returned to the kitchen he asked me if Mommy had been up and I said something about leaving her to sleep late. Then the dryer buzzed letting us know that the clothes were dry. Daddy asked me to check and see if that woke up Mommy – which was a bit weird – and I dismissed it, told him it wasn’t that loud. Then the phone rang. I purposely let it ring too many times hoping she would answer – usually by the second ring because she couldn’t stand to hear it. When she didn’t answer, I picked up just before the answering machine would have picked up and answered it. It was a follow-up call from the doctor about the virus I’d had. And after I hung up, I tiptoed toward Mommy’s room and peeked inside. I thought she was sleeping but I decided to try and wake her up. She didn’t.

I was the one who found her.

I called for Daddy. I picked up the phone to dial 911 while Daddy turned her over. I hadn’t dialed 911 – just held the phone – so I asked if I should and Daddy said he was afraid she’d passed. My brain didn’t accept that so I called 911. Funnily enough I recalled my training in school every year from Kindergarten until that day about calling in emergencies and the script didn’t go exactly as we’d rehearsed. I often recall strange specifics like that.

I remember the paramedics entered from the front door, which we seldom used. I remember they went to her bedroom and I ran to the kitchen again to pray. My prayers this time were bargaining – I promised to go to every church service and pray everyday and read my Bible or something if my Mommy was okay. As soon as I said, “Amen,” the paramedics confirmed she was gone and had been for a while.

I was the one who found her. So I was expected to report on her last movements, her position when found, and other things that made my brain give me amnesia. It was already trying to erase the images and details. Because I was the one who found her.

Neighbors were in and out of the house uninvited, drawn in by curiosity of an emergency vehicle at the house. I was spinning. My father became both silent and formal with the neighbors and getting instructions from the paramedics. And I didn’t know what to do with the feelings I had. I was the one who found her.

After the body was removed from the house, I called my Godmother, Lucy Bell, first. She was closest and most important. She could do what Daddy couldn’t which was give me something I didn’t even want from him – make me feel safe. But her mother answered the phone and told me that she wasn’t home. Her mother was the first person I told that my mother died. I remember she kept saying “Naw! Aw naw! Naw!” I didn’t have time or energy to penetrate her shock and disbelief, so I just told her to pass on the message and I dialed my sister next.

My sister was far away but she was the next person I wanted near me. Now, I don’t recall what I said to her on the phone. I know I said the same words to everyone I called – Mama died – but I don’t know what else I said. I remember that every time I said it, I looked at Mommy’s room. Somewhere during or right after that call my Godmother had taken me in her arms. She didn’t call me back but ran to the house as soon as she got the news. I went limp. It felt wrong. It was exactly what I needed and wanted and at the same time it was wrong. I don’t think we’d ever really hugged before. I returned to the task of calling the people who needed to know immediately.

My brother was next. I know that I said, “Mama died” and I know that he kept saying “What?”. I know that I said it maybe three times and each time he responded the same way. So my Godmother took the phone. “Victor, Victor….Vi…” and I heard him yelling unintelligibly. The phone was returned to me. I don’t remember much else of that conversation.

I don’t remember if I called Mommy’s brother then, but I remember that shortly after my Godmother arrived there were too many people in the house. There was too much noise. I was angry with my father because I knew he couldn’t give me what I needed. Church folks were arriving – Deacons were sitting with him and it pissed me off. I wanted the ones who were supposed to comfort me and walk beside me through those initial moments. My Godmother was trying to take care of some business of some sort and I felt a shift in my emotions and in my mental state – I had to get out of that house. It still happens to me that way, usually when there are too many people around. My skin itches and the air seems to dissipate out of the room and respect and consideration of others be damned – get out of my way, literally, because I am getting the hell out of there by any means I deem necessary. I told my Godmother to get me out of the house. Nothing was happening quickly enough and people thought it was better that I stay at the house. So I screamed until my Godmother heard me – I mean really heard that I needed to get out of that house. And unfortunately someone else said, “Come on and go to my house with me.” It did not feel like a rescue. It felt like a last resort. And so I went with another church member and stayed away until my sister arrived in town.

Mommy died the day after Christmas and her funeral was about 3 days later. And somewhere in all the confusion, no one could hear me. Whenever I said words people didn’t respond. Could I have been mute thinking I was audible? I don’t think so because everyone was whispering about me practically non-stop. They had to see me. They just couldn’t hear me.

Of all that was said, the thing I held on to was “she’s the one who found her”. I was the one who found her. I was the one who found her. That was to me the most cruel part of the circumstances surrounding the most traumatic event of my life – nothing has touched it in 30 years and I find it hard to imagine that anything will ever top it. But I should have been wrapped in the cocoon that the adults in my life always kept me in when this happened. I should never have been on the frontlines. I should have been one of the people getting the news, not the one delivering the news. There should have been the right people, ready with tissues, telling me the right words, and holding me while I absorbed the shock and my body grieved.

I was the one who found her and for the next several years whenever I had to identify my mother, who died, I added as if it was part of my name that I was the one who found her. If I wore my first name like a diamond tiara, I wore this label like a crown of thorns. It would be decades before I removed that crown of thorns and chose my own name and identity.

I am Regina Lynette. I was the one who found her.

5 Min Read, What's In A Name?

I am Regina Lynette.

October 19, 2020October 26, 2020 Regina Lynette

With intention and on purpose, my parents named me Regina Lynette. I didn’t choose my name – none of us does. But I learned to love my name at a very young age. And eventually, I began to make some choices about how my name was documented. The first choice I made about my name was in high school because that’s when you start signing documents and applications that will follow you for several years of higher education. I would go through several iterations over the years.

I first decided to document my name as Regina Lynette Walker. No middle initial for me – please spell my middle name. There were some limitations of course but I fully embraced my name in its entirety as given to me by my parents and documented on my birth certificate and social security card.

At this time in my life I had lost my mother, was living in hell with a step-monster, had lost my auntie/godmother and therefore had lost my little sister, and my name was all I had left in some ways. Mommy had a reason for naming me Regina – a hope for elegance. Daddy taught me to wear the royal crown that is the name Regina. My little sister was forever connected to my heart through our shared middle name, even though we were separated when my step-monster imprisoned me and my father emotionally abandoned me. After I graduated college, I eventually made another choice about my name.

The second choice I made about using my name was to “change” it to Regina L. Walker. Practically, it was a bit shorter and I had room for the flourishes I used for my cursive capital letters. It looked mature and was a nod to something my mother told me about her name.

My parents were older – I was called a “pleasant surprise” and there was a gap of 24 years between them. So, they had been educated in a more formal and what might be called sexist way of using married names. I think the form she’d been taught was First/Given Name, Maiden Name, Married Name. For her, this meant sacrificing her beloved middle name. She decided to go against that rule and used First/Given Name, Middle Name, Married Name. And most often she only used her middle initial rather than her full middle name. So now, my name format matched hers and I’d planned to completely drop my maiden name upon marriage just the way she did. Honestly, I lost all emotional connection to the name Walker during that time. My father had died and if I married, there was no one in his place to honor or pay homage to with a surname. And then something painful happened that I don’t fully comprehend that brought forth the most recent choice I’ve made about my name.

I made a third choice of documenting my name by dropping my middle name and initial altogether – Regina Walker. I don’t know what happened to provoke this change but I felt passionately about dropping that initial. I wanted my name to total 12 letters because the number 12 is ubiquitous in my life – for example my birthday is December 12 or 12/12.

I didn’t want to discuss my middle name with inquiring minds. I felt guilt about losing my baby sister and wondered where she was and how she was doing. I felt like I’d betrayed my godmother. My heart was broken, and I had stopped speaking along that gold thread to my sister’s heart nor did I hear anything from the other end. I would cringe when I saw my middle initial and changed it everywhere I could.

I’ve covered the three times I made a choice about my name and never mentioned how I got to Regina Lynette – the name of this blog. Well, that was chosen specifically for the blog and is not a name I use on documents nor is it a name I particularly want to be called. I continue to use only my first and last name for documentation. I continue to be called Regina or Gina as appropriate (and one other name that is only for one other person, and he knows who he is). But as I go along this journey that I’ve named Identity, I am using the two names that were given to me, selected with intention and purpose. While it has significance, I don’t include my surname here because I got that by default and there is no journey to follow to figure out who I am as a Walker – my temperament and some physical features have done that sufficiently.

I am Regina Lynette. The name Regina is of Latin derivation and means Queen. The name Lynette is of French origin and means Pretty One.

*Technically the name Lynette has many different origins and meanings. The American/Anglo Saxon is “bird”. The Celtic is “Grace”. The Latin origin means “mild”. And the French-Welsh/Welsh meaning is “nymph” or “idol”. I’ve taken a simpler definition with heavier influence of the French and use the definition “Pretty One”.