You Say It’s Your Birthday??
There are birthdays that come and go with cake, candles, cards, and social media posts.
Then there are birthdays that make you stop and think.
Not about age.
Not about years.
Not about the number on the cake.
But about gratitude.
Today is Demonica’s birthday.
She turns 55 years old.
What amazes me is not that she is 55.
What amazes me is that she has somehow managed to spend 37 of those years being my best friend.
Think about that for a moment.
Thirty-seven years.
More than three decades of phone calls, laughter, tears, arguments, celebrations, hard conversations, impossible situations, and unwavering loyalty.
Thirty-seven years of showing up.
Thirty-seven years of being present.
Thirty-seven years of friendship.
That means for well over half of her life, and for a significant part of mine, Demonica has been there.
Not when it was easy.
Not when it was convenient.
Not when there was something to gain.
She has simply been there.
Steady.
Dependable.
Loving.
Honest.
Protective.
The older I get, the more I realize that kind of friendship is rare.
Many people spend a lifetime searching for someone who truly sees them.
Someone who knows the whole story and stays anyway.
I was fortunate enough to find that person nearly four decades ago.
Her name is Demonica.
I met her completely by accident.
Or at least that is what it seemed like at the time.
She was the roommate of a friend living in Quincy, Illinois. Through a series of circumstances that neither of us could have predicted, we started talking on the telephone.
Back then she went by Dee.
Long before I ever saw her face, I knew her voice.
I knew her wit.
I knew her opinions.
I knew her values.
And I knew she was one of the smartest people I had ever encountered.
I have always been an intellectual junkie.
I never cared much about appearances. What mattered to me was whether someone could hold a meaningful conversation.
Could they think?
Could they defend their position?
Could they challenge mine?
Could they make me see something differently?
When I was younger, I would argue almost anything from almost any angle. Not because I wanted to be right, but because I wanted to know if the person on the other side could keep up.
Many could not.
Dee could.
She was articulate.
Thoughtful.
Sharp.
Funny.
Respectful without being timid.
Confident without being arrogant.
If I pushed a point, she pushed back.
If I challenged her thinking, she challenged mine.
Some conversations lasted hours.
Others lasted late into the night.
Somehow, somewhere between all those conversations, a friendship began taking root.
Then came the day we finally met.
By that point we had been talking on the phone for more than a year.
I was living in Iowa City and working at what was then called Job Service of Iowa.
One day Dee called and suggested we meet for lunch.
I was excited.
After all that time on the phone, I was finally going to meet this remarkable woman who had become such an important part of my life.
My assistant came into my office.
“Dee is here.”
I wrapped up what I was doing and headed out to the lobby.
I looked around.
Nobody.
At least nobody matching the image I had unconsciously created in my head.
I went back to my office.
“Judy, where is she?”
“She is right there.”
“No, she is not.”
Judy gave me a look that suggested I might be the dumbest person she had encountered that day.
A few moments later she returned with a tall Black woman.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
Then she spoke.
The moment I heard her voice, my stomach dropped.
It was Dee.
The same voice.
The same laugh.
The same cadence.
The same person.
I still remember the embarrassment.
I still remember the shame.
Because in that instant I realized something about myself that I did not want to admit.
Without ever seeing her, I had assigned race to a voice.
I had carried assumptions I did not even realize I possessed.
Growing up in Mississippi and then moving around the world as the child of an Air Force family, I liked to think I was more enlightened than that.
Yet there I stood, confronted by my own blind spots.
It was one of the most uncomfortable lessons of my life.
And one of the most important.
We eventually laughed about it.
In fact, we have laughed about it many times over the years.
But the lesson stayed with me.
Years later, Demonica explained why people often assumed she was white on the telephone.
Her grandmother had worked tirelessly to prepare her for a world that often judged people before meeting them.
A world where opportunities could be denied during a phone call before a person ever had a chance to walk through the door.
Her grandmother knew that reality.
She understood exactly what barriers existed.
She wanted her granddaughter to have every opportunity available.
There is something both heartbreaking and inspiring about that story.
Heartbreaking because nobody should have to modify themselves to navigate prejudice.
Inspiring because her grandmother refused to allow those barriers to determine her granddaughter’s future.
That conversation changed me.
Not temporarily.
Permanently.
One of the greatest gifts Demonica ever gave me was perspective.
She helped me understand parts of the world I had never fully seen.
She made me a better listener.
A better friend.
A better human being.
That lunch became years.
The years became decades.
And eventually friendship became family.
There are people who come into our lives for a season.
Then there are people who become part of the foundation.
The people who remain when everything else changes.
That is Demonica.
We have laughed together until our sides hurt.
We have cried through losses that seemed unbearable.
We have celebrated victories.
We have survived disappointments.
We have argued like two people convinced the other had completely lost their mind.
Neither of us has ever been accused of lacking an opinion.
Yet somehow those disagreements never became permanent divisions.
We have always found our way back to each other.
Always.
That is not luck.
That is commitment.
That is trust.
That is love.
Real friendship is not agreeing all the time.
Real friendship is telling someone the truth when they need to hear it.
Real friendship is delivering a reality check when reality has gone missing.
Real friendship is being willing to say the hard thing because you care enough not to stay silent.
For 37 years we have done exactly that for each other.
And I would not trade a single moment of it.
As I have grown older, I have come to appreciate something many people never experience.
Very few people know the real version of us.
Most people know pieces.
They know the professional version.
The public version.
The edited version.
The version we allow the world to see.
Demonica knows all of it.
The successes.
The failures.
The mistakes.
The fears.
The victories.
The heartbreaks.
The parts I share openly.
And the parts I rarely share at all.
There are experiences in my life that only a handful of people know about.
Some that only one person knows.
Demonica has carried those stories with grace, compassion, and unwavering loyalty.
She has never weaponized my vulnerabilities.
She has never abandoned me when life became complicated.
She has never demanded perfection.
She has simply loved me.
As my health has become increasingly challenging over the past several years, she has once again shown me exactly who she is.
When I could no longer care for myself the way I once had, she opened her home.
When I was overwhelmed, exhausted, frightened, frustrated, and uncertain, she was there.
Not because she had to be.
Because that is who she is.
The world sees a tough woman.
A no-nonsense woman.
A get-it-done-right-the-first-time woman.
A woman who does not tolerate foolishness.
And all of that is true.
What many people never see is the heart behind that strength.
The compassion.
The kindness.
The generosity.
The tenderness.
The woman who would give someone the shirt off her back because she knows she can always buy another one.
The woman who quietly carries burdens for people she loves.
The woman who spends far too much time convincing herself she is somehow not enough.
That is the one thing that has frustrated me for 37 years.
Because I see her so differently than she sees herself.
She questions her value.
The rest of us question how we got so lucky.
She worries she is not enough.
The rest of us know she is more than enough.
She measures herself against impossible standards.
The people who love her measure themselves against the example she sets.
I wish she could see herself through my eyes for just one day.
She would finally understand the impact she has had on the people around her.
She would understand how deeply she is loved.
She would understand how many lives she has touched.
She would understand that her presence has made this world better.
The truth is that today may be her birthday.
But I am the one receiving the gift.
The gift is not a card.
The gift is not a celebration.
The gift is not a birthday cake.
The gift is 37 years of friendship.
The gift is knowing there is someone in this world who has seen me at my absolute best and my absolute worst and still answers the phone.
The gift is knowing that her family became my family.
The gift is knowing that when life became difficult, she stepped forward instead of stepping away.
The gift is knowing that one of the finest human beings I have ever known chose to walk beside me through this life.
Demonica, there are not enough words in the English language to adequately thank you.
Thank you for the laughter.
Thank you for the arguments.
Thank you for the reality checks.
Thank you for the late-night conversations.
Thank you for the honesty.
Thank you for the shelter.
Thank you for the compassion.
Thank you for the loyalty.
Thank you for the friendship.
Most of all, thank you for being you.
You have always been enough.
You have always mattered.
You have always been loved.
Even on the days when you could not see it yourself.
Happy 55th Birthday, Princessa.
I love you.
More than you know.
And I hope that one day I can give back even a fraction of what you have given me over these past 37 years.
Today is your birthday.
But I am the one who received the gift.
