Wrote this a while back. Hell I mightve posted it a while back too.
Dear self
This one's for you
This one's dedicated to all you can do
This one's dedicated to all that you can be
This one goes out as far as you can see
What I like about you
Your brain, you're a thinker
You're not afraid to have the wrong answer
And you'll work tirelessly to find the right answer
Way after anyone notices or cares
You think outside yourself
Always ready to provide and make a way
I love your laugh-its loud, obnoxious and coming of age
A little hearty with a hint of naievete
I love that you love to laugh
Taking yourself less seriously is one of the better choices you made
I notice as you get older you start to take other parts of yourself seriously
Your toes are really pretty too.
Your lips are kissable, lip gloss or not
I like how much of yourself you give
Even when you don't care, you do, just a little bit
You've got big dreams. Write them down. Rewrite them for clarity's sake. Say them aloud, make them real. Give them reason. Punctuate them with enthusiasm and can-do. Tell a friend with excitement. Post them on your wall. Repeat them at dinner. Tweet them in case you forget
You've come a long way, confident in your ability to reason, speak up, and feel. You're ok with crying, realizing that emotions are ok, that it makes you human. And when the tears dry, its go time.
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Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Winning At Life
Conversation between two women on my commute this morning, discussing the mundanities of middle aged adult life: finding a sitter when you want to go out for dinner, indulging in mindless reality TV, hitting the gym and running marathons. The woman on my left, Debbie, rambles on about different workouts around her kids schedules, while holding the railing at my eye level, practically putting my eye out with her engagement ring. Her friend, Jane Doe, gabbed about how she got into running after law school, a release upon working hellish 80 hour weeks.
After these women exit the train (total UWSiders-on at 96th, off at 42nd) the woman sitting next to me and I turn our NY all the way up-concluding they were loud, obnoxious and that "no one cares about their boring, regular lives."
Not so fast. I was a little intrigued-both were lawyers, one of them married w/ children, one's a marathon runner, and anyone who takes a subway 2 stops to work. One was petite, the other, one of those "I need to lose 10 lbs" girls who brings baked goods to the office (Crumbs was her vice). Anyway, from this small snippet, sounds like they won at life.
"Win at life (WAL)" is a concept coined by @thegreatestj, in reference to a friend who was completely wretched but married some guy who gave her a gorgeous ring, thus "winning at life." The phrase has evolved into a snarkier connotation of people who are, my social construct, lame, but they seem to think they've won at life by some aspect of life, from marrying a doctor, being offered a bid to every house on sorority row, or giving birth to thee cutest baby evar. Stuff that happens but doesn't deserve anything more but a nod and an "oh, how nice."
Even in their mundane lives, they had this WAL aura and wondered if they felt they'd won at life? How will I know when I've won at life? What are my life's must haves? Timelines are fine but I really rather not be one of those "I need to buy a house by 30, married by 32, kids by 35 because ill have gotten my masters by 28" girls. Its one thing to plan you day at work or your weekend, but your whole life?
How does one know when they've WAL? Is winning even essential? We know what it feels/looks like to lose at life, and no one wants to be a loser. What are your benchmarks for winning at life, and does it have a deadline?
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Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Happy Black Girl Day!
(Wo)Man! I swore I wouldn't forget, but this is the 2nd one in a row. What can I lament on this month? Well, I've noticed that its getting darker earlier and now that I work on a college campus, I notice the building getting a lot noisier. Summer's nearing to a close, but while its here, ill post 5 summery things that keep me a HBG.
1. Summer sunrises. I'm a heavy sleeper. Its incredibly hard for me to wake on time in the winter. I'm also not a morning person, so I need some type of sunlight to encourage me to get up and be productive. Its harder to sleep in when its bright at 5:30am. The one thing ill miss about my apartment is my windows cause they're huge and let in lots of light
2. My AC. I grew up on window fans and sleepin nekkid. While both things are quite enjoyable (shoutout to living alone) I knew I was a grown up when I bought my first air conditioner last month. Or was it when I saw my Con Ed bill more than doubled? Hmm.
3. Summer dresses. I've worn (and owned) more dresses this summer than ever. Outside of prom, graduation, induction, and the occasional wedding, I never really owned dresses just because. And now, I buy them left a nd right. In multiple colors, including pink. Not so much sold on shoes. One day, maybe.
4. Free ish to do. NYC offers so much to do for cheap or free in the summer: shows, the pool, parties, movies, etc. Kayaking at Pier 40 is free on the weekends. Free yoga Thursdays in Marcus Garvey Park. Target First Saturday outside. Granted, I'm at work for 90% of the time, (and wiped/forgetful the other 10%) but I take comfort in knowing its there.
5. The food. Huge surprise, right? I love barbeque as much as I love breakfast and bacon. If I could make an rib omelette on a grill... Well that might be gross, but yeah, I'd be down. Love hot dogs on a grill. Potato salad? Check. Coleslaw? Yes. Various coolers of wine and spirits? Don't haveta tell me twice!
And now for some fellow happy black girl publicity. Check out @sistatoldja's blog thebeautifulstruggler.com. She gets this HBGD poppin in these here streets.
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Monday, August 9, 2010
Writer
Inspired by re-reading my writing from undergrad and confirming I have this gift.
I wanna be a writer and make others think.
Make em say "ah" no trey
Make em say "hmm"
Make em say "whaaaa?"
And nod, make em say "word, aight."
I wanna be a writer and make others laugh
Laugh impolitely on the subway
Laugh from the bottom of their belly
Laugh till it hurts some
And then laugh some more, in agreement, in acknowledgement, in an experience shared.
I wanna be a writer and hang with the other writers
We'd drink our drinks
We'd smoke our smoke
We'd be cool, desired, envied even.
We'd have intelligent debate
We'd converse and pontificate
We'd dance around concepts and ideas for new pieces until it got late
Really, we should be going.
Am I the writer I thought I'd be now
I wanna be the writer I once was
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Wednesday, August 4, 2010
History in the Making
On Monday, I chatted with Terrence at Whole Foods, lamenting on how he sells groceries he can't afford for himself ("I have to work a couple of hours to even justify a $9 chocolate bar," referring to the customer before me). Tuesday, @snoble1025 and I briefly lamented on Essence magazine hiring a white fashion director (and the "yall need to have a seat" letter that followed by the editor in chief). Wednesday, I attended a panel discussing minorities in business school, (and get no further in deciding if an MBA is in my future) and talk to @craziijnell about the FDNY's desperate push to hire 1,000 African-American firepeople in response to being found using "discriminatory practices" in their hiring process.
A conversation with my mentor in Sigma (and life) on education (find her blog here: nucitynuview.blogspot.com) including black literature in curriculum planning, and what the hell we educators are missing in producing a more successful generation of academics. Our more affluent peers aren't struggling in the same manner. Their children are born into a pep rally of success and the desire to succeed. There are constant and consistent messages to pursue higher education, apply and attend the best schools, interview and become employed by the best companies. Those who stick to the plan learn the best is what's expected and as you move up, the faces, names and affiliations will stay consistent too.
We educators try changing the variables: lower teacher:child ratio, pay teachers more, make teacher certification stricter, or conversely, make teaching an entry-level position, so millenial college grads can create a corps of younger, brighter, innovative teachers, sent to the front lines to fight the good fight on behalf of the black, brown and in some parts of the country, white, faces. Faces that have stories and names that will equally blow your mind, and may not know or realize they're worth fighting for.
While great gains have been measured from these actions, we've experienced an interesting history of educational access. In the course of a few hundred years, black people-a catchall moniker afforded much later-weren't worthy of being mentioned in the same breath of education. Over the years, literacy and learning became the best-kept secret-a financial best-practice in keeping your "staff" loyal to the business. Once we were given an inch, our people took an ell-a few ells-in proving that yes, we can, and that we will-for our fathers of the past and the sons of our future. It was an unspoken promise, a mutually understood agreement.
Black people, with or without intention, made their mark in every field: medicine, law, business, arts, humanities, engineering, sports and yes, education. We, over the last hundred-some-odd years have become a list of "first Negro/African-American/Black (to)________", trotted out in certain chapters of our history books, certain months of the year, or whenever the "hey, black people can do it too!" argument needs to be made.
The MLKs, Thurgood Marshalls, Shirley Chisolms and Charles Drews of their generation experienced similar struggles my uncle wouldve faced as a Navy man, or my aunt as she worked through medical school. Educational access was still a rarity, a combination of hardwork and right place, right time, a pass to the other side. Blatant racism and discrimination lived unashamed and the struggle to succeed was an expectation. Through this, I'd like to think these groundbreaking "black firsts" were role models, offering my elders (not even my mother, a child of the 80s, but perhaps my grandmother/aunts/uncles) inspiration and motivation to do better and be the best.
I know, motivation and inspiration comes in different packages.
What's the disconnect for my...differently motivated peers, those led by the "fuck bitches, get money" movement? Today's teachers and educators can answer this better but I'd love to flip through today's English and history books. I'd guess, for our children, the list of writers and history-makers have not been updated to reflect recent history (and I use "today" loosely as I recall my textbooks were as old as 1973). Will my nieces, nephews and cousins still be reading about Rosa Parks, Malcolm X and Jesse Owens in 2010 and beyond? Will Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou, among others, continue to be the black highlights of high school required reading? Surely there is room for more thinkers, writer, and leaders to put rims on these wheels.
I hardly discredit any of these people, but my (grand)mother's heroes are not always my own. Should history be recorded as fast as its made? How do we accurately define what is history, and what is just something that happened to someone at some time (a question for journalists and educators alike). Over the last 15-20 years, a reasonable timeframe for history to be "made" and have a lasting effect on the next generation, who (and what) will be recorded as a testament to our children, that we black, brown (and even white) people made valuable, thought-provoking, ground-breaking, and even teachable contributions to this country and world?
Thought about it? Great, now cross out everyone in sports and entertainment. Now let's work from there.
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Monday, July 26, 2010
tdixondecides...but what about you?
A friend, soror and follower of mine @craziijnell, posts these statements. They follow the same format: "Today is a day of __________ (.) Who I am is ________, ________, and ___________(.)"
Punctuation in parentheses because these statements always lack periods. I like pauses in my speech.
I thought they were taken from one of those inspirational websites that send you emails between 4-8am (ready for you at your desk, coupled w/ morning coffee). Apparently she makes them up herself and uses them to guide her day. I took a stab and wrote a couple this AM. After all, if you know the key phrases and the format, its as easy as writing a mid90s R&B song. But what do those songs (and phrases) REALLY mean?
Affirmations generally are slated to be effective upon repetition, and hopefully, proceeding in a way that reflects said mantra. Is this the same as speaking ideas into existence? If I tape a quote to my bathroom mirror and make a conscious effort to wash, rinse and repeat, is it any more true than the day before?
Are we convincing ourselves of truths? How is this any different than denial, or flat out lying? When one is in denial, they are repeating mantra and affirmations that convince them otherwise. "As long as I tell myself (and others) this truth, it will be true," those who lead a double life.
Or what about religious/spiritual text? Is the Bible (or Torah, or Watchtower *shrug*) just a best-selling book of daily affirmations? Are the statements by the Lord and His peoples become truer the more we cite them, in relation to our lives?
Can anything be true if you repeat it enough, even if its dead wrong, or you don't necessarily agree? Such is the case of our own esteem. If we tell ourselves were the greatest thing since sliced bacon*, if our daddies raise us to believe we can do anything we put our minds to, when our moms, from two years old, ask each night at bedtime "who's the best little boy in the whole wide world?" and you squeal "I am!" in delight, that shapes our being. Similarily, being told that you're dumb, worthless, ugly or otherwise "ain't shit" on a daily basis is just as impactful.
*sliced bacon is a play on "sliced bread," which ill refer and explain in a future post that should've been posted 2 weeks ago.
Now, you could actually be gorgeous or dumb, or the "best little boy in the world," but if it's not true, who gets to decide that?
*looks around* oh, me?
Yes, I get to decide. No fancy language, no time stamps. No question marks, but repeating it daily may require an exclamation. If I can remember to repeat this affirmation, it can (and has) slowly replace other, less desirable ones. I become more effective, and more convincing.
So today is a day of decision. Who I am is decisive, willing to pick, choose, and live comfortably in those decisions.
And so is tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
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No, everything is NOT OK...Congrats, I'm like everyone else
Years ago, I was no good at emotions. I felt feelings, and kept them bottled up. When I was sad, hurt, upset, it manifested into depression. Mostly mental, seeping into my self-esteem, but also physical. It was so bad that I'd taught myself to suppress positive emotion. Rejoicing in a new hairstyle or an A on an exam was hard to do, because a bigger part of me was convinced that doing so wasn't worth it. My brain was telling me "fuck your happiness. You're still going to be sad about all of these other issues. Sit down."
I was in a dining hall eating alone and I could barely keep it together. I tried to study over pasta, read while snacking on a brownie, and eventually gave up. I walked to a pay phone (I don't remember why my cell phone wasn't working) to call my mom, who I never thought could understand, but in retrospect, I'd never allowed her to understand. She picked up and I instantly sob and wail. She said, "Is everything OK?"
The reality I'd suppressed was that no, everything wasn't OK. In fact, it was awful, nothing was right, and that fixing it was bigger than anything I could do. Saying I "was fine" over the years changed from a state of satisfactory to being thin, weak, light, unstable, flimsy.
I don't remember how my mother responded, or how the phone call ended (except that I had to keep finding change) but it was the beginning of a turning point.
Luckily, I sucked at suicidal follow-through (I learned this before I got to college), and even luckily-ier (I know, not a word) I started to realize my emotions and allow myself to express them, in healthy and unhealthy ways. I had to get the hurt, anger, sadness and frustration off the paper and out of my head. Often I couldn't focus on school or work, two things I really liked. I must have worn the telltale signs of college depression as my RA recommended help (2 years later, I pay it forward by doing the same for my resident). I sought it, and what do you know? Help helped.
I'm not sure why I'm telling this story, but it'll definitely make it into my memoirs. I remember this version of me and know I'm not the only one who's been down this (or similar) roads. I think the biggest reason I'm able to tell this story is because I'm like everyone else. I don't mean that everyone has been (or will be) where I am, but I do mean that my struggles are not unique, and neither are yours. So be not afraid to explore then, own them, and flaunt them, but recognize that others have been there and done that. Fear, the fear of owning those feelings, can be paralyzing, but it doesn't have to. It's a choice, a huge choice, one in self-accountability, and probably one of the better choices I've made in life, because its opened doors to the luxury bigger and better choices.
Go ahead, afford yourself the same luxuries. You (and I) deserve it.
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Monday, July 12, 2010
Could you still love me?
Inspired by a tweet last week.
I'm not perfect, but can you still love me?
See, I'm not a tall model type
Nor a cute-as-a-button type
I could be a girl-next-door
I could be your love at first sight.
Let me not sell myself short
I'm smarter than your average bear
Wit? Yes, Fit, not so much
I have a good heart
That's a good place to start.
I give good hugs.
I don't know how to do cartwheels
But I'd try and learn if it made you happy.
I'm not perfect, but you could still love me
If you learned to like me first
I'm likable, lovable
Kissable, fuckable
I'm take home to mom-able
Has a job-able
At the end of the day, my love's more than probable, but...
I'm flawed. I have issues.
Not only am I not perfect, neither is my love.
It's jealous. Its plain, its unexcitable. But its true.
My love's still, untapped, full, turnt up.
My love is unapologetic, immature, and a little awkward.
Most of all its bashful because its never been asked to play.
So what do you say?
I'm not perfect, but could you still love me?
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I'm not perfect, but can you still love me?
See, I'm not a tall model type
Nor a cute-as-a-button type
I could be a girl-next-door
I could be your love at first sight.
Let me not sell myself short
I'm smarter than your average bear
Wit? Yes, Fit, not so much
I have a good heart
That's a good place to start.
I give good hugs.
I don't know how to do cartwheels
But I'd try and learn if it made you happy.
I'm not perfect, but you could still love me
If you learned to like me first
I'm likable, lovable
Kissable, fuckable
I'm take home to mom-able
Has a job-able
At the end of the day, my love's more than probable, but...
I'm flawed. I have issues.
Not only am I not perfect, neither is my love.
It's jealous. Its plain, its unexcitable. But its true.
My love's still, untapped, full, turnt up.
My love is unapologetic, immature, and a little awkward.
Most of all its bashful because its never been asked to play.
So what do you say?
I'm not perfect, but could you still love me?
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Tuesday, July 6, 2010
the Lord and I break down love
I woke up with the phrase "love is patient, love is kind" in my head, and decided to break out ye good book. Well I turned to google, I will not kid you.
*pastor voice* if you turn your bibles to first corinthians, chapter 13... And the lord said:
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
5 It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
6 Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth.
7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.
Verses 4-5 really resonate with me, because love gets such a bad rap, when its what we do with love that makes it bad, painful, and makes us resentful. "Love is not self-seeking." Wow. Love is in the interest of all. Love isn't a hating ass hater, yall! "Love keeps no record of wrongs." Man, love is the ish-the gift that keeps on giving. Love, unlike Badu, isn't tired of yo shit.
Now verses 7-8 trip me up. I don't know about love never failing. You cocky mf, you. Love can do no wrong because we, simpleton ass laymen, do all the wrong. Maybe love indeed doesn't fail-we do.
"where there are tongues, they will be stilled." Take heed, yall. If you speak ill of love, you will get shut down. The rest of it, I'm not sure what it means, I gotta think it over.
Verse 6 is the best. This chapter is not only letting you know what love is, but how it gets down. More truth, less evil. Love backwards is e-v-o-l. You really want backwards ass love? Not I.
These are good reminders for everyone-in love, out of love, looking for love, ready for love. Essentially, love's a self-assured mf-er who has reached Maslow's self actualization. It would wear a big sign that says "I'm the ish, you just don't see it yet. Yall fronting," except when you are indeed the ish, its pretty obvious.
Which is cool, cause that's kinda how I aspire to live life, love included.
*pastor voice* if you turn your bibles to first corinthians, chapter 13... And the lord said:
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
5 It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
6 Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth.
7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.
Verses 4-5 really resonate with me, because love gets such a bad rap, when its what we do with love that makes it bad, painful, and makes us resentful. "Love is not self-seeking." Wow. Love is in the interest of all. Love isn't a hating ass hater, yall! "Love keeps no record of wrongs." Man, love is the ish-the gift that keeps on giving. Love, unlike Badu, isn't tired of yo shit.
Now verses 7-8 trip me up. I don't know about love never failing. You cocky mf, you. Love can do no wrong because we, simpleton ass laymen, do all the wrong. Maybe love indeed doesn't fail-we do.
"where there are tongues, they will be stilled." Take heed, yall. If you speak ill of love, you will get shut down. The rest of it, I'm not sure what it means, I gotta think it over.
Verse 6 is the best. This chapter is not only letting you know what love is, but how it gets down. More truth, less evil. Love backwards is e-v-o-l. You really want backwards ass love? Not I.
These are good reminders for everyone-in love, out of love, looking for love, ready for love. Essentially, love's a self-assured mf-er who has reached Maslow's self actualization. It would wear a big sign that says "I'm the ish, you just don't see it yet. Yall fronting," except when you are indeed the ish, its pretty obvious.
Which is cool, cause that's kinda how I aspire to live life, love included.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Woman in the Mirror
I run a risk in putting these words in black and white, to come back and haunt me, but here goes:
I watched the BET awards. I kinda liked it. It was...thought provoking, through the requisite coonery and such. But seriously, I did like it. You hear me Debra Lee? Its an educated black woman outside of the 18-24 bracket singing your praises, but for *Jennifer Hudson as Effie White voice* one night onlyyy.
The highlight of the night, if you've been living under a rock was the Michael Jackson tribute. We network naysayers only hoped BET would be better than the year before (in their defense, they had 3 days to get it together) and that the King would get his proper homage. What we actually got-on top of a slightly better than mediocre dance imitation-was another performance by Sir Fistopher Brown. Entertainment turned to drama as we were to fall hook, line and sinker for the Tebow tears shed for his sins.
Don't call it a comeback just yet. Either you're team "he needs to let it all out, he's suffered enough, he made a mistake" or team "I hope he paid good money for that PR agent who concocted this stunt." Which do you think I'm on?
Breezy is Rrah is that dude that blacked your girl Trina's eye last month but didn't mean it, and its cool cause he bought her the new air max's plus threw in diaper money. Or your uncle who's been his kids for years...everyone knows and not only has everyone forgiven, they've accepted it as the norm. You just know not to bring YOUR kids around during the family cookout.
Similarly. Riri is your girl Trina, and while no woman ever deserves to be beaten, you leave a little room for doubt, because while that dude is fucked up for blacking her eye, she CAN be trifling and maybe she called him a "no good n*gga" one time too many.
The woman NEVER bounces back in the way the man does. He can easily lay low for a minute, get his weight up (a new outfit, a legit story) hit the street, and be the man once again. She, on the other hand, learns that even when she did nothing wrong, she suffers. She can tell her story to whoever will listen, but were good about making excuses for him--things she could've done differently, ways for her to avoid or get out of the situation, reasons why he does what he does. Nothing to the effect of "here's how you deal, here's how you come up," aside from a kanye shrug and a casual "f*ck that n*gga." Well, she DID f*ck that n*gga and look where it got her.
All this to say, iont really care for either of their careers but its a shame that Breezy's been able to bounce back and Riri hasn't--and probably can't--in similar fashion. When will she get to perform in such a hi-profile manner like yesterday? Is she too much damaged goods? Does she need better PR? When does she get her public breakdown performance, where her fans come running back and can restore their faith in her career and celebrity?
She needs her release using the same platform and talent he was given. CB can have "Man in the Mirror," maybe Riri can do "My Life?"
I watched the BET awards. I kinda liked it. It was...thought provoking, through the requisite coonery and such. But seriously, I did like it. You hear me Debra Lee? Its an educated black woman outside of the 18-24 bracket singing your praises, but for *Jennifer Hudson as Effie White voice* one night onlyyy.
The highlight of the night, if you've been living under a rock was the Michael Jackson tribute. We network naysayers only hoped BET would be better than the year before (in their defense, they had 3 days to get it together) and that the King would get his proper homage. What we actually got-on top of a slightly better than mediocre dance imitation-was another performance by Sir Fistopher Brown. Entertainment turned to drama as we were to fall hook, line and sinker for the Tebow tears shed for his sins.
Don't call it a comeback just yet. Either you're team "he needs to let it all out, he's suffered enough, he made a mistake" or team "I hope he paid good money for that PR agent who concocted this stunt." Which do you think I'm on?
Breezy is Rrah is that dude that blacked your girl Trina's eye last month but didn't mean it, and its cool cause he bought her the new air max's plus threw in diaper money. Or your uncle who's been his kids for years...everyone knows and not only has everyone forgiven, they've accepted it as the norm. You just know not to bring YOUR kids around during the family cookout.
Similarly. Riri is your girl Trina, and while no woman ever deserves to be beaten, you leave a little room for doubt, because while that dude is fucked up for blacking her eye, she CAN be trifling and maybe she called him a "no good n*gga" one time too many.
The woman NEVER bounces back in the way the man does. He can easily lay low for a minute, get his weight up (a new outfit, a legit story) hit the street, and be the man once again. She, on the other hand, learns that even when she did nothing wrong, she suffers. She can tell her story to whoever will listen, but were good about making excuses for him--things she could've done differently, ways for her to avoid or get out of the situation, reasons why he does what he does. Nothing to the effect of "here's how you deal, here's how you come up," aside from a kanye shrug and a casual "f*ck that n*gga." Well, she DID f*ck that n*gga and look where it got her.
All this to say, iont really care for either of their careers but its a shame that Breezy's been able to bounce back and Riri hasn't--and probably can't--in similar fashion. When will she get to perform in such a hi-profile manner like yesterday? Is she too much damaged goods? Does she need better PR? When does she get her public breakdown performance, where her fans come running back and can restore their faith in her career and celebrity?
She needs her release using the same platform and talent he was given. CB can have "Man in the Mirror," maybe Riri can do "My Life?"
Monday, June 28, 2010
Dear Leticia Part 2
A couple posts back, I wrote a letter to a woman who I call Leticia. Because I think that's her actual name. If it isn't, well, we will call her "Leticia." This is part two, in case you were dying to know what happened to one of Harlem's finest citizens. The first one is here but it won't be hard to catch up. There's a 3rd and final installment that I'll post in a couple of days. Unless she gives me more banter to share, which is very feasible.
Dear Leticia,
So remember the other day when Simone said we had a building meeting coming up? Said it was "very important?"
You turned your face at me-maybe you meant it, or not, cause I do it too-when I asked about it. Like I should know what the fuck is up.
Whatever, as long as yall don't fuck up my shit.
Now that I think about it, does this meeting have to do with you goin on the landlord the other night? From what I heard, the kids were playing on the stoop and making noise, whatever they were doing, caused him to come upstairs. He wanted you to control them, and generally keep it down. Because it was a Sunday night, and he (and his wife) had a job to get to in the morning.
Instead of doing the respectable thing, and complying, because you're a tenant and own nothing, because our leases specifically say "no hanging on the stoop," because its not the first time you've been called out, you decide that being disrespectful makes more sense. That you'd set the example for your kids (oh but wait, imma come back to the kids), that a grown woman, a mother, handles business by yelling twice as loud, coming twice as hard, because your opinion meant more than his and you weren't going no damn where from that stoop.
That you would call him out his name because, maybe he cares about the building, about the environment that we live in. You accuse him of "snitching on 3C" because "everytime something happens bad in this bulding, everyone wanna blame 3C."
"It's not fair! It's not fuckin fair!" You grab your children, ready to go upstairs. They're accustomed to your behavior. You're right, its not fair. All you doing is sitting outside trying to catch a breeze and a break.. Its so much work to be a single mother, and when all you (and the kids) know is the block, that's where you stay--for business, pleasure, war, peace, in mind, in spirit. The conditions under which you mother aren't fair. These are not fair conditions which we live in. Middle of the road, mediocre. Not good, not bad.
Fair would probably be a step up, had you been read to as a child, raised with the norms of success, that doing well was more than getting your GED whenever you got around to it, that teenage pregnancy would be the norm, and that believing you were the shit while being told you weren't shit was the foreword of your self-esteem. That your children deserved the same fair conditions you had. Twenty someodd years ago, you were playing on these same steps, on these same streets. Was it unfair then?
Yes, for many more reasons, its not fucking fair. You right.
Xoxo, tdixonspeaks
P.s. Those "kids" of yours...why they call you grandma? Is that a nickname or something? How old ARE you anyway? Lemme find out you have daughter MY age. I know black don't crack, but damn. You got that "I'm young but the hood has aged me" look but seriously, I bet you're almost twice the age you look.
Dear Leticia,
So remember the other day when Simone said we had a building meeting coming up? Said it was "very important?"
You turned your face at me-maybe you meant it, or not, cause I do it too-when I asked about it. Like I should know what the fuck is up.
Whatever, as long as yall don't fuck up my shit.
Now that I think about it, does this meeting have to do with you goin on the landlord the other night? From what I heard, the kids were playing on the stoop and making noise, whatever they were doing, caused him to come upstairs. He wanted you to control them, and generally keep it down. Because it was a Sunday night, and he (and his wife) had a job to get to in the morning.
Instead of doing the respectable thing, and complying, because you're a tenant and own nothing, because our leases specifically say "no hanging on the stoop," because its not the first time you've been called out, you decide that being disrespectful makes more sense. That you'd set the example for your kids (oh but wait, imma come back to the kids), that a grown woman, a mother, handles business by yelling twice as loud, coming twice as hard, because your opinion meant more than his and you weren't going no damn where from that stoop.
That you would call him out his name because, maybe he cares about the building, about the environment that we live in. You accuse him of "snitching on 3C" because "everytime something happens bad in this bulding, everyone wanna blame 3C."
"It's not fair! It's not fuckin fair!" You grab your children, ready to go upstairs. They're accustomed to your behavior. You're right, its not fair. All you doing is sitting outside trying to catch a breeze and a break.. Its so much work to be a single mother, and when all you (and the kids) know is the block, that's where you stay--for business, pleasure, war, peace, in mind, in spirit. The conditions under which you mother aren't fair. These are not fair conditions which we live in. Middle of the road, mediocre. Not good, not bad.
Fair would probably be a step up, had you been read to as a child, raised with the norms of success, that doing well was more than getting your GED whenever you got around to it, that teenage pregnancy would be the norm, and that believing you were the shit while being told you weren't shit was the foreword of your self-esteem. That your children deserved the same fair conditions you had. Twenty someodd years ago, you were playing on these same steps, on these same streets. Was it unfair then?
Yes, for many more reasons, its not fucking fair. You right.
Xoxo, tdixonspeaks
P.s. Those "kids" of yours...why they call you grandma? Is that a nickname or something? How old ARE you anyway? Lemme find out you have daughter MY age. I know black don't crack, but damn. You got that "I'm young but the hood has aged me" look but seriously, I bet you're almost twice the age you look.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
for us, by us: Happy Black Girl Day!
I'm bringing my blog back from its mini-hibernation with Happy Black Girl Day, brought to you by @sistertoldja, and other HBGs around the universe. I was so upset that I'd missed the last one, but with it every 2nd Wednesday now (because when you create your own holidays, you can do what the f*ck you want), I get 12 days to...be happy. And black. And a girl. Half of black history month but so much more! Joy!
I'm not sure if the day is set aside to be a black girl (tm), and just that, without the bullshit statistics and what not looming over over my head, or if the day is "black girl day" and the salutation is "happy black girl day!" Hmm.
Anyway, I like lists, and I'm going to commemorate each HBGD with a short list of related black-girl things. Unless I'm compelled to do something different.
List: Black girls who make me happy to be a black girl.
1. My momma. A given right? I couldn't stand this broad for a minute (you know, that rough patch between 12 until... well...) But I've gained a new appreciation for her as an adult. I can relate to her a little better, and all the things that didn't make sense then just click now. I'm also inspired by her life, and granted she's not that old, but I wanna go back in time and chronicle her early/mid 20s and compare it to mine. Our lives so different (my 25 is not hers, to say the least) yet our conversations are the same. On a completely different note, she's a much happier black girl than she used to be, attributed to ... meeting another black girl that makes her happy (shoutout to other mom, as I call her). Plus, having all your kids moved out the house helps a little.
2. black girl bloggers. To the girls who are just *wendy williams voice* doin it! Yes, we have opinions. Sometimes we have them with hands on hips and with a roll in our neck. But we can also have them while using big words, talking bigger concepts and under the biggest headlines.
I have a hard enough time keeping up with my own blog, but, imma shout out a list of my favorite black girl bloggers by their twitter, because that's how I found them(and imma give them benefit of the doubt and say they're happy):
@516jap: educational disparities(kinda like a big sister, definitely a very happy black girl)
@funkybrownchick: sex/dating (I actually met her in person before I read the blog, good times)
@abelleinbk: dubbed the "black carrie bradshaw" by some (and if so, I will watch every episode as long as the hypothetical show actually takes place in bk and doesn't end in cinematic catastrophe)
@0_omzjoy: my e-twin, who reflects on life and stuff, and really gets it spot on.
@inetespionage: health/fitness/eating (I was a bit of a hater at first, but I like this girl. She's putting in the legwork that none of us are putting in, regardless of size, color or gender)
And obviously @sistertoldja. Admittedly, I haven't read her blog much, but I'm working on that. I'm not a religious reader of any of these blogs (though I'm pretty up to speed on Belle's formspring, that kills time on the subway, plus I'm nosy like that) but I'd hope that my blog would evolve to bits and pieces of these ladies. Their work makes me happy. Happy me makes for better writing and more blog posts.
3. Janelle Monae: Where has this chick been hiding my whole life? Her sound is awesomesauce through and through. "Tightrope" has replaced "Touch the Sky" as my "I'm feeling awesome today" iPod song. I should actually buy some of her music, but the last CD I bought was AKeys' 2nd CD. No, Sade "Lovers Rock." Yeah.
Anyway, the new album goes hard, but so does Metropolis. I want more of her. Preferably live, this summer.
4. My founders: ah yes, those 7 young ladies who paved the way for what would be thee greatest sorority ever, Sigma Gamma Rho. I can't imagine that being a mid20s black girl in the mid20s was happy times, which made their unity so much more important and special. Sigma makes me happy to be part of something bigger than myself, and I learn as much about her as I do about myself, as I come up on 5 years.
5. Diahann Billings-Burford: Little did I know how much working under this woman (well, not directly) would affect my ideals of being a professional black woman. She holds the Chief Service Officer spot for the city, and from the bits and pieces I know abt her (degrees from top schools, owns a BK brownstone, married with children, used to run some charter schools, is also greek) I kinda stan for her. And I will go one step further and say she's my real-life Claire Huxtable. I'd like to think I can come up like her.
Ok this was way longer than I wanted. But, until next HBGD, imma try to stay a HBG by getting back into yoga. I fell off after 4 days and need to make that happen.
Stay happy black girls!
I'm not sure if the day is set aside to be a black girl (tm), and just that, without the bullshit statistics and what not looming over over my head, or if the day is "black girl day" and the salutation is "happy black girl day!" Hmm.
Anyway, I like lists, and I'm going to commemorate each HBGD with a short list of related black-girl things. Unless I'm compelled to do something different.
List: Black girls who make me happy to be a black girl.
1. My momma. A given right? I couldn't stand this broad for a minute (you know, that rough patch between 12 until... well...) But I've gained a new appreciation for her as an adult. I can relate to her a little better, and all the things that didn't make sense then just click now. I'm also inspired by her life, and granted she's not that old, but I wanna go back in time and chronicle her early/mid 20s and compare it to mine. Our lives so different (my 25 is not hers, to say the least) yet our conversations are the same. On a completely different note, she's a much happier black girl than she used to be, attributed to ... meeting another black girl that makes her happy (shoutout to other mom, as I call her). Plus, having all your kids moved out the house helps a little.
2. black girl bloggers. To the girls who are just *wendy williams voice* doin it! Yes, we have opinions. Sometimes we have them with hands on hips and with a roll in our neck. But we can also have them while using big words, talking bigger concepts and under the biggest headlines.
I have a hard enough time keeping up with my own blog, but, imma shout out a list of my favorite black girl bloggers by their twitter, because that's how I found them(and imma give them benefit of the doubt and say they're happy):
@516jap: educational disparities(kinda like a big sister, definitely a very happy black girl)
@funkybrownchick: sex/dating (I actually met her in person before I read the blog, good times)
@abelleinbk: dubbed the "black carrie bradshaw" by some (and if so, I will watch every episode as long as the hypothetical show actually takes place in bk and doesn't end in cinematic catastrophe)
@0_omzjoy: my e-twin, who reflects on life and stuff, and really gets it spot on.
@inetespionage: health/fitness/eating (I was a bit of a hater at first, but I like this girl. She's putting in the legwork that none of us are putting in, regardless of size, color or gender)
And obviously @sistertoldja. Admittedly, I haven't read her blog much, but I'm working on that. I'm not a religious reader of any of these blogs (though I'm pretty up to speed on Belle's formspring, that kills time on the subway, plus I'm nosy like that) but I'd hope that my blog would evolve to bits and pieces of these ladies. Their work makes me happy. Happy me makes for better writing and more blog posts.
3. Janelle Monae: Where has this chick been hiding my whole life? Her sound is awesomesauce through and through. "Tightrope" has replaced "Touch the Sky" as my "I'm feeling awesome today" iPod song. I should actually buy some of her music, but the last CD I bought was AKeys' 2nd CD. No, Sade "Lovers Rock." Yeah.
Anyway, the new album goes hard, but so does Metropolis. I want more of her. Preferably live, this summer.
4. My founders: ah yes, those 7 young ladies who paved the way for what would be thee greatest sorority ever, Sigma Gamma Rho. I can't imagine that being a mid20s black girl in the mid20s was happy times, which made their unity so much more important and special. Sigma makes me happy to be part of something bigger than myself, and I learn as much about her as I do about myself, as I come up on 5 years.
5. Diahann Billings-Burford: Little did I know how much working under this woman (well, not directly) would affect my ideals of being a professional black woman. She holds the Chief Service Officer spot for the city, and from the bits and pieces I know abt her (degrees from top schools, owns a BK brownstone, married with children, used to run some charter schools, is also greek) I kinda stan for her. And I will go one step further and say she's my real-life Claire Huxtable. I'd like to think I can come up like her.
Ok this was way longer than I wanted. But, until next HBGD, imma try to stay a HBG by getting back into yoga. I fell off after 4 days and need to make that happen.
Stay happy black girls!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Dear Leticia
I wrote this eariler today, a compilation of dialogues I have with a neighbor who, to put it lightly, makes her presence known in my building. Never to her face of course.
Dear Leticia:
We live in the same building. I think were worlds apart. I'd guess were around the same age, but you're 3 kids ahead of me. Well 4, as I congratulated you on the front step last night. I judge you, but I'd be judging my mother, who accidentally found herself swollen with the love of my father 4 times by that age. Hmm.
I ask you "where did this come from?" facetiously jabbing your belly, a desperate attempt to converse and connect. I don't know much about the people in my building. With one foot dabbled in the gentrification of Harlem, many of the residents are future relics, in 5-10 years, they will be forced north to Washington Heights, east towards the Bronx, or scattered across Harlem like ashes over the death of what this neighborhood once was. They will be the ones realtors refer to in selling newlywed couples overpriced studios, "this area used to be a rough part of town, but now this area is booming! We just moved a young family upstairs in 3C. Their daughter is probably the same age as your Timmy. I think you'll do just fine here."
Yes, just like that leticia. Building management, just like the rest of new york real estate, want you gone. 3C is where you be, but not for long.
My other foot is planted in this place, this "the hood is where I'm from" place. My rent is publicly subsizied, like yours. We are rent-controlled, every day is the first of the month. We eat the same dirty bodega sandwiches on food stamps. I bet you have a hard time paying your bills on time. Me too, girl, me too. Do you wonder if you will find love? Love that keeps you warm at night and stays through the morning, let alone season.
I do, Leticia, and all these things ring true. I know, I don't know your struggle, and mine may barely scratch the surface of yours. Ill be honest, when you laugh, reasoning "I aint had nothing to do all winter anyway," it hurts. Those were your options? Were those always your options?
I could preach to you better solutions: get a GED, get your degree. Read to your kids more so they're set up for success. Spend less time on the front step and more on the front line. Defend your right to be the baddest bitch-for your hood, for your kids, for your mama Marilyn. Who I saw in the laundromat the other day.
For yourself, which should be enough.
For I took this route, a similiar and am here, in the same building. We probably have regrets, Leticia. Some things we mightve done differently, but wouldn't change them. Shit, I could be making this all up. Maybe you are content with life. You love to grace our front steps with your presence, enhancing the decor with cigarette stench, loud belching, kids running amok (to think of it, I don't exactly know how many kids you have. They could be baby sisters, cousins, kids of friends) and other loud and foul-mouthed banter.
Lemme back up. I'm not prudish. I enjoy a good fuck, shit, motherfucker and can indulge in cocksucker, pussy and nigga. Okay, I'd be hard pressed to use the latter, but I'm not knocking your choice of words. I'm knocking where you choose to use them-specifically outside my window, where if I close them I'm too hot, and well, I'd still hear you anyway.
Yeah. So you probably love your fuckin life, whatever it is you do all damn day. You owe me nothing, but I want to be wrong abt you. Say you're married to a good man. Or that this unborn child has a father, and you cool with him. That you are a team leader at Target. Not that you're good at raising your voice and goin in on the good folks at T-Mobile, or our landlord for asking you to keep it down because he and his wife are tryna enjoy the early summer evening. Or that your vocabulary and range of conversation is limited to Facebook, the hottest phone, who's blowing who, and shit.
If that's good enough for you, then I'm the one with the problem, for you've achieved self-realization. Congratulations.
--me
Dear Leticia:
We live in the same building. I think were worlds apart. I'd guess were around the same age, but you're 3 kids ahead of me. Well 4, as I congratulated you on the front step last night. I judge you, but I'd be judging my mother, who accidentally found herself swollen with the love of my father 4 times by that age. Hmm.
I ask you "where did this come from?" facetiously jabbing your belly, a desperate attempt to converse and connect. I don't know much about the people in my building. With one foot dabbled in the gentrification of Harlem, many of the residents are future relics, in 5-10 years, they will be forced north to Washington Heights, east towards the Bronx, or scattered across Harlem like ashes over the death of what this neighborhood once was. They will be the ones realtors refer to in selling newlywed couples overpriced studios, "this area used to be a rough part of town, but now this area is booming! We just moved a young family upstairs in 3C. Their daughter is probably the same age as your Timmy. I think you'll do just fine here."
Yes, just like that leticia. Building management, just like the rest of new york real estate, want you gone. 3C is where you be, but not for long.
My other foot is planted in this place, this "the hood is where I'm from" place. My rent is publicly subsizied, like yours. We are rent-controlled, every day is the first of the month. We eat the same dirty bodega sandwiches on food stamps. I bet you have a hard time paying your bills on time. Me too, girl, me too. Do you wonder if you will find love? Love that keeps you warm at night and stays through the morning, let alone season.
I do, Leticia, and all these things ring true. I know, I don't know your struggle, and mine may barely scratch the surface of yours. Ill be honest, when you laugh, reasoning "I aint had nothing to do all winter anyway," it hurts. Those were your options? Were those always your options?
I could preach to you better solutions: get a GED, get your degree. Read to your kids more so they're set up for success. Spend less time on the front step and more on the front line. Defend your right to be the baddest bitch-for your hood, for your kids, for your mama Marilyn. Who I saw in the laundromat the other day.
For yourself, which should be enough.
For I took this route, a similiar and am here, in the same building. We probably have regrets, Leticia. Some things we mightve done differently, but wouldn't change them. Shit, I could be making this all up. Maybe you are content with life. You love to grace our front steps with your presence, enhancing the decor with cigarette stench, loud belching, kids running amok (to think of it, I don't exactly know how many kids you have. They could be baby sisters, cousins, kids of friends) and other loud and foul-mouthed banter.
Lemme back up. I'm not prudish. I enjoy a good fuck, shit, motherfucker and can indulge in cocksucker, pussy and nigga. Okay, I'd be hard pressed to use the latter, but I'm not knocking your choice of words. I'm knocking where you choose to use them-specifically outside my window, where if I close them I'm too hot, and well, I'd still hear you anyway.
Yeah. So you probably love your fuckin life, whatever it is you do all damn day. You owe me nothing, but I want to be wrong abt you. Say you're married to a good man. Or that this unborn child has a father, and you cool with him. That you are a team leader at Target. Not that you're good at raising your voice and goin in on the good folks at T-Mobile, or our landlord for asking you to keep it down because he and his wife are tryna enjoy the early summer evening. Or that your vocabulary and range of conversation is limited to Facebook, the hottest phone, who's blowing who, and shit.
If that's good enough for you, then I'm the one with the problem, for you've achieved self-realization. Congratulations.
--me
Monday, April 26, 2010
Early (morning) childhood education
On the 3 downtown to work, a boy, I'd guess between 4-6 years old, is working through a math workbook with his mom.
"Cuando cuestas?" Says mom.
"Tu sabes?" Asks her son.
"No I don't know let's count together..."
In unison they count "one, two, three..." As the boy speaks aloud he counts on his fingers to keep up.
By now he's completed 3 pages of work, counting different colored kitties, balls of yarn and connecting the dots to create stop signs and fire hydrants. As they pack up to exit the train at 96th st, the mother hugs and kisses her son, tells his they'll do more on the way home. he reluctantly hands over the workbook but eagerly grabs his mom's hand onto the next leg of their journey.
I actually wanted to take this post in a different direction, but ill leave this story as is. It's just a nice way to start the day.
"Cuando cuestas?" Says mom.
"Tu sabes?" Asks her son.
"No I don't know let's count together..."
In unison they count "one, two, three..." As the boy speaks aloud he counts on his fingers to keep up.
By now he's completed 3 pages of work, counting different colored kitties, balls of yarn and connecting the dots to create stop signs and fire hydrants. As they pack up to exit the train at 96th st, the mother hugs and kisses her son, tells his they'll do more on the way home. he reluctantly hands over the workbook but eagerly grabs his mom's hand onto the next leg of their journey.
I actually wanted to take this post in a different direction, but ill leave this story as is. It's just a nice way to start the day.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Working out
I've felt a little left out of the work out club lately.
Three of my coworkers do yoga-2, hot yoga, together (the room is 107 degress, they say), one does a class for moms-to-be. Most of my friends hit the gym and take classes. Ellipticals, ab blasts, spinning, everyone has their something.
Or someone, if you have a trainer, or workout buddy.
I've mentioned my past re: gyms and working out (the short of it: 3 gym memberships, 1 trainer, gym classes ranging from aerobics to pole dancing over the past 10 years). I haven't been to the gym since an unfortunate incident with an urban rebounding class (suffered from a case of sweaty fat girl syndrome midway through and ran out). I suppose to stop being the token sweaty fat girl, you need to keep working out so you can be (cute) sweaty skinny girl.
So while I'm not considering joining a gym anytime soon (can't afford it) I am considering trying yoga. I'm really apprehensive, but I'm going to try it in the privacy in my own home first. I did find it a little silly holding a "yoga for beginners" box set in Barnes and Noble, but gotta start somewhere, right?
Just know that any moves I make on this is primarily superficial-im just in it to say "oh I'm off to my yoga class" as I grab my lavendar mat and cute water bottle.
Three of my coworkers do yoga-2, hot yoga, together (the room is 107 degress, they say), one does a class for moms-to-be. Most of my friends hit the gym and take classes. Ellipticals, ab blasts, spinning, everyone has their something.
Or someone, if you have a trainer, or workout buddy.
I've mentioned my past re: gyms and working out (the short of it: 3 gym memberships, 1 trainer, gym classes ranging from aerobics to pole dancing over the past 10 years). I haven't been to the gym since an unfortunate incident with an urban rebounding class (suffered from a case of sweaty fat girl syndrome midway through and ran out). I suppose to stop being the token sweaty fat girl, you need to keep working out so you can be (cute) sweaty skinny girl.
So while I'm not considering joining a gym anytime soon (can't afford it) I am considering trying yoga. I'm really apprehensive, but I'm going to try it in the privacy in my own home first. I did find it a little silly holding a "yoga for beginners" box set in Barnes and Noble, but gotta start somewhere, right?
Just know that any moves I make on this is primarily superficial-im just in it to say "oh I'm off to my yoga class" as I grab my lavendar mat and cute water bottle.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
What About Your Friends?
My soror and ePal (another shameless plug, find her at http://blackgirlunlost.blogspot.com) recently posted on making friends as adults (go read it) and as always, great minds think alike. Once you get out of a self-contained environment (for many of us, college) that has social groups already created, where does one turn to "make friends?"
Actually, a short sidenote: this isn't to be read as if I'm a socially awkward loner. However, friends, especially in these hard times of bitchass, triflinass people, some can't be trusted and get cut off quick. Others aren't in it for the long haul (those "let's do lunch real soon" kinda folks, or are situational, like at work) and well, life happens: we go back to school, we move away, get married, our tastes change, etc.
I like to think I have a lot of friends, but really, I just know a lot of people. When I actually narrow it down, I find that a. I can count them on one hand, and b. that handful tends to shift every couple of years. And like myFaves, I always keep a couple of slots freed up.
To fill those slots, I've decided to open the pool once again. I'm keeping myself busy in a different way. Love my sorors, but I gotta see them less. Love my gays, but I can't always be fabulous. I've started to call myself out and actually am going to all those events I said I'd check out.
(Another sidenote: it seems I have a rep for always knowing about events. I went through my email and found enough stuff to attend at least one event a week for a good couple of months. The benefits of staying on listservs from many moons ago)
The other part of opening the pool is by referral. We'll hire our friends for jobs, recommend restaurants, movies, and potential mates to our pals-and I figure, for the most part, your friend's friends should be as awesome as they are, plus or minus a few points to make room for error. So as you hang out with your people, start checking for what they're getting into. Shaquan may not want to hit up that poetry spot next week but what if I want to? Make a mental note and do it to it. Don't go all Single White Female but like Facebook, lurk a little bit and friend somebody else's friend.
I guess the harder part is keeping the friends you make. For that, I have no advice. I don't have any "best friends," and many have come and gone. Everyone is in your life for a reason and a season. I hope some are here to stay, and I hope I'm a friend to many people for the long haul.
Actually, a short sidenote: this isn't to be read as if I'm a socially awkward loner. However, friends, especially in these hard times of bitchass, triflinass people, some can't be trusted and get cut off quick. Others aren't in it for the long haul (those "let's do lunch real soon" kinda folks, or are situational, like at work) and well, life happens: we go back to school, we move away, get married, our tastes change, etc.
I like to think I have a lot of friends, but really, I just know a lot of people. When I actually narrow it down, I find that a. I can count them on one hand, and b. that handful tends to shift every couple of years. And like myFaves, I always keep a couple of slots freed up.
To fill those slots, I've decided to open the pool once again. I'm keeping myself busy in a different way. Love my sorors, but I gotta see them less. Love my gays, but I can't always be fabulous. I've started to call myself out and actually am going to all those events I said I'd check out.
(Another sidenote: it seems I have a rep for always knowing about events. I went through my email and found enough stuff to attend at least one event a week for a good couple of months. The benefits of staying on listservs from many moons ago)
The other part of opening the pool is by referral. We'll hire our friends for jobs, recommend restaurants, movies, and potential mates to our pals-and I figure, for the most part, your friend's friends should be as awesome as they are, plus or minus a few points to make room for error. So as you hang out with your people, start checking for what they're getting into. Shaquan may not want to hit up that poetry spot next week but what if I want to? Make a mental note and do it to it. Don't go all Single White Female but like Facebook, lurk a little bit and friend somebody else's friend.
I guess the harder part is keeping the friends you make. For that, I have no advice. I don't have any "best friends," and many have come and gone. Everyone is in your life for a reason and a season. I hope some are here to stay, and I hope I'm a friend to many people for the long haul.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Whose child is this?
Sidenote: my first guest blogger spot! http://nucitynuview.blogspot.com/2010/03/unsolved-mystery-of-inequity.html
One of my followers (@0_omzjoy, whose blog I shamelessly will plug: http://joyfulwordsofwisdom.com) tweeted this:
"Name two black men over the age 30. With no children. Not gay and unmarried.......don't worry......I'll wait. Can't be famous ... that's good. I need men over 30 though :/ its looking like imma be a stepmom regardless"
How's that for perspective? The reality that the older I get, the more likely I am to end up with a man who already has a child. And maybe not an infant, but like grown-ass "I gotta help this ninja with his science project" child. I already have my feelings about children (the short version: they aight but if I don't have any ill be ok...I think), but now I have to consider this 2-for-1 deal in looking for love. Ruling a man out because he has a child is bigger than the child--its reflective of the choices he's made. Call me names, but I have no problems calling children "mistakes" (not to their face, of course). Of course most parents will say "oh I'd never do things over, I love my child," but #cmonson, having lil Jaden at 17 wasn't exactly on your to-do list, nor was the subsequent babyfavvadrama of family court, child support and living the rest of your young adult life muttering "that ninja aint shit."
Being a stepmom automatically puts you on the B-team. You get subbed in when the starting lineup fouls out. You get stuck raising a child by association. You didn't get a choice, and making the definitive choice to not be in that child's life makes you a grade-A hating ass bitch. The babymama could be the awesomest chick ever, and there will still be potential for drama. She and your man still have a relationship and you have no choice but to be involved. Her needs re: the child come first, always, even when it shouldn't. Remember the great words of Ricky Bobby: "if ya ain't first, ya last!"
One relationship is enough to manage; but now you have two new relationships: between you and her, and you and the kid(s). Who signed up for that shit? Not me!
I want to be with a man who is on the same page in starting a family together. I'd hope that his past doesn't involve a baby mother. I know, shit happens, and can, to anyone. But dammit I put a lot of romantic stock in an educated man, and a part of that is knowing when and where to stick it (and not). Hell, I put even more stock in myself for being smart enough to not get knocked up, because I have more than enough examples reminding me on the streets of Harlem.
There's a reason why I am 25 without child: because I don't want to raise my children at 25. Some of us rock the "25 and under with no kids" badge hard. There should be a damn awards ceremony! Why would I have to be OK with (potentially)raising a(nother wo)man's child?
Oh, right, cause I would love him.
Not. I do give young mothers (and fathers, those who are putting in reall work) their props, however everyone makes their bed. I've made mine-and it has a huge "no kids allowed" sign over it.
One of my followers (@0_omzjoy, whose blog I shamelessly will plug: http://joyfulwordsofwisdom.com) tweeted this:
"Name two black men over the age 30. With no children. Not gay and unmarried.......don't worry......I'll wait. Can't be famous ... that's good. I need men over 30 though :/ its looking like imma be a stepmom regardless"
How's that for perspective? The reality that the older I get, the more likely I am to end up with a man who already has a child. And maybe not an infant, but like grown-ass "I gotta help this ninja with his science project" child. I already have my feelings about children (the short version: they aight but if I don't have any ill be ok...I think), but now I have to consider this 2-for-1 deal in looking for love. Ruling a man out because he has a child is bigger than the child--its reflective of the choices he's made. Call me names, but I have no problems calling children "mistakes" (not to their face, of course). Of course most parents will say "oh I'd never do things over, I love my child," but #cmonson, having lil Jaden at 17 wasn't exactly on your to-do list, nor was the subsequent babyfavvadrama of family court, child support and living the rest of your young adult life muttering "that ninja aint shit."
Being a stepmom automatically puts you on the B-team. You get subbed in when the starting lineup fouls out. You get stuck raising a child by association. You didn't get a choice, and making the definitive choice to not be in that child's life makes you a grade-A hating ass bitch. The babymama could be the awesomest chick ever, and there will still be potential for drama. She and your man still have a relationship and you have no choice but to be involved. Her needs re: the child come first, always, even when it shouldn't. Remember the great words of Ricky Bobby: "if ya ain't first, ya last!"
One relationship is enough to manage; but now you have two new relationships: between you and her, and you and the kid(s). Who signed up for that shit? Not me!
I want to be with a man who is on the same page in starting a family together. I'd hope that his past doesn't involve a baby mother. I know, shit happens, and can, to anyone. But dammit I put a lot of romantic stock in an educated man, and a part of that is knowing when and where to stick it (and not). Hell, I put even more stock in myself for being smart enough to not get knocked up, because I have more than enough examples reminding me on the streets of Harlem.
There's a reason why I am 25 without child: because I don't want to raise my children at 25. Some of us rock the "25 and under with no kids" badge hard. There should be a damn awards ceremony! Why would I have to be OK with (potentially)raising a(nother wo)man's child?
Oh, right, cause I would love him.
Not. I do give young mothers (and fathers, those who are putting in reall work) their props, however everyone makes their bed. I've made mine-and it has a huge "no kids allowed" sign over it.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The (unsolved) Mystery of Inequity
This was nothing like I had read about
This high, I could tell, would not be sweet
But these four years would be spent surrounded in valleys
The lows of expectations, the lows of achievement
The lows of graduation rates
The only high of this school existed in its contribution via statistics
High, from all the need
To get rich or die trying
High, from all the weed
The d game, never lying
High, number of HIV infections
High, number of pregnancies
Who knew that I would give birth to possibility of a better life
I could go further than CUNY
Maybe SUNY
Or further out into the boonies
Harvard and Yale wasn't checking my fresh
I went to school but they made it clear I couldn't buy class
Where would I get it?
How would I use it?
What would it get me?
It wasn't at the dollar store.
I soon knew that higher learning would happen outside this penitentiary-in-training
(Cinder block walls
Metal detectors
Bars on the windows
Periodic sweeps and lockdowns
Dress codes
Security guards with walkie-talkies)
That in these years, I would just serve my time
Released early on the account of good behavior
Social promotion if you cause no commotion
Show no emotion
Give your work minimal devotion
Luckily, I knew the wiser (I think)
That college prep wouldn't be found here
close the achievement gap with remedial classes, 12 weeks, "pre-college,"
Really, we were cramming, 12 years, pre-knowledge
(Re)learning subjects and predicates only to find
I shouldve had shakespeare and plato deep in my mind
How do you compete in the championships
When your training barely prepped you for the qualifying round?
I still run laps to build my endurance, in hopes of bringing home the gold
To cynics who were never quite sure you were worthy
Even upon vaguely remembering your name
High school is a sore subject for me, not one I revisit with nostalgia. However, the picture I paint of my high school experience doesn't do it justice. There were highlights, in making the best of it (in retrospect, I say "highlights," when such occurences should be par for the course). I was involved with extracurricular activities, had the opportunity to take AP classes and through the perserverance of a couple of "Stand and Deliver"-esque teachers, participated in your run-of-the-mill "let's get the underserved minorities on track" college-prep courses (in which one class, we, the "honor students," learned how to do "scholarly research" on our scratched, dented, donated, refurbished, yet top-of-the-line IBM desktops. 4 desktops--one mouse ball always missing--25 students, AOL 2.5. In 2001, more than half of us didn't own computers, let alone consistent internet access.) Couple this with your over-the-top awards at graduation (think: any award including a politician's title, important deceased educator and the words "achievement," "distinguished," or "excellence") and a full scholarship to a top-ranked university, I had rightfully earned my spot in the "she gon' make it someday" club.
The benefits of such membership over the years are questionable. As time goes on, college becomes a clusterfuck of self-doubt and resentment. Am I supposed to be here? I'm busting my ass and still coming up short? Why didn't I just go to community college? I couldve stayed on the block!" Conversations on world travels, authors read, and experiences had that I could offer nothing worldly, or worse, experiences that people pitied, were reminders that I missed out on something-that educational inequality reflected a lot of other inequalities. If we weren't equal when we were separate, was I (or my new peers) to believe that being together would wipe that slate clean?
It's hard to imagine a day where all children enter school prepared to succeed, as the mission of the organization I work strives to achieve. Aren't we all--teachers, educators, social workers, administrators--working towards this? What will that day look like, and what are we doing to prepare for that day? Are we equipped to maintain that equality for. generations to come? Or does it upset the natural order of other systems we've grown to accept?
This high, I could tell, would not be sweet
But these four years would be spent surrounded in valleys
The lows of expectations, the lows of achievement
The lows of graduation rates
The only high of this school existed in its contribution via statistics
High, from all the need
To get rich or die trying
High, from all the weed
The d game, never lying
High, number of HIV infections
High, number of pregnancies
Who knew that I would give birth to possibility of a better life
I could go further than CUNY
Maybe SUNY
Or further out into the boonies
Harvard and Yale wasn't checking my fresh
I went to school but they made it clear I couldn't buy class
Where would I get it?
How would I use it?
What would it get me?
It wasn't at the dollar store.
I soon knew that higher learning would happen outside this penitentiary-in-training
(Cinder block walls
Metal detectors
Bars on the windows
Periodic sweeps and lockdowns
Dress codes
Security guards with walkie-talkies)
That in these years, I would just serve my time
Released early on the account of good behavior
Social promotion if you cause no commotion
Show no emotion
Give your work minimal devotion
Luckily, I knew the wiser (I think)
That college prep wouldn't be found here
close the achievement gap with remedial classes, 12 weeks, "pre-college,"
Really, we were cramming, 12 years, pre-knowledge
(Re)learning subjects and predicates only to find
I shouldve had shakespeare and plato deep in my mind
How do you compete in the championships
When your training barely prepped you for the qualifying round?
I still run laps to build my endurance, in hopes of bringing home the gold
To cynics who were never quite sure you were worthy
Even upon vaguely remembering your name
High school is a sore subject for me, not one I revisit with nostalgia. However, the picture I paint of my high school experience doesn't do it justice. There were highlights, in making the best of it (in retrospect, I say "highlights," when such occurences should be par for the course). I was involved with extracurricular activities, had the opportunity to take AP classes and through the perserverance of a couple of "Stand and Deliver"-esque teachers, participated in your run-of-the-mill "let's get the underserved minorities on track" college-prep courses (in which one class, we, the "honor students," learned how to do "scholarly research" on our scratched, dented, donated, refurbished, yet top-of-the-line IBM desktops. 4 desktops--one mouse ball always missing--25 students, AOL 2.5. In 2001, more than half of us didn't own computers, let alone consistent internet access.) Couple this with your over-the-top awards at graduation (think: any award including a politician's title, important deceased educator and the words "achievement," "distinguished," or "excellence") and a full scholarship to a top-ranked university, I had rightfully earned my spot in the "she gon' make it someday" club.
The benefits of such membership over the years are questionable. As time goes on, college becomes a clusterfuck of self-doubt and resentment. Am I supposed to be here? I'm busting my ass and still coming up short? Why didn't I just go to community college? I couldve stayed on the block!" Conversations on world travels, authors read, and experiences had that I could offer nothing worldly, or worse, experiences that people pitied, were reminders that I missed out on something-that educational inequality reflected a lot of other inequalities. If we weren't equal when we were separate, was I (or my new peers) to believe that being together would wipe that slate clean?
It's hard to imagine a day where all children enter school prepared to succeed, as the mission of the organization I work strives to achieve. Aren't we all--teachers, educators, social workers, administrators--working towards this? What will that day look like, and what are we doing to prepare for that day? Are we equipped to maintain that equality for. generations to come? Or does it upset the natural order of other systems we've grown to accept?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Size matters...in the pursuit of happiness
A listserv conversation earlier this week on Gabby Sibide being proposed a yearlong supply of some diet supplement ("some damn berry juice" as a commenter called it) in exchange for her "look at how weight I lost using AwesomeProduct" endorsement. The reaction across the serve seemed to be a mix of disgust, embarassment and #cmonson and the conversation turned to "she's a great girl but she needs to lose that weight." Of all the reasons why she "should" shed the lbs (say, high blood pressure, diabetes, or even fitting a more ideal Hollywood standard, hell an everyday socially preferable standard), one struck a chord: "she'll be happier with herself. "
Is it a fair assessment to judge someone's happiness on their size? Gabby seems to have a likeable, outgoing, "I love myself" personality. Some may see the happy fattie routine as a cover-up to how she's REALLY feeling, all insecure, self-hating and dark and twisty. Is it really hard to believe that an extremely overweight person could like themselves 100% and that just be that? Even after the burn of childhood insults and retorts dies down to a manageable flame, are her scars not allowed to heal and just say "fuck it, I'm fat, deal with it!"
I suppose that "you're beautiful no matter what size" ship has sailed. Or sunken, because all the happy fatties are too busy celebrating their fat happy lives. Or, the fattie must be seething with rage and suffering with low self-esteem. Deep down she must want to be a size 4, a cute cinched waist, hips and ass that's noticeable but not obtrusive. I know flabby arms and thighs that rub together clearly render my life inoperable. Life would just be a bowl of cherries if I could just lose some damn weight and not take up more than 1 seat on the 3 train on the way to work.
The logic is flawed-just because a bigger person is unhappy with their size doesn't mean the inverse, the smaller you are, the happier you'll be, is true. I highly doubt your mode of thinking does a 180 when your weight does. Unhappiness, whether rooted in one's physical appearance or otherwise, doesn't lie in one place. its all connected and traces to some random Freudian shit from infancy.
Everyone needs to leave Gabby (and every other fattie looking like they could be on the brink of death) alone. A married man hitting on a woman at a bar doesn't need to be reminded they're married. And deep down, an alcoholic knows, even a little bit, when they've had too much to drink. She likes how she looks, and the people who need to like her look like it. If deep down she doesn't, she's got a helluva poker face, and I'm not mad at her. Either way, she can pay her bills. We need to be applauding her for following the true American dream-living in excess and capitalizing the hell outta it.
And let's stop making this about some "oh I'm just concerned about your health." Fuck outta here. The body is a resilient mothafucka: in a given life it could face a paper cut, a stubbed toe, bone fracture, paralyzation, loss of brain activity. You can take organs out, limbs off, move one piece of flesh to another, lift it, tuck it, suck it, stretch it. It deals with heartache, heartburn, heart attacks, panic attacks, hiccups, love, lust, secondhand smoke, firsthand smoke, too many nights of too many shots...
You get the idea. I'm not making excuses for my (or anyone's) fat ass. I'm just saying, maybe losing 50 lbs would make me happier. But 50 lbs ago, I'm pretty sure I was discontent. Happy mediums must be sold out because anything less than must 14+.
Is it a fair assessment to judge someone's happiness on their size? Gabby seems to have a likeable, outgoing, "I love myself" personality. Some may see the happy fattie routine as a cover-up to how she's REALLY feeling, all insecure, self-hating and dark and twisty. Is it really hard to believe that an extremely overweight person could like themselves 100% and that just be that? Even after the burn of childhood insults and retorts dies down to a manageable flame, are her scars not allowed to heal and just say "fuck it, I'm fat, deal with it!"
I suppose that "you're beautiful no matter what size" ship has sailed. Or sunken, because all the happy fatties are too busy celebrating their fat happy lives. Or, the fattie must be seething with rage and suffering with low self-esteem. Deep down she must want to be a size 4, a cute cinched waist, hips and ass that's noticeable but not obtrusive. I know flabby arms and thighs that rub together clearly render my life inoperable. Life would just be a bowl of cherries if I could just lose some damn weight and not take up more than 1 seat on the 3 train on the way to work.
The logic is flawed-just because a bigger person is unhappy with their size doesn't mean the inverse, the smaller you are, the happier you'll be, is true. I highly doubt your mode of thinking does a 180 when your weight does. Unhappiness, whether rooted in one's physical appearance or otherwise, doesn't lie in one place. its all connected and traces to some random Freudian shit from infancy.
Everyone needs to leave Gabby (and every other fattie looking like they could be on the brink of death) alone. A married man hitting on a woman at a bar doesn't need to be reminded they're married. And deep down, an alcoholic knows, even a little bit, when they've had too much to drink. She likes how she looks, and the people who need to like her look like it. If deep down she doesn't, she's got a helluva poker face, and I'm not mad at her. Either way, she can pay her bills. We need to be applauding her for following the true American dream-living in excess and capitalizing the hell outta it.
And let's stop making this about some "oh I'm just concerned about your health." Fuck outta here. The body is a resilient mothafucka: in a given life it could face a paper cut, a stubbed toe, bone fracture, paralyzation, loss of brain activity. You can take organs out, limbs off, move one piece of flesh to another, lift it, tuck it, suck it, stretch it. It deals with heartache, heartburn, heart attacks, panic attacks, hiccups, love, lust, secondhand smoke, firsthand smoke, too many nights of too many shots...
You get the idea. I'm not making excuses for my (or anyone's) fat ass. I'm just saying, maybe losing 50 lbs would make me happier. But 50 lbs ago, I'm pretty sure I was discontent. Happy mediums must be sold out because anything less than must 14+.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
When I can't sleep, I write.
I lay here still, still enough to feel my heartbeat,
Tick, tick, boom
A surge
Blood, adrenaline, anticipation
Racing against
thinking of
Imagining
Dreaming
Running parallel to another beat, yours
Steady, constant, even, hard
Bass paired with the hum of february's breeze
Which hangs slightly confused in harlem's night
I fill journals and piece puzzles together
Lyrics of lust prepared to be learned like lines
As I shake when you spear
I study soliloquies to sum up
What we're doing here
butterflies in my stomach that come up
They flutter in fear
In the moments of apprehension you hold my hands
As I ad lib the words to your song you sing along
As you MC this show I take in what you know
Bring in your noise, bring me your fuck
Your one of a kind guitar, fingered and plucked
Converting my vibrations into your electricity
I feel all of your rhythm and none of it is blue
I'm not about to fall in love with hip hop
But I only want to learn about music from you
Tick, tick, boom
A surge
Blood, adrenaline, anticipation
Racing against
thinking of
Imagining
Dreaming
Running parallel to another beat, yours
Steady, constant, even, hard
Bass paired with the hum of february's breeze
Which hangs slightly confused in harlem's night
I fill journals and piece puzzles together
Lyrics of lust prepared to be learned like lines
As I shake when you spear
I study soliloquies to sum up
What we're doing here
butterflies in my stomach that come up
They flutter in fear
In the moments of apprehension you hold my hands
As I ad lib the words to your song you sing along
As you MC this show I take in what you know
Bring in your noise, bring me your fuck
Your one of a kind guitar, fingered and plucked
Converting my vibrations into your electricity
I feel all of your rhythm and none of it is blue
I'm not about to fall in love with hip hop
But I only want to learn about music from you
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Social convention says to wish folks a happy new year.. So there.
Last year (you know those 365 days that passed 12 hours ago) I will say I was happy. Overall. I had my unhappy days and weeks, but if I have to assess 2009 on a scale of 1 to happy, I think it was pretty effing happy.
Happy moments:
--CY moments (SBX community service day, graduation. No sertiously, these things did make me happy)
--my sister's graduation from culinary school (was totally blown away by her talent)
--my mom buying her house (a long time coming!)
--lots of other random moments that included alcohol and morning-after hangovers
All of that happiness is (mostly) me being happy for someone's achievement. I like to think I've achieved a lot, but its out of necessity or a natural occurence. Graduating, for example, happens because you've fulfilled requirements and someone else has granted you that reward. This year, my happiness shall be derived from personal achievement. I'd like to think it would come from a creative outlet. I want to create art, be inspired. I want to write for all to read, talk for all to listen, entertain for all to...be entertained.
To make a rather selfish statement, I need something that's all about me. I feel like I should be on an episode of Made.
Oh yeah, 2010 is going to be a year for love. No pun intended. Or something. I know I've gone on about not wanting to be married. Well, change of heart. I'm not opposed to the idea too much anymore. In the past month I've dreamt about being proposed to, my engagement party and random day-to-day "here's what I imagine marriage is like" dreams.
Which reminds me, I need to learn how to cook. Ill totally be that wife that the spouses secretly curses about their awful cooking. Ok I can cook, but its like life-or-death cooking. Like if I had a gun to my head and all the shooter wanted was some baked bbq chicken, then fine, I live to see another day. But if that shooter wants something out the confines of food that comes with directions, well then were in trouble.
Ok enough rambling for now. Moral of the story: 2010 is about finding love and being happy. Congrats, I'm like...everyone else. *cue Everybody Hates Chris music*
Happy moments:
--CY moments (SBX community service day, graduation. No sertiously, these things did make me happy)
--my sister's graduation from culinary school (was totally blown away by her talent)
--my mom buying her house (a long time coming!)
--lots of other random moments that included alcohol and morning-after hangovers
All of that happiness is (mostly) me being happy for someone's achievement. I like to think I've achieved a lot, but its out of necessity or a natural occurence. Graduating, for example, happens because you've fulfilled requirements and someone else has granted you that reward. This year, my happiness shall be derived from personal achievement. I'd like to think it would come from a creative outlet. I want to create art, be inspired. I want to write for all to read, talk for all to listen, entertain for all to...be entertained.
To make a rather selfish statement, I need something that's all about me. I feel like I should be on an episode of Made.
Oh yeah, 2010 is going to be a year for love. No pun intended. Or something. I know I've gone on about not wanting to be married. Well, change of heart. I'm not opposed to the idea too much anymore. In the past month I've dreamt about being proposed to, my engagement party and random day-to-day "here's what I imagine marriage is like" dreams.
Which reminds me, I need to learn how to cook. Ill totally be that wife that the spouses secretly curses about their awful cooking. Ok I can cook, but its like life-or-death cooking. Like if I had a gun to my head and all the shooter wanted was some baked bbq chicken, then fine, I live to see another day. But if that shooter wants something out the confines of food that comes with directions, well then were in trouble.
Ok enough rambling for now. Moral of the story: 2010 is about finding love and being happy. Congrats, I'm like...everyone else. *cue Everybody Hates Chris music*
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