Day 2

I like making lists. This one is inspired by a blog by @feministajones on femininity.

1. i don't think I'm completely embraced my femininity. I can only consider whether I like being a woman in relation to being a man, which is never been or will ever be. There's so many reasons why being a man would be great (those extra 23 cents, peeing standing up) but there's some fun in being a woman. Now only if men would stop taking said joy away.

2. I have a weird relationship with the color pink. We're socially conditioned to think of pink as a girl's color, from the first swaddle to the last flower placed on our caskets (I don't even recall my grandmother - RIP - liking pink). I didn't wear it a lot growing up and if I ever had an option to choose toys or clothing in different colors I did. About a few years ago, I decided that I will choose pink solely in attempt to appear more girly. Stupid, right? I own a lot of stuff in pink now-one could think it's my favorite color. It's not.

3. For women to be such a lesser sex, there sure are a lot of male entertainers who like (making their money from) pretending to be women. I guess being a woman is great for the sum of her parts. I maybe in the minority in that the "work" it takes to look like a woman, superficially, is work. I just wonder why men would take the time to try to look, sound and act like me, all to take it off and voila, be a man again! On a larger scale, I don't understand men feeling like they're born in the wrong body. I'm all for being your true self, but I can't see how a man just feels like they're supposed to be a woman. Is there a void where their ovaries would be? Do they feel like they're missing out on nurturing loved ones in their bosom?

4. Can a woman live completely fearless? I love the idea of a strong, independent, can-do-all woman. But even the strongest and most amazing is in danger of being taken advantage of, being reduced to diminutive descriptors, shamed for what she cannot control and controlled for what she could never have access to. She still worries when she walks down the street on a warm summer night. She'll always wonder if she'll fall short of being the best mother, auntie, daughter and wife ever.

5. I really want to get boudoir photos taken. Not as a bigger woman. I want flat stomach, or smaller stomach. Strategic lighting and dramatic poses in the best lingerie money can buy. I don't consider myself photogenic but it would be cool to be portrayed as sexy. I'm aware that I can be sexy anytime and everyday. I just...don't.

6. Who came up the phrase "feminine hygiene"? A whole aisle dedicated to me NOT smelling unsavory at any point in the month. What? It's up there with "ethnic hair preparation" at CVS. Also, thanks for putting condoms, lube and pregnancy tests, and Monistat in the same aisle. I need that perspective.

7. I've never bought condoms before. Won't get into why or how but a woman should know how to do it, right? If I had to run out to the drugstore right now I'd be so lost. I'd totally be the girl who just sputters "...uh, what's better, the yellow box or the black box? I don't need 12, do I?... Just give me both. Shit, $18? Really?"

8. I don't watch the Simpsons often but Lisa Simpson is really awesome. I wish she could grow up in real-time. According to Wikipedia, she was born in 84 and popularized the phrase "meh." I actually think about this a lot for fictional women characters: the Baby Sitters Club, Daria, Patti Mayonnaise, Ramona Quimby... Why can't I think of any black women fictional characters? The two which come to mind are Lauren Olamina and Addy from the American Girl series. Surely you can draw your own parallels between these girls as to the kinda woman I am.

9. There have been a rash of stories about girls, as always, doing the damn thing, particularly in STEM and overall academic excellence. The one girl who completed her bachelors at 14? And another girl in the UK who passed the bar at 18? (Links below) I just saw some video about a girl in Canada who invented a flashlight powered by energy emitted from your hands when holding it.

Then there's some more unfortunate stories, like a girl who was arrested, or suspended (I can't remember) for speaking up about a literature assignment, another for a science experiment... I'm having a hard time finding these stories online but my point: i really hope these arent becoming "look, a girl can do it too" novelty stories. First, duh, of course she can and second (and probably contrary to my first point), it cannot be easy to reconcile femininity with scholarship. Edit: it ISN'T easy to reconcile femininity with scholarship. To do it at 14? 18? 11? To grapple being taken seriously as a woman, as a professional when you're "just a girl," then be "not a real girl" because those accolades aren't socially accepted as womanly?

Thinking as a woman is overwhelming. #31writenow

Day 1

I've woken up more days last month in tears or on the verge of them. I kinda know why, and I kinda don't want to talk about it.

I tried smiling today. A friend told me I don't smile enough. Maybe that's true. I tried smiling today and it ...hurt. Not real pain, but it felt fake, so inauthentic that no matter which way I smiled, how hard I tried to evoke memories of happiness, none of those smiles fit.

So I stopped smiling. Maybe I've stopped smiling for years.

I decided going for a walk would make me feel better. It did. Still not smiling.

Here's to a better day 2. #31writenow

Un(en)titled

This is about more than sweatshirts
This is about the lies we dress ourselves
Zipping up half and quarter truths in neat little phrases
Post-racial
Melting pot
The human race
American

This is about more than hard shelled candies
But the sugarcoated lives we created
When gentrification moves in next door, down the street
Lines are drawn
Guns are drawn
Sketches are drawn
"The alleged criminal is a black male wearing a hooded sweatshirt..."
He's also wearing a life of ever depreciating value. YOU FORGOT THE LIFE OF DEPRECIATED VALUE!

This is about more than iced tea
Does this verdict refresh you?
Or render you parched for real innocence? Of your children, your mothers, your brothers?
Your own innocence!
Is your throat dried from the guilt we've bottled and canned, to only sip, chug, guzzle when reminded were guilty before never proven innocent?

This is about more than if he was white, Latino, guilty or innocent.
This is complex but simply about privilege, comfort, freedom
America is our prison to serve life sentences
His life, his skin, his breath is his death penalty
Or was his death his life penalty?

PSA: National Mental Health Month

(EDIT: I wrote this July 2011 and seeing I never posted it! It's still
relevant. -TD

July is National Mental Health. What does it means to be mentally
unstable? How to treat it? How NOT to treat it?What does mental health
mean in truly taking care of ourselves and others?

These are questions (and stigmas that grow from them) I've considered
through my bouts of depression. I reflected on who I was, and who I
(still) am during #noshameday, started by @basseyworldlive and
@thesiweproject. After you read this blog, please read up on The Siwe
Project and if only for this month, educate yourself on how mental
health specifically affects marginalized people, particularly
communities of color. Do it for yourself, for another loved one, for
the greater good.

...ok, so you're still hesitant. What if I gave you some direction?

1. Start with more about me. It's my blog so you have some interest in
me. I wasn't always this awesome. Or maybe I was and I was the last to
realize it. The day I decided to have #noshame was the day I admitted
that everything was not OK. I figured, maybe it's not just me. And I
was right.

2. Getchu some continuing education by following @thesiweproject.

3. Acknowledge and respect mental health and its professionals.
There's having a bad day because you couldnt get out of bed and later
lost your keys, then there's never wanting to get out of bed, and
later wanting to self-inflict physical and mental harm because you
lost your keys. Shout out not only to those who ultimately seek the
help they need, but the endless patience of those who are at the other
end of help.

4. Read someone else's story. You know bits and pieces of mine, but
take a look through the #noshameday tag. While twitter (and social
media) can be a very forthcoming platform, it takes a lot for someone
to say "im suffering, I need help." A lot of our stories boil down to
the same elements: lacking our most basic needs (to be fed, pleased
and cared for) in pursuit of self-realization.

In addition to reading #noshameday stories, check out Maslow's
Hierarchy of Needs and Willow Weep For Me, a memoir of a black woman's
mental health journey. If that's not for you, read a memoir or
biography of someone you truly respect. I bet you'll find their life
was no crystal stair.

5. Pass it on. By "it" I mean this. This blog, these resources. You
never know who will need it.


Sent from my iPhone

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner? No one, ever.

I reside in Harlem. The neighborhood is not a borough, but it is just as much a geographical identity to residents of Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and even Staten Island. It has a distinct NYC identity within its borough similar to Riverdale, Brighton Beach, Washington Heights or... *thinks about Queens hard* Far Rockaway.

To call Harlem home is hard. It is where I lay my head and hang my hat, but I haven't done much hanging out here until recently. When I moved here in 2008, I'd just started a new job in the Bronx and was thrilled to live in "the city." The subway was a mere 2 blocks away (no two-zone commute!) and most of what I needed was withing a few blocks walking distance. The downside: I was in the hood, yet again. It hurts to commute from one hood to work in another hood. Growing up in Jamaica, I've seen its share of craziness, and when I worked in the area, as much as Jamaica had changed, it was certainly the same. Minutes within arriving home from work one evening, a friend called to ensure my safety. She had heard on the news about a shooting on the a bus route near my office. It had happened around the time I'd left work.

What hurts more, is the solitude that comes from living in the hood. My social life mostly existed in downtown Manhattan (where I went to school) and Brooklyn (where my friends live and play). For a long time, I didn't hang out up here. It was always me, my Metrocard and a good book to keep me company between here and... wherever the fun was. What happened when I turned the tables? Here's one story:

A couple years back, I invited some friends over for dinner. They freaked about travelling up here, and decide to meet up in order to travel together. I was excited about finally having guests, cleaning and cooking for their visit. They called from the subway (again, 2 blocks from my apartment) to meet them. Once in my place, we ate, drank and laughed. Two guests nervously checked their watches and glanced out my window as day turned into night. By 9pm, they were packing up to leave. All together. We should do this again, they said.

We never did this again. I think my close friends have been to my place once, maybe twice. They aren't ever inclined to return and I don't ever ask them to return. I visit them in their respective neighborhoods, resigned to the fact that, outside of meeting for after-work things in the city, this is the only way I will ever see them.

It hurts when people are truly scared for their safety in a place you call home. It's hard to be a gracious host when your guests second-guess their every reason for visiting. 

I began to make my visits outside of Harlem scarce. Simply put, if it wasn't convenient for me to get there via public transit, I wasn't going. I then added the caveat of getting home in under an hour. This cut my social life down a LOT. I've only recently started visiting Brooklyn again, and I really have to want to go. I find myself resentful every time knowing I'm prepping myself for a long trip there, a longer trip back, and most of all, that most if not all of those people would be hard-pressed to make the trip for you. The reality is, no wants to come to Harlem. It's too far. Nothing's "up there." It's sketchy, ghetto, dirty, wack. I can count on one hand the number of times I've invited people over or even in the area to hang out. I'd much rather save myself the embarrassment, like in this scenario, which happened this evening:

A friend who has just moved to the neighborhood sees me and two other friends out. For once, I can walk home, but the other two have a bit of a walk to the subway. I know the neighborhood-it is not the safest. They are both freaked out by the walk and are specifically told to walk down one block over another because it's "shady." One inquires about the nearest grocery store, which is in the direction where she's walking. She asks, "Am I going to be OK?"

I'm brought back to my college years, when a friend visited me in Queens. We walked around the neighborhood just to get out of the house. I had to assure her that we'd be OK between police sirens and loud noises of the ghetto: people yelling, loud music blasting from cars, buses and trucks on the main streets and nearby highway. We never spoke after her visit.

Back to my story. Was this girl going to be OK in her pit stop for pita bread and hummus? Her guess is as good as any, but I do the same walk all the time. I live here. One person's "bad" is another's "ok" and the next's "terrible." I wonder if I'm the one tripping. I have a roof over my head. My rent's decent, I can get to and from work in less than 30 minutes, and I live alone. I have a nearby Starbucks and NYSC, but surely those perks of gentrification weren't meant for me. Could I move to somewhere "less sketchy?" Sure, but even the worst deterrents haven't made me reach for packing supplies.

Why aren't I alarmed by the things my friends are? Should I move somewhere more socially acceptable? Or do I need to just work harder at making my living space more welcoming for my loved ones? Or do I find friends who aren't hung up on my ZIP code?

Another Sign I'm an Adult

A few weeks ago, I received an invitation to my high school reunion. This shouldn't surprise me. Social media has totally stolen his moment from me. How much can I really look forward to reuniting with people I can find in a few clicks and taps?

Which I haven't. Lost track of time and all.

I'm actually looking forward to it. Ive totally become the "must lose 10 lbs" girl, even though I'll be roughly the same size as I was then. I am a little freaked about ...well everything. Which is silly. I didn't really vibe with my classmates anyway, but it will be cool to revisit the past.

Do teachers attend these things? I wonder if they'd remember me. My best friend won't go: she hated that place more than I did. I wonder who is actually going. I could just go on Facebook but again, element of surprise.

Dress is picked out but of course I'll go through 3 other outfits before reluctantly going back to it. I hope I'm not as awkward as I was then. Ill smile and make small talk and eat finger foods and smile at pictures of people's children...

Shit. I'm not married, and I'm childless. Fuck. Haven't travelled. I'm gonna be the girl who talks about work. I'm still worried about being cool.

No, this will be fun. Seriously. *breathe* Any advice?

Who Will Defend You?

Earlier this week in my usual commute downtown, a man and woman fight their way onto the subway at 96th st. This happens often: everyone pushes and shoves themselves into an already-crowded car. They refuse to fall for the swindle of the conductor's suggestion to wait for the train "directly behind this one."

My attention is caught by the raised voices. He calls her a lowlife, scum, and a lot more if he could. Her voice is louder, enraged by being spat on by another man. SPAT ON.

Man and woman are hitting and pushing each other, in a tit-for-tat fashion that is equally common on the playground. It's abusive and filled with anger. The spitter continues to exacerbate the situation, their efforts combined bullying this woman on what should've been her usual commute.

She threatens to call the cops. Spitter says loudly, in proving the sentiment I'm feeling, "who are you kidding? The cops aren't going to come for you."

The reality of two white men disrespecting a black woman's entire existence not being worthy of law enforcement rode along with us to 72nd st. No one came to this woman's defense. Not any man or woman. No one sympathized with this woman's humiliation. Not even me.

The experience ended (for us passengers) with the woman choking the man on the platform, yelling for the conductor while the man screamed for help. No one came to his defense either. Not even me.

So I've thought on the situation all week. Like many, I don't want to get involved. Many, I hope, want to do the right thing. Could I have been her? I couldve been her. What would I have done at the receiving end of these men? Would my fellow passengers avert their eyes to suddenly interesting stories of their free metro paper, their tweets, their ereaders? I wish I wasn't paralyzed in the moment. I wish I had done more than say "damn that's fucked up." I felt responsible.