i miss this

not much to say, too many unsorted thoughts and feelings, but writing has not disappeared permanently.  trying to sort through the mess to get at happy.  working my way back to you, writing. love...

I think Vybz Cartel has a point tho...

Here goes his response to the hype surrounding the bleaching of his skin. Well then...

“I’m my own man, and as such I do my own thing. When black women stop straightening their hair and wearing wigs and weaves, when white women stop getting lip and butt injections and implants, when bald men stop getting hair transplants, and when people stop getting nose jobs and cosmetic surgery then I’ll stop using the ‘cakesoap’ and we’ll all live naturally ever after. Until then F**k you all.”

Untitled

I stayed up way too late talking to my girlfriend.  The conversation ended with her telling me this:

"I love my mom.  I really do.  One of the many things that I love about my mom is that she knows when to go.  Many people are praised for "sticking it through", but my mother wasn't afraid of new beginnings.  She knew when to fold.  She knew, when she had given her best, that there was nothing more to give.  What else can you give when you've given your best?  My mom tried over and over again.  She lost houses to divorces, mistakes, whatever.  She started again.  She was in love, married and had to start over again. And again.  Sometimes we're so afraid of endings that we forget that behind them are beginnings."

And so it is.

Sometimes, I get so stuck on defeat, I can't seem to let go, even when my best hasn't proven to be enough.

Then I remember a line from one of my favorite poems where I've always vowed to "accept defeat with a grace of a woman..."

I didn't go to work today.  I feel all guilty, but realize I deserve a day to sort this all out.

Love...

Don't wage bets on no practice shot.

Yesterday, I spoke with a friend who spoke with a friend.  This is the divorce era for many of my friends' friends.  They already got married, had them a child or two, or maybe not, and it just ain't working out.  Folks is parting ways and moving on up.  This one particular friend of a friend was looking to "sell the house" and move back home.  I thought, "Damn, it's that easy?"

But it ain't.  I remember in my first grown up relationship when we parted ways after 

five plus years.   I left the relationship dishonorably.  I remember going to pick up my stuff.  How sad it all looked, the tee shirts, the tooth brush, the jeans, the sneakers, neatly piled for my arrival.  I remember, despite choosing to end the relationship, "This is a terrible feeling."  And it was just some trivial stuff that, truly, he could've trashed.

Since then, I have played married twice--meaning, I lived with someone, or, more specifically, my then boyfriend lived with me.  The first time, when we broke up, I swore I knew it all.  I thought, "Damn, this is what marriage is like?"  He packed his stuff, and in a few days was gone just as he had come.  The story wasn't this simple and I'll explain why later on.

The second time, I knew I wasn't grown.  In fact, I knew I was a baby trying to wear big girl britches.  He moved in.  I still had me a home, I owned a car, I had my two degrees.  And I was somebody's mama.  We took vacations together.  We left the country two times.  Strangers would ask, "Are you married?" to which I swiftly responded, "No." By the end of the second attempt, which is now, I am done with playing pretend.  The conclusions I've drawn both times is that "We weren't married and weren't on track to be married.  This relationship was just two people who fell in love who, at the end of it all, were not good for one another."

In my first fake marriage, which I also terminated dishonorably, I remember sobbing when he finally came to get the last few bags.  He hadn't lived in the house for months.  But when the last of his things went, it was final.  I choose to end the relationship and was heart-broken behind the feeling of being "left", even though it was at my request.

In my second fake marriage, I remember coming home every day, looking for all of his stuff.  I wasn't ready for the relationship to end.  I remember looking in the corner to see if his laptop was there.  Opening the closet to cry at the thought that his shoes weren't neatly placed.  The fridge, which had no remnants of his presence.  I cried every day for more than two months.

But there's a difference between the first fake marriage and the second one.  I still speak with the man from the first fake-marriage every day.  We still make transfers to and from our bank accounts.  We still speak on every holiday.  Every birthday.  We have discussions about the future.  But we aren't together, and likely, won't ever be.

Why?  We entered into a binding legal agreement.  We made a huge purchase together.  We co-signed on a baby.

And unlike my friend's friend who could pay for the divorce, sell the house and split the debt, that baby wasn't going anywhere.  Even though our relationship had come to its end, he still has to be fed, clothed, insured, schooled and loved.  We still have to negotiate visitation on both ends.  We still have holiday moments that are awkward.  I spent my first Christmas perfectly alone.  He still sees my family to drop off or pick up the baby.  The break up is anything but clean.  Why did I ever think having a baby was less permanent than getting married?

Cause I didn't know any better.  And, after speaking with some of my older friends, they don't get it either.  Much of our (Brown) culture has children looking less scary and less permanent than marriage.  How, I simply do not know.  You are permanently bound to the people with whom you procreate.  Period.  If you're not ready to be permanently bound, regardless of how the relationship fairs, don't do it.  Make children when you're ok with permanent.  If marriage is important, try that first.  Don't put the cart before the horse.  I'm preaching.  Wellll...

In the future, I'm not co-signing on anything unless I'm co-signing on a marriage.  Not a lease.  Not a baby.  Not a car, house or credit card.  Not furniture.  You bring what you bring, and if it don't work, you take what you brought.  Forget being heart broken behind picking up a pile of clothes, watching the last few bags go, staring at the now empty spaces.  Nothing hurts more than a child who looks at you while jumping up and down crying, "Mommy, don't let daddy leave me.  Please don't leave me, daddy."  Particularly when you know daddy is a good man and never wanted to leave.

I need to invest wisely.  I never ever want to see another child crying for his parent behind my actions. No more bets on practice shots.

Is Nappy the new Black?

I was in a shoe store a few days ago looking for some snow boots.  The recent snow storm left my Uggs wrecked and my feet soaked.  Who pays 150 dollars, three times over, and learned each time that the effin boots aren't waterproof?

Me.  Once I left denial and entered acceptance that yes, the company certainly took at least 450 some odd dollars from me for some boots that keep my feet warm, but wet, I decided I needed to get my grown-woman-mom on and get some real deal snow boots.

I found some boots.  They were $110.00.  Still cheaper than the Uggs.  Still ugly with a little sexy in 'em.  Yup.  They gots fake fur on the top.  Yep.  Go me.  Sexy in the snow.

But none of this has to do with my post.

I was in the checkout line looking at available products for cleaning Uggs.  I came across a product that "prevents the nappy look from suede or nubuck." Yup.  That was the advertisement.

Pause.

I had never heard the term "nappy" anywhere but referencing hair.  And deduced as a young un', because all things Black were bad, nappy was bad.  So "nappy hair" was "Black hair" and thus, bad.

But I didn't think the adjective, apart from it's linkage to Black hair, was bad.

But here I was, having a moment:  Is Nappy intrinsically linked to Black hair, and thus, Black people, and thus, bad?  Is it like "black" which never means anything good?  Is "nappy" the new Black?  The new "ghetto"?

Struggling to process this one...

post scripto:  some etymology...comes from the verb "nap".  It's adjective form is said to be "downy", "fuzzy, kinky" and circa 1950, was used derogatorily to reference the hair of Black people.  But I just can't seem to detach "kinky" and "nappy" from the notion of "bad" Black hair. And maybe if the picture of the shoe on the can wasn't brown or something...

Thank You

Welcome to a new year.

I read a funny tweet today from @blackfistrising that read "A DATE doesn't change a person.  Good try, December 31st."  I thought it was cute.  Apt.

And while I find the quote to be true, I got to wondering, "Can a person change in a DAY?"  I've concluded that many people change drastically in a day.  Ask someone who's ever experienced love, loss or both.  People go from "I can't live without..." to "I am ok without..." in a day.  Maybe the transition isn't sudden.  But it happens.  And one day, just like that, they find themselves in a space they never thought possible.

Every year, every day, really, presents new opportunities.  The new year presents a fresh start for many people.  Many will try to start their new healthy living regimen, whatever it is, only to fall back into old habits.  Not because the attempt was made on January 1st, but because the attempt is just that--an attempt to try to do old things a little differently.

But change don't come easy.

So this is my toast to a new day.  A new year.  A new beginning.  A new ending.  I appreciate that I've lived long enough to learn that there is no new beginning without an ending.  It's why "commencement" (which means "beginning") is such an apt name when one has obtained a degree.  One element of collegiate education had to end for the next beginning.

So, looking back, I'm thankful for all of the endings.  My grandmother's passing, my dissolved friendships, elements of myself that have been lost, perhaps never to be regained, isolation.  I've learned along the way that there is beauty in all of it, if you're still enough to see that when one door closes, another will open and even if it's not a door, it's a window pane--but something opens.  That's life.  Embrace it.

I'm looking forward to all that awaits me as I inch toward 30.  I was rushing to get to 30 so I could get to feelin' grown.  But I've decided I'm going to enjoy each day.  Thank you to everyone who supported me, left me when I needed to be left, supported me when I had no legs, uplifted me and even those who tried to break me.  Each of you have made me stronger.

With Rivers of Love,
Me

PS:  I've decided that when I fail at my attempts, I'm going to buy some champagne, dance to good music, toast to a new day, and start again.

Let There Be Peace On Earth

I was lying in my bed today when I was awakened by the following conversation:

"Kiana, I'm going to get my hammer.  I'm going to get my hammer.  I'mma light y'all n*ggas up.  Merry Christmas, b*tch."

I was temporarily scared.  Living by myself, many conversations, if loud enough, feel like they are happening outside of my door.  I was pleased to learn that this angry man wasn't outside of my unit door, but instead, outside of my building.

I'm not foreign to violent rants.  And as much as I'm no super Christian, with all the stores closed in honor of Christmas, I had to stop and wonder, "But on Christmas, though?"

I'm writing to you again

Dear Mystery Man,

I'm writing to you again because I hope that when we do find each other, you will be enough of a fan of mine to find your way to my little brain space.  I will be your biggest fan.  Please be mine.

I've chased stability and lost happiness.  Chased love and lost self.  Chased money and lost pure intentions.

You don't pick your children, you don't pick your family, and the most recent conclusion is that you don't pick the people with whom you fall in love.

War is my good friend right now.  That, and worry.  It's robbing me of peace of mind, naturally.  And all I really want is some great news, improved health and a good night's sleep.  But sometimes you're the bug, and sometimes you're the windshield.  And if you keep at this life thing long enough, you learn that you just move back and forth between both and most of the will to do anything is in your head.  Mystery Man, be patient with me as I learn to navigate between being the bug and the windshield.  Sometimes, I'm way too emotional and need you to be my head.  Thanks in advance for your patience.

Love,
Me

I'm just a hoodrat

Something about me says I'm not to be taken seriously.  Perhaps it is because I wear jeans to work every day.  Or smile too widely.  Or am a little too young, even though I'm not.  Or maybe it's because I'm Brown.

I'm 29 years old, and am still mistaken for a child when strangers enter my classroom.  I maintain that  I do not look that young.  My students are 16.  I damned sure don't look anybody's 16.  I have laugh lines.  I have crow's feet.

But it doesn't stop at looking young.  In recent space, I've been treated like I'm a child. Even though everyone is aware of my *clearing throat* age, income, and education.  The older I get, the more I become aware that it's very difficult to shed the "ignorant hoodrat" image that accommodates too many younger Brown women from the hood.  My colleagues are still "shocked" at my intelligence.  At my ability to "eloquently defend" myself.  I just left a two hour meeting with my boss where he was awed at my ability to "articulate my concerns so smart." (That's a direct quote. Pause and mourn.)  But he's not alone.  I fight these assumptions daily.  I can be no more than a hood girl from Dorchester, whatever that means.  My background, upbringing, education, occupation, income and home-ownership are worthless.  At the end of the day, I can be no more than a hoodrat with flashes of brilliance.

Say it ain't so.

A final note

Grandma,

I will miss you.  In fact, I miss you already.

You left the earth as gracefully as you operated while on it.  Thank you for the lasting memories.

I promise, I will do my best to honor your life.

Forever and ever until I am no more,
Me