silence is loud.

i miss this

2011-04-02T10:12:00.000-04:00

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...

2011-01-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

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

2011-01-10T10:12:00.000-05:00

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.

2011-01-04T13:29:00.000-05:00

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?

2011-01-02T00:00:00.005-05:00

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

2011-01-01T02:06:00.002-05:00

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

2010-12-25T12:59:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-14T12:44:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-08T10:44:00.000-05:00

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

2010-11-20T18:33:00.000-05:00

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

Simmer down.

2010-11-14T18:15:00.000-05:00

I. just. can't. seem. to. steer. clear. of. fear.

I watched The Lovely Bones today. I never made it through the book. The novel was difficult to swallow. There were some realities in the book that I simply wasn't ready to embrace. I wasn't ready for its film adaptation either. It's messing with me on a few levels. My brain is flirting with death while my heart with love. They are both too heavy for me to carry right now. I'm weak.

All I want is someone to embrace me. To tell me it was all a movie, to slow my brain down, to tell me all is going to be ok. That somewhere at the end of the rainbow, even if there isn't a pot of gold, there's a pretty ending to the rainbow, and that's worth celebrating.

I'm sitting in the dark with a muted television and screaming thoughts.

Someone please press the button to silence my fears.

untitled

2010-11-10T08:18:00.002-05:00

i am a pretty girl
who happens
to love you
more than i love my pretty
cause lovin you
is making
my face
turn hard

It's ME!

2010-11-09T19:24:00.000-05:00

I was a little bored and decided to look up my name on Amazon.com and I found a doll named after me!

Ok, she's not named after me, but that makes me feel good.

Since I've been writing heavy stuff I have to keep exploring, I'm short on material. So enjoy this cutie until I have something substantive to report...

Ignorance. Sadly Ironic.

2010-11-06T15:12:00.000-04:00

I am sitting in a training where I'm supposed to be learning strategies to teach my English Language Learners.

The training is filled with teachers of students enrolled in the Boston Public Schools system. The makeup for the teachers vary--the training is overwhelmingly white and female. No surprise, no biggie.

To my surprise, there is an entire table of teachers who are deaf. They work at the Horace Mann School--a school for the deaf. I appreciate that the teachers at the school are deaf themselves--there's something incredibly empowering about your teachers being just like you. I'm inspired.

We are in these trainings to learn how to make adjustments to our curricula and teaching styles to accommodate our students' different language learning needs. Here were the directions from our trainer...

Each group/table is required to create a metaphor for language. This metaphor can be performed in a variety of ways. Each group will receive chart paper and adequate markers so that the metaphor can be expressed in written form as well.

Groups volunteer to present. The group from the Horace Mann school presents first. They conduct a beautiful expressive performance where they make language a necklace. They walk around lost and confused. As each one places the necklace on his/her group member, the world opens up. They smile. They clap. They dance. They begin signing with one another.

The next group that presents is in the back of the room. The presenter kindly asks that they bring their group to the front of the room so that the interpreter may interpret their presentation appropriately and the hearing impaired have the opportunity to see both the interpreter and the presenters. The interpreter asked the same. The group declined. They said that they needed their space to present.

Know what their metaphor was? A restaurant. Language is a restaurant. They needed the table, all the way in the back of the room to share their metaphor.

Surface problem? The metaphor sucked. And they never used the table.

Deeper problem? These teachers are in a training to learn how to make adaptations for their students who struggle with English Language acquisition. Is there a sound reason why they wouldn't make an adaptation to their terrible presentation for their co-workers who struggled just the same?

Separation of Church and State?

2010-11-04T10:54:00.000-04:00

I went to pick up my son from his Montessori school on Monday and was excitedly informed by his teacher that he leads prayer every day.

What? Huh?

I didn't know what to say, so I said, "Oh."

We left arm in arm and my son proudly exclaimed that every day he lead the prayer. I didn't want to seem mean or disappointed, so I told him I was proud of him. I wasn't lying, as I was proud that he was leading. But...

They didn't get my permission to have my son engaging in prayer, never mind leading a prayer. There is no mention of anything religious in the school's flyers, manual or application. I am not anti-prayer. I'm anti indoctrination of Christianity (or any other religious doctrine) without my permission.

Yesterday, my son was humming a song as he bopped around the house. I asked him what he was singing, and he loudly sang (to the tune of Are You Sleeping?)

Read your Bible
Read your Bible
Every day
Every day
Read your Bible
Read your Bible
Every day
Every day

He was so proud. When he spoke with his great-grandmother, a devout Catholic, he sang the song for her. He went on to tell her that he lead prayer every day. She was so excited and happy to hear the news. I wasn't.

I'm still contemplating what to say and do. The answer seems so obvious, so right there, but I'm hesitant. And I don't know why. And that's bothering me just a bit.

Educated fools

2010-11-02T20:50:00.001-04:00

I was first introduced to the concept of an educated fool by my dad.

Since I was introduced to this concept, unfortunately, I've met many an uneducated fool.

And depressingly so, I found myself in the company of many of these fools today.

I made it a point to remind my co-workers (all of whom work in education) to vote today. Here are some responses I received:

I'm not voting. My wife will take care of that.
It's voting day today? For what?
I don't really vote. It doesn't make a difference anyway.
Is there going to be a line? [my silence.] Yeah. Naw. I have things to do.

The sad part about all of this is that each of these people have at least a four year degree. At $25,000 a degree seeking year, that's $400,000.00 of complete...idiocy.

Sad state of affairs.

No, YOU get out of here.

2010-10-31T11:53:00.000-04:00

So, for those of you who are not familiar with Boston, the Franklin Park Zoo is smack dab in the middle of the hood. It is off of Blue Hill Avenue, the one major street that connects Mattapan to Dorchester, and Dorchester to Roxbury.

I took my son and his friend to the zoo, all dressed up in Halloween gear. We had a good time. I saw a pregnant gorilla (with some BIG ol' nipples) and I was momentarily stunned at our similarities in mannerisms. She looked exhausted and kept switching between rubbing her belly, gazing into the eyes of onlookers, and then holding her head. Even though we are a different species, I felt a oneness between the two of us. (Racists would have a field day with that! Go head.)

Anyway, after our trip to visit all of the animals and "scare them away" with my son and his friend's Halloween costumes, we returned to my car. I immediately noticed the minivan in front of me had been replaced with a gas guzzling, way-too-big SUV. And then I saw it...the bumper sticker (see picture above) plastered on his car. I literally stopped and stared at it for five minutes. Something wasn't sitting right with me.

During this point, the operator of the vehicle returned to his car to place his two children in his over-sized truck. I did a close check...nope, not identifiably Native American. Looked like a plain old white guy that probably hadn't been in this country too damned long his damn self.

Now I made what I thought to be some pretty safe assumptions. The America he's referencing is the one he currently lives in, not the one that Native Americans inhabited. So America had plenty of space for his people to come in, but no more room for other, likely darker-hued people. (I should note he had an anti-Obama sticker plastered on his car as well.) The fear that underlie the "go home" theme was that America was becoming too dark and with a Brown face as the face of the Nation, things were getting really urgent. Solution? Get rid of the Brown face, and don't allow any other darkies in. Now, what does that leave one to do with the darkies that are here? Jail them, HIV em, drug em so they kill each other. Either way, they must die. By any means necessary.

Many may argue I'm being a bit extreme--but extreme was the bumper sticker. I agree with freedom of speech, but I wanted to shout at the man and tell him to leave. I wanted to tell him to get out the hood, that he wasn't welcome here, that the people he wants to leave because the country is filled are the people in the neighborhood that he had to have driven through and just spent more than two hours amongst. I wanted to pull out the gun I don't have, just for kicks, and tell him to leave my space--which, I guess, I can call mine because a) I'm American and b) I own property and c) pay taxes--the same justification he has for telling others to leave "his" space.

I wanted a bunch of hooded black thugs to jump out of the bushes, or out of a moving vehicle, or off the MBTA and tell him that he was not welcome here, and that he needed to stay in his neighborhood--that he needed to go back from where he came. And then maybe he'd get just how offensive his frame of mind is.

Who cares if his kids wanted to see some animals they otherwise wouldn't be able to see. Who cares if he was trying to expose them to a life different than their own. Who cares if educational opportunity might somehow be linked to their success.

F*ck you racist white man. The hood is full. Get out of here.

Brave New Voices

2010-10-30T10:55:00.000-04:00

I found myself watching this poetry competition and spent every moment of it in extreme space--laughter, anger, sadness.

There were moments, many of them, where I couldn't make out the performers through my tear-stained glasses. The stories written by these young people were so inspiring. Here are my immediate notes following the viewing:

I want to return all of the excessive purchases I've made that still qualify for return. I'm brainstorming where receipts are. Capitalism is the devil. And slavery is indeed ok in this country--as long as no one sees it. Outsourced slavery is a perfectly acceptable part of American culture. I support it.
I am disheartened at what I've become as a teacher. I'm getting students to pass a test at the expense of teaching them how to think. I'm creating robots. I've become a robot. Where have I gone?
I don't know how to teach my son how to be a man. I'm doing the best that I can. I hope he understands.
Some pain leaves scars.
I've accepted a lot of wrong in this world because I've been exposed (namely through others' lives) that some of the most foul acts are inherently part of many people's lives. This acceptance is a dangerous place. What will motivate me to change? Acceptance certainly will not.
Power corrupts. I need to deal with my power issues instantly. I need to know when to power up, and when to power out.
I'm not living my life by my own standards. I'm often caught up in trying to maintain so much that I'm losing myself. I must retool and proceed accordingly.
I have a lot of influence. I could be doing so much more. I will not "create" spaces for me to mess up. I will mess up naturally. What footprint am I going to leave on this earth?
Kids need and deserve to be treated properly. I'm going to make sure my own child and every student in my class knows that I love and believe in them. It just dawned on me that for some of my kids, I may be the most stable adult in their lives. I'm stepping up to the challenge.
Kids have voices. They are serious agents of change. And changing their lives has to start with them. Why not give them the microphone so that they can be heard?
I need to rebel. I need to risk it all to rebel for what is right. There really is not other option.

Thank you, young people, for inspiring me. You reminded me of why I got into this gig in the first place. I just wish it took the young people who look at me daily, who follow me around the building, who eat cereal and yogurt with me, to bring me to this place. But in this space, how I arrived doesn't matter any more than the fact that I've arrived. I'm here.

Why don't the neighbors know my name?

2010-10-29T13:53:00.001-04:00

Before I had ever watched my first porno, I was under the assumption that women were supposed to express pleasure via moaning and the stuttering of their partner's (or partners') name(s) while men were to remain focused and silent.

It would be some years after my first encounter with sex that I became obsessed with sexual power. Why was it such a submissive act for me? Why did I have to speak/stutter/moan? Why didn't this sex thing feel so good that it made him "wanna say ahhh"?

I'm just saying.

But seriously, I got all caught up with this that I engaged in silent sex for a while. It was this "How quiet can I be during this act? How much of his ego is wrapped up in the echoing of his name? The noises? Is he even paying attention to what feels good? Or is he so caught up in the ego boost that that's what's driving him?"

And as time went on, it became obvious that sex (particularly outside of a loving relationship) was less about having a mutually pleasurable experience as much as it was getting a cheap nut and an ego boost. Ouch.

I remember the moment I had the revelation I wanted to run around with a foghorn on campaign "Get yo' nuts, ladies." It was in that moment that I was all about exerting my sexual power--that I got obsessed with a stunning face in between my legs. Aww, what a gorgeous man. Yup. Stay there. Right there. I felt all powerful. Bobbing heads and giving directions. And, in rare space, calling him foul names.

Oftentimes, these sexual encounters were accompanied by an apology and embarrassment on my part, and a confused look on his part. I apologized because, in the space, I felt fully comfortable, but afterwards, wholly uncomfortable.

These days, I fantasize about men losing their minds like women do. Body shaking, screaming names, crying--the whole inexplicable sexual experience. I'm confident I can make his legs shake and pause the world--even if just for a short while. But for real, why can't he scream my name?

My Birthday's Coming and...hello...goodbye

2010-10-20T10:33:00.000-04:00

Anyone who knows me knows that if I'm never excited about anything, I'm excited about my birthday.

With my birthday nearly three days away, I find myself less excited than ever.

I'll be entering the last years of my twenties, and plan to do a gang of things I've never done before. Think eat random foods, try new restaurants, and pick up sassy habits like tea with friends on Saturday evenings. I plan to be debt free minus a mortgage and maybe a few dollars in student loans, and plan to bank 10k. I plan to live a healthier lifestyle where I incorporate more natural food into my diet and remove the other, more processed stuff. I plan to enjoy moments--all of them--with the folks that I love the dearest. I want to fall in love with myself, and...well, you see where this is going.

But my birthday is coming and my excitement is lacking. Where is it?

There's no one around with whom to make plans. All of my friends have committed to their other friends on my birthday--leaving me feeling a little forgotten. I have one person--only one--who seems to have cleared their schedule on my birth day to spend a day with me. That person will be my rock on my birthday. And if you ever make it to this blog, thank you. From the North, South, East and West of my heart. Because if no one knows anything about me, they know that my birthday is so important because hell, if it weren't for my birthday, I wouldn't be here. Thank you for hearing and heeding.

But my birthday is coming, and I'm going to be here to celebrate it in a low-key kind of fashion. Me and you, my dearest friend. Perhaps I will do little other than read, write and answer a few phone calls from family and friends who will wish me well.

And then I'll spend the rest of the day, in classic me fashion, planning out the next year of my life--figuring out how to make things happen, how to contribute to my own life and the lives of those closest to me--so that I can be more fulfilled. I will reassess and reevaluate who must stay, and who must go--so that I choose my company wisely and surround myself will those who will propel me to move forward.

I think something about this whole process of assessing, evaluating, evolving and letting go has me less than enthused. I'm going to have to cut some of those closest to me.

I'm down for ~~off-beat~~ dancing, an arcade date and cake and coffee or warm Bailey's at a late hour, if you've been good to me. If not, I love you, and goodbye. Nothing personal, it's just my effin' birthday, so I'll set the rules on that day and the ones moving forward.

Polygamy for me?

2010-10-19T18:45:00.000-04:00

I first thought of this concept as a younger woman finding herself in kiddie relationship after kiddie relationship wishfully thinking that "if only I had another man who had what this one didn't," I wouldn't have to leave this relationship and would find myself completely fulfilled.

As my kiddie relationships matured into young adult relationships, and then adult relationships, I entertained the thought, but less as two men who were equal, and more so with one as the "lead" man and the other as the "backseat" man--I mean, how wonderful would it be to have two men who were in love with me--with the one on the lower end vying, desperately, for my attention?

How self-centered. And up until about a year ago, this was a dope thought that I knew I couldn't actualize.

Now, I detest the thought.

Today, I sat in a room full of women: two from Kenya, one from Puerto Rico, one from the United States. The age range was from 31 to 54. As the youngest person in the room, I had very little to say. I decided, what a beautiful opportunity to allow those with wisdom and experience to speak freely. And they did. They spoke of love, what it took to have a lasting relationship, what happens when men fall in love, and polygamy.

For the two Kenyan women, polygamy was very near, but not so dear to them. Both had sizable families because their fathers and mothers were polygamists. One woman joked that she couldn't invite her family to her wedding because there were far too many people--even the invitations would've put her beyond her wedding budget.

As the women spoke with one another, they expressed their disdain for polygamy. The elder women in the circle asked sincere questions: How does it work? Do they all live together? Does anyone get jealous? How often does a wife get to have sex with her husband? Are the children treated fairly?

And as the women spoke, something became clear: in their native land, polygamy was a means for a man to reproduce and leave his mark on the earth. Very little of this had to do with falling in love with multiple women simultaneously, but instead, was more of a business arrangement. These women could carry children simultaneously, thus allowing his name to be carried on by many. They could work and produce vast amounts of money, simultaneously. Makes sense, actually.

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't be one of many wives, nor could I have many husbands. I can't multi-task, the warring for my attention would ultimately become annoying, and having to fight for the attention and love from one man? Read my blog...that doesn't go well for me. He'd end up dead if I didn't. Not a good look.

But polygamy works for many Utahans (is that what they are called?) and many others. But cha girl? I'd love the threesomes on both sides, but they wouldn't be worth admiring my lover and his wife from behind rusting bars.

Afterthought: Since this newfound feigned Black women marriage crisis seems to dominate airwaves, magazines and online banter, perhaps it'd be worthwhile to explore polygamy as an option. Wouldn't work for this chic, but hey, I'm all about solutions to problems that don't exist anyway. :)

Eff The Joneses

2010-10-17T20:59:00.001-04:00

(Is it the Jones' or the Joneses? Hell, I don't know so I'll use both.)

I spent the earlier part of my Sunday relaxing with my parents.

I love them. I idolize them. I aspire to be who they are. I want their drive, their success and their undying love for one another. I want their successes (spare me their failures) and their commitment to doing good in this world. So far, I'm on a good path.

When I have the opportunity, I sit down with my parents and ask questions and listen. I hear their criticisms of me, their praise likewise, and their dreams. They remind me that I still have so much potential, that I'm still a developing young person, and that no, I don't have all the answers.

My father still tells me that I'm way too pretty to speak so loudly, that perhaps drinking "all that coffee is what got you looking so skinny" and that I should stop being so cheap and spend a little extra because I most certainly deserve it. Did I ever tell y'all how much I love my daddy?

Anyway, this afternoon, I went outside to clean out my car. I decided it made sense to use their energy and driveway to fund my mission. Shortly after I started the process, my mother came out to join me.

Her car was in the front, mine in the back. Hers a 2010 Lexus GS, mine a 2005 Hybrid Accord. I kept wondering if I'd ever be able to be my parents--own a five bedroom home in a big city, another on Cape Cod, and build a not-so-modest retirement home in Las Vegas.

And then it dawned on me--I've spent the greater part of my latter twenties trying to keep up with the Jones'. Buying stuff that I can barely afford to put it in spaces that I don't have--not out of necessity, but, just because. I'm disgusted. What has become of me?

I buy a home, then I see another home and want a bigger home. I buy a car, pay it off, then want to buy a more luxurious one. Could I use some more square footage? Absolutely. Do I need more square footage? Absolutely not. Can I afford more square footage? Probably not. Rewind and repeat with car, clothes, vacations, etc.

I'm saddened to acknowledge that I'm living a life of excess. That's not righteous. It doesn't sound like me. But I guess it's what I've become.

I'm going back to living a life that is more simplistic. But I'm going to keep that shower curtain that I just bought because even though I don't need it, it makes me happy. Oh ish, wait, that's how it starts...

To My Husband

2010-10-14T22:26:00.000-04:00

I am writing this letter to you because I am writing you into existence.

To give you some background, worry about how I may have lost you, or missed you, or may never meet you leaves you the one rotating stone in my brain. My worries about you haunt me every time I bring groceries up the stairs, buy tickets for a movie or concert, or load and unload the air conditioner as the seasons change.

I am proud that I have it all together. I'm proud that I've successfully dug my self out of any hole in record time that even leaves me surprised. But I need you.

While I teeter back and forth between whether I want or need you, it will suffice to say that I need you. Maybe not right now, as in, in this very moment that the words leave my brain and enter this page, but I need you in a general way.

I'm feeling full with empty spots without you here. Picture me as a slice of mozzarella cheese. Or a sponge, or something. There's so much room, whether or not you can see the holes, for you to fill. I am porous and waiting for you to fill me up.

I miss you.

And as much as I cannot wait for you to arrive, I feel it only right to tell you that I am far from perfect. And while I can tell you all of this in clear space, I will absolutely need you remind me of this very thing, particularly during a disagreement.

I like to be right. But more than being right, I like to be at peace. So, Mr. You, whoever you are, if I am picking fights, it's probably because something big is bothering me that either a) I am unaware of or b) I cannot articulate or c) I feel like I can't win. So the argument becomes petty--please don't entertain me and ask me what the real issue is. Be patient with me though--I tend to be long-winded.

I'll need a lot of patience and understanding from you. I'm learning how to ask for help, even though I'm not really good at it, and I'm working on making sure that you know that you are needed--because I need you even though you haven't arrived yet, so I know I'll more than need you once you arrive.

I want you to be my best friend. I don't want to harbor secrets from you. I don't want to go to bed angry. I will only marry you if I feel like we could actually sit in a chair somewhere, just the two of us, forever. So if I ever state that I am ready to marry you, it's because I truly am.

And while we talk marriage, know that my biggest fear of failure is just that. I don't want to marry for convenience, because I was supposed to, or because it made sense. I wanted to marry you because I felt that YOU were IT.

And so, sir, where ever you are, when I insist on doing things on my own, know that I just want you to politely sit me down, and help me anyway. That I want incredible amounts of love and attention and I want you to be my biggest fan.

And what will you get in turn?

An undying love from a woman who has failed too many of her past relationships, including ones with herself, who so desperately wants you more than she ever wanted the idea of you. You will get someone who might drive you crazy, and talk your ear off, and do little things that might drive you crazy--like plan the exact home we plan to retire in when we are 20 years from retirement but can't seem to make a quick decision about what to eat. You will get a woman who will run away (metaphorically) here and there just to see if you notice and care, but will always, and I mean, ALWAYS, have your back, no matter what. She will be your first responder--when she can help and when she can't. All of that, plus some love, the serious undying sort, and someone who is always willing to grow.

So read this today, and read the date and everything, and if you come, even five years from now, or ten, or twenty, know that I believed in you before I knew you--or know you as YOU.

Please don't take long. I miss you already.

Love you,
Me

On death and dying

2010-10-13T08:58:00.001-04:00

Up until recently, I didn't like death. In fact, I hated it.

But last week, for the first time, I actually wished that death would come and relieve someone of what had become life's ills. I was playing God, and decided that it was their time to go. And then, as life always does, the tides quickly changed and I felt silly even possessing the thought that little old mortal me should play arbiter of life.

Many people I know have died recently. When I say recently, I'm referring to the past week and a half. Three people have perished. All men. No one older than sixty. All from cancer. I hate cancer. (Not that I think anyone loves it, but I really really hate it. And if you've ever watched anyone battle the demon that is cancer, you'd hate it too. It's a thief in a night--armed to fight its unarmed enemy with a Mac 10 and a fire-laden hose. Beat that.)

My first experience with death was fairly young. My fairly young grandfather (he was in his early sixties) died of lung cancer. Shortly thereafter, my uncle died from cancer. Then, my uncle died from complications of AIDS. His wife followed suit. I was angry with death. I didn't understand why it wouldn't just stick to the old. Why come and steal three people in their thirties? All from the same family?

It would take me about ten years to realize that this death thing had no age limit--it came for its victims when it came. There was no cheating death. When it took my friend via violence, I realized it could be unforgiving and cruel. It was then that I got really upset with God, and began to truly hate death. I wanted to kill death. I wanted to cheat death by playing with science and living forever.

But as I've gotten older, I've lost my interest in living forever. Something about being mortal is actually inspiring. Something about knowing I don't have an endless supply of time to accomplish my goals pushes me to move forward--to make the most of each day, the relationships that are nearest and dearest to me, to prioritize that which is important, to enjoy each of the moments that life affords me.

Something about being a mortal being thrusts me into capturing as much beauty and love as I can, and, in most recent space, is teaching me the lesson that it has taken me this long to learn: very little (if anything at all) is meant to last forever. Even the supposed lasting emotion of love has different phases--and sometimes one of those phases may involve phasing out.

Since I've accepted that death of people, emotions and relationships is merely a part of life--that all things and people, whether we wish them to or not, must come to an end, I've been forced to dwell, instead of in the future, right here, right now, in the present. Because that's all I have...until I have it no more. And that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Boo, Black Man, Boo.

2010-10-12T08:15:00.000-04:00

So I spent some time over at the Boston Duck Tours website last night trying to find a picture of that pilgrim man from yesterday. I don't know if his outfit was simply celebratory, or if it was his day-to-day gear, but either way, I couldn't locate the man. Suspect.

But what I did find was over 50 characters who operate these amphibious vehicles. The overwhelming majority of the drivers for these amphibious vehicles are male. And white.

There is only one Black man.

Now faithful reader, I'm going to actually ask you to make a prediction. Who do you think the Black man portrays?

I'll give you a hint: Think of the stereotypical Black man. Think modern.

Guess...

And here he is...

MC History.

'Nuff said.

"Who's her mama?"

2010-10-12T08:06:00.000-04:00

Ha! So someone over at MSN realized the error of their ways. This morning, when I turned on my computer, Halle Berry's baby's face was there, but the caption was changed from "Who's this baby's mama?" to "Who's her mama?" See the difference? I do. I had a valid point in that post, dammit.

Feeling victorious on this Monday-like Tuesday.

C. Murder and A Duck Tour and no more.

2010-10-11T16:57:00.000-04:00

C. Murder and our love for his annihilation of massive groups of people got me home on a day I should be teaching Brown kids.

(In fact, one of my students shouted, "Thank God for Christopher Columbus" upon learning that there was no school the upcoming Monday in celebration for his "discovery" of America. Teachable moment. She was taught.)

My son had been asking to go on a Duck Tour since May. I had tickets that were only good on weekdays. I took him today.

Our Duck Tour guide was dressed as...an effin'...pilgrim. Yup. A pilgrim on Columbus Day.

Shoot me. I wanted to get off. I called my girlfriend for advice. She explained he (my son) would never understand, would be so angry, and I already spent the money. There are no refunds. So I stayed.

But something felt all sorts of wrong going on this glamorous tour of Boston on Columbus Day. Yeah, the pilgrim guide schooled the tourists on the number of Native Americans inhabiting the city before it was "occupied by the pilgrims..."

Occupied? And the lies continued from there.

My young man was cold, I was unhappy. I'm straight on C. Murder, and good on paying to be lied to under the guise of learning. No more. I hope the amphibious vehicles of World War II and the lies that accompany them roll into the Charles and sink. Along with the pilgrim.

"Who's this baby's mama?"

2010-10-08T08:26:00.000-04:00

This morning, as I turned on Internet Explorer from my work computer, I was greeted by this image of this cute little girl (Halle Berry's daughter) and the caption above (see post title.)

I immediately thought, "If this girl wasn't 1/4 Black and instead was 1/16th Black (appearing predominantly White or Asian), would the caption still read "Who's this baby's mama?" or would it read something a little different, a little more socially acceptable like, "Who's this child's mother?"

I clicked on the link and it took me to a page where there were a host of celebrity children. The goal of the page was to get visitors to guess the parent(s) of the celebrity babies. The marital status of the parents had nothing to do with the wording once you got to the page. Anglina Jolie's brood wasn't bastardized. Neither was Madonna's little African child. So why Halle Berry's baby?

So much for the pass you get when you're half White (in Halle's case) or a 1/4 White (in the case of her daughter.) And here I am thinking there's all sorts of perks to being 3/4 White. I guess she still a nigga after all.

Observations from Toddler Basketball

2010-10-07T11:24:00.000-04:00

I enrolled my son in a basketball league for 3-5 year olds. Below are my notes from the first few practice sessions:

Where are the daddies? I mean, even if you aren't there all the time, wouldn't you be there to watch your son play a sport?
Why are moms trying to overcompensate? Their voices are deepening, mannerisms changing. Sorry, ladies. No matter how hard we try, we can't be men.
Grrr. Being really mean (note: not stern, but mean) doesn't make your child feel like he has a daddy. If he ain't got no daddy, he ain't got no daddy.
Where are the fathers? Did they drink too much last night? Are they lying in the bed with some woman? Eating eggs and sausage for breakfast?
These little boys are cute. Very much so. They look the part--basketball shorts, Jordan sneakers and Celtics jerseys. I want to see your son. Why don't you?
Mommies can raise children, but they shouldn't be raising them alone.
Besides one woman, no one here is married. The one married woman is not Black or Latino. Boo.
This feels like a crisis.
Who's going to teach these boys how to be men? I mean, I try and all, and I'm sure these women do too, but these babies need daddies.
You know what? I'm sure these absentee fathers had absentee fathers.
That might be the most depressing of it all.

LB, I'm going to miss you. :(

2010-10-05T21:12:00.001-04:00

It's funny how death shows up and reminds you this life thing is a loan. Spend it wisely.

This afternoon, I received news that one of my colleagues passed away. It was one of those rare moments where I stood still, emotionless.

The first feeling was one of guilt--this man asked me coach his debate team. I refused. He followed me around for days petitioning me--telling me that the team needed me--that he needed me. "Do this for me" he pleaded. I was practicing the art of saying no and flashed a smile and did just that.

He said he'd respect it because of the smile and because it was me. That was our last interaction.

Dear LB,

Something felt "off" when the school year started. I immediately noticed your absence. I sensed something was wrong and called you. Your phone rang and went to voicemail; It was full.

Then the rumors started. Cancer. The liver. A transplant was necessary and en route.

I wanted to believe that instead, you were on a vacation in your homeland and would be returning soon. That, or you were taking a leave of absence to pursue something else and were holding your position. In lieu of the alternative, those options were magnificent.

The school year started and the students seemed to adjust to your absence. I didn't. I missed your daily check-in on "[your] man" who is my son. I missed sharing all of the little stories about how much my son was like me, and your roaring laugh. I missed the quick whisks away to the teacher's room where you shared your next move because this teaching game is sometimes chess--everything has to be done in secret in the stealth of the night. I missed your Jamaican beef patties at 8 in the morning while you served your administrative duty. I missed your deep voice echoing down the hallway as you took your important phone calls.

I never adjusted to the first substitute--even though she was kind and did a good job getting the kids up and running. And the second guy just wasn't you...he's nice and all...but doesn't have your presence.

You were a man's man--hearty voice, hearty laugh, hearty appetite. You were full of good intentions and many blunders along the way. You were the classic old school West Indian who spoke loudly and proudly and whimsically made-up words. You took pride in your people, your country, and your love. (Do you know how many times you told me the story about falling in love with your dentist?)

You were a well travelled, well-versed, well-affiliated man. You were the "I got people who got people" type of man. You could call a thug or a senator to solve problems or gain information. You were the cryptic-speaking, I-gotta-pull-my-maze-to-figure-out-what-you're-trying-to-say man. That's the type of man you were.

For everything you were, you were, by your own admission, an imperfect man. And your imperfections made you human and humorous. You were just funny to watch.

I have many memories I will take as I move forward. One of you standing up in the middle of a staff meeting insisting on the importance of your debate team. At the time, the debate team was in its infancy. In the moment, I thought you had lost your mind. In time, I learned you were keen and wise and knew what I did not know--that if you could take some kids from the hood and teach them how to argue a point eloquently, they would be prepared for just about anything this world could throw their way.

I tip my hat, my pen, my head, truly, to you. I believe the only reason I still have a job, that my school is still open, is because of you.

I dedicate this school year to you. You were a wonderful man. And you were quick to point out that you knew my grandfather when I got out of line and didn't behave the way a woman should. As if my deceased grandfather could get me in check ;). And while I disagreed with many of your beliefs about women in this world, I admired you for sticking to your antiquated beliefs--particularly as they became isolating. And thank you for listening to a woman young enough to be your daughter as she tried to change you.

And since I never told you this, I will always admire that you were a father to two young men for more than four years.

I spoke to one of these young men this evening, and was the bearer of the grim news. A growing young man melted into a child. The best I can offer him is a ear and a ticket home to properly mourn and bury the only father he has known--you.

And as I told the young man on the phone, if you successfully raised two boys (excluding your own children,) you succeeded at this life game. I will miss you, and I will speak up for the kids because without the two of us, as you said, things just get a little too quiet.

And the silence is uncomfortable, as you say. No, un-comfort-able.

And by the way, I'm so sorry and so sad I never returned your phone calls. I now wonder why you called. And I'm glad that the last time you called, you were excited that I "actually picked up the phone" because no, I don't "have a messaging service." And if only I knew, I would've been completely available. Thank you for all of your advice, all of your laughter, all of your arguments. You truly made me better. I will honor your legacy.

Love Always,
Me

Are student-athletes more athlete than student?

2010-10-05T11:00:00.001-04:00

There are some days that I don't like working here. Somedays I'd rather take my "get 'em girl" ruler and go haywire on some of my co-workers--and not in a sexy porn star way, but instead in a "What the hell you thinkin'?" kinda way.

I was in training yesterday when I received an email from a co-worker who runs the student-athlete center. The email was a request that I provide the fellow English teacher with definitions for the ten vocabulary words students needed to learn for the week. She wanted to make certain that the definitions my student had on her index cards were correct.

Seriously? An English teacher doesn't know the definitions of ten vocabulary words?

Let it be known that these vocabulary words are at grade level--tenth grade to be exact.

I kindly replied to the woman's email, stating that I would not provide the definitions to the words, but that my student could easily locate the definition by using context clues from the vocabulary book and/or the dictionary.

The woman replied, asking once again, for the definitions, as she was "too busy to look up the words for [said student.]" Seriously? Too busy? Why are you looking up words? Why isn't she?

I immediately questioned this woman's academic integrity. But more importantly, why are you asking me to provide definitions for words when that is the student's responsibility? Moreover, it's four in the afternoon. If you're too busy, are you assuming I'm idle?

This email comes shortly after a co-worker shared her frustration with me during a training. A student-athelete was accelerated out of middle school into high school so that he could play basketball. She went on to explain that the student can barely read. That with all of her SPED licensure, she doesn't know where to begin with this young man.

All of this makes me wonder, even at a school with a low-grade athletics program, what coaches are willing to do to get a winning team. But what about the kids?

This reminds me of a running back (from an elite private school) who attended my alma mater and could barely read and write. I never understood how that was possible...until now.

Eh? Huh? Uh uh...

2010-10-03T21:11:00.001-04:00

I sat in Chipotle on Friday enjoying a meal with my favorite person. I ordered my regular chicken burrito and we sat for our regular Friday night routine--dinner and casual conversation.

Shortly after our conversation began, the restaurant suddenly flooded with customers. (Isn't that funny how a place can be empty, and suddenly, within five minutes or so, be completely crowded?)

I turned around and glanced at the line--there was a group a white women in their early twenties, a couple, and what appeared to be a bunch of individuals coming in to grab a bite to eat before they settled into their Friday night plans.

I happened to notice this forty something Black man for obvious reasons. He was one of three Black people in the establishment excluding me and my dearest. He was dressed in a blue collared shirt and black pants with nondescript black shoes. He wore glasses and his bald head was shiny. His salt-and-pepper goatee, impeccably groomed. I immediately thought, "Business guy. Investments."

He stood in line for fewer than two minutes when he left and walked to the front of the line to approach the cashier. His words were inaudible, but whatever he said left the cashier uneasy. He returned to his spot in line.

I watched as the group of three young twenty-somethings petitioned for the cashier to allow them to pay for their own meal. The Black man left his spot in line again to petition these women to allow him to pay for their meal. They obliged.

This practice continued for each customer--at least six times. And each time, I was left with many questions, but no answers.

Who is this guy? Why is he offering to buy everyone food? Is he buying food for everyone in the establishment, or just for the people in line ahead of him? (This question was answered...he only bought food for those ahead of him.) Is this a random act of kindness, or is he trying to impress the young women?

I continued with my meal and walked by the benevolent Black man sitting amongst at least ten white people--all of whom received a free meal courtesy of his wallet. They giggled and laughed with him, and when it was time go, shook his hand and thanked him once again. I was upset because I didn't understand why he refused to pay for the meal of the two Black women who stood in line behind him. I want to believe that it was just because they were behind him, but...

Anyway, as I sat in my car, admittedly quite bothered, I wondered if I would've been bothered in the least bit if the benevolent man was white. And I wouldn't be. Because tragically so, in my mind, the Black man's benevolence was really an attempt to buy acceptance from White folks.

Dumb Laws

2010-10-01T06:29:00.000-04:00

Effective yesterday, it is illegal to text and drive in the state of Massachusetts.

Here goes my question: How can a police officer distinguish between someone who is texting versus someone who is dialing a number?

Just plain silly.

Boo, NCAA

2010-09-30T19:43:00.001-04:00

I like Reggie Bush. I think he's kind of fly. Not in a "everyday, around the way" fly, but super fantastic ~~cream my panties~~ fly.

But this is not about how gotdamn fine he is. Nor is this about the Heisman. I think I just wanted a reason to put this man on my page. Tee hee.

What this is about is my disdain for the NCAA.

Side note that's not-so-side: I had two boyfriends that played Divison 1 NCAA football.

One of these boyfriends was everything every football program could want--a great scholar athlete, an honors student who graduated in 3.5 years, and went on to obtain his MBA--all while being a starter and for one year, the captain of a fairly decent football program.

I always admired my ex-boyfriend for everything that he was on and off the field. But I hated the way the football program did the same. He received two degrees in exchange for countless positive media stories that boosted the school's enrollment of notable student-athletes. He was an advertisement for the school and its athletics program.

I was often angry that he allowed our school to pimp him in such a fashion--he received two degrees in exchange for a torn ACL (that never healed properly,) a broken wrist (that never healed properly,) and more than 800 hours of work a year...for five years. *Running off to do the math...*

That's something like fifty dollars an hour. Not bad, right?

Wrong.

In essence, the starting line paid for their education by playing several minutes of one home game. How so?

They generated enough profit from a few minutes of a home game to pay for their entire education.

And on top of all of that, the man couldn't even work much in the off season. During the latter part of Winter into the Spring, when the demands of football were nearly non-existent, my already-graduated then-boyfriend had to volunteer his mind to a major corporation to gain experience in his field of study because NCAA rules prohibit scholarship athletes from earning over a certain amount of money during the school year. What difference does it make if it isn't affecting your bottom line which is athletic performance? Furthermore, what difference does it make if isn't affecting your other bottom line which is academic performance?

Fewer than ten percent of Division 1 NCAA football players will advance to the league. Yet the NCAA has a choke-hold on these very players for as long as they own them. Schools make money through ticket sales, name-dropping, clothing, etc. but athletes see none of these profits. If any of the Reggie Bush's of the world were to have some career-ending accident right before the combine, what compensation would he receive for all the additional dollars his athleticism yielded the football program?

Nothing.

And something about that just ain't right.

Kill, and then what?

2010-09-29T11:58:00.000-04:00

So I've been thinking about this since yesterday morning, when news first broke of the quadruple homicide that took place less than a mile from my job.

And, as is the case with most homicides around here, it's still unsolved. Granted, it's only been a day, but I was hoping by the time the 24 hour mark hit, there would've been a break. Four dead people? Three naked men? A woman? A child?

I was trying to think about what could spark someone to kill four people--one of whom was a toddler. Drugs/Money? Revenge?

I've read a little here and there about "killers." And I know that serial killers don't function in the same way that I do.

But seriously, did the murderer brush his teeth yesterday? Today? Did he stop and grab something to eat? Take a nap?

In so many ways, the murderer's ability to function after such a heinous crime is more disgusting than the crime itself. So much for humanity.

Aw man, I'm ill-equipped

2010-09-28T08:23:00.000-04:00

Boston Public Schools was investigated by the Department of Justice. Apparently, BPS is in violation of the Equal Educational Opportunities Act of 1974, which guarantees fair assessment and evaluation of ELLs, adequate services and programs for ELLs and appropriate education for ELLs. The end result is that the school district must increase the number of services for ELLs. In addition, teaching staff must attend a series of ELL trainings so that they can provide adequate instruction for their ELLs. These trainings are offered in a series of Categories which are supposed to teach teachers the skills needed in order to teach ELLs (English Language Learners), dubbed Boston's "fastest rising population."

I sat in one of the trainings this summer. It was brutal. I found about 1/10th of it to be effective, and later learned that this training was the most useful of the four.

Shoot me.

In the past four days, I have received more than five new students--all of whom are from another country. Four of them have little conversational English. Two of them have never been to high school yet are in 10th grade. I've spent much of our one-on-one time trying to look in my students' eyes to see if they can even understand what I'm saying--I'm not convinced.

I do not have the skills or resources to teach these students--and they are mine to teach. Even more disturbing is that the process to get students tested and sent to the appropriate learning environment can take up to six months. Which would put me at...March.

So what about the meantime?

This "Eddie Long" situation ain't funny

2010-09-26T17:45:00.000-04:00

There's nothing funny about an older person using the power that comes with age, position, education and finances to swindle a younger, powerless, poor person, or worse yet, people, into engaging in sexual acts that the young person/people otherwise wouldn't engage.

On sexual abuse:
Sexual abuse is a most heinous yet accepted secret in Black America. This normalization of sexual abuse exists in such a capacity as a direct result of misogyny and colonization. We've normalized and accepted sexual abuse in the same way we've normalized and accepted white superiority.

Not funny.

Since I entered the teaching profession, I've had conversations, yearly, with far too many young women and men who were victims of sexual abuse by an adult in their lives whose job it was to protect, provide for, guide, or even raise them. Years later, as many of these young people struggled to cope with what happened, they had mixed notions about what love, guidance and protection really looked like.

Not funny.

But somehow, the Eddie Long debacle was something to be laughed at. The Twitterverse was filled with commentary that poked fun at his pimp/porn-star name, his Bentley, his mansion, his parishioners who financed his lifestyle, and, quietly, the sexual abuse that was alleged between this man and his youthful parishioners. There is never an alleged incident, or four, or ten, where it becomes permissible to laugh at what is sexual abuse at its core.

But somehow we, Black people, think this is ok.

While many of us offer widespread criticism of the pimpery of religion, we offer little comfort to the true victims--the young boys who were abused at the hands of someone who was supposed to love them. Why are we offering criticism in lieu of comfort? Support?

Many woke up early today to hear what Bishop Eddie Long had to say. Many noted his physical appearance--mocking his hair, his outfit, his mic dropping, and the number of parishioners who showed up in solidarity to support their beloved leader. But very few people stopped to share their support for the young boys who claim they were violated.

I hope those of us who are laughing have some explanation that they are doing so to refrain from crying. And if that's the case, halt the laughter immediately and let the tears flow. This is worth your tears.

Awww damn! For real? That's not fair. :(

2010-09-25T23:08:00.000-04:00

I took a little trip today. Shortly after my drive commenced, it was halted by the angry wave of a state trooper.

As I anxiously awaited his arrival at my car window, I wondered what I could've done wrong. I was driving at the speed limit. I had on my seatbelt. I wasn't on the phone. I didn't switch lanes without a blinker.

As the trooper approached my driver's side window, I rolled down the window and handed him my license and registration. The conversation went like this:

"Ma'am, do you know why you're being pulled over?"
"No, sir."
"Have you heard about the increase in state police officers who have been killed while trying to protect the safety of all drivers?"
"No, sir."
"You know nothing about the law that was passed OVER A YEAR AGO?"
"No, sir."
"Do you watch the news or read the newspaper?"
"I do, but only national news, not local, sir."
"I just don't know what to do. There was a law passed, over a year ago, that says that you must enter another lane when a state police car is in the breakdown lane."
"Sir, I apologize. I sincerely did not know."

As he gathered my materials and went back to his car, I discussed this law with my passenger who knew all about the said law.

The state trooper returned with a warning and explained, frustratingly, that in the future, should I find a trooper in the breakdown lane, I must enter the lane to my immediate left, and if that is impossible, slow down considerably.

Whew! No ticket. But as I continued along 90, I wondered, how in the hell would I even know such a law existed?

I did note while driving on the highway today that a new law was to go into effect on September 30th that would ban one from texting while driving and that would ban all teen drivers from using cell phones while operating a vehicle. But barring my highway driving and subsequent drive through suburbia, I would've never known this.

I know it is my responsibility to be an informed driver--to know the laws of the state where I am operating a vehicle--but something about this isn't resting well with me.

I drive by many of those stands, daily, that serve as information from the police to the public. But unlike the eight or so I drove by in more than three towns today, none of the computerized bulletins in my neighborhood inform drivers of the new law going into effect on September 30th. Instead, they inform me that I can call the police if I have information to solve a crime. I understand that the police use their discretion to inform the public about what they think is most important, but I dare say those living in Wellesley, Needham and Natick can afford to break the law and pay the subsequent fines far more than those in Dorchester.

I'm just sayin'.

"Let me run my fingers through your...

2010-09-24T14:05:00.001-04:00

(almost) dreadlocks"

I couldn't just walk up to someone I didn't know and touch them. Unless they were a man.

It sounds all types of wrong, but when you're a fairly decent-looking woman and you've built a basic connection with a man (say, eye contact), barring the presence of said man's mate, women can get away with all sorts of ~~sexual harassment~~ liberties when it comes to touching that men cannot.

Unless, the man is white and the women is black?

Peep this...

Cute girl with natural hairstyle attempts to teach her students about characterization. Teacher is in the middle of class. Unknown white man enters the room, stands in the doorway. Teacher believes unidentified white man is from The District, as he is dressed in a suit on casual Fridays. Teacher continues to teach engaged students. White man approaches teacher, who is using technology in the classroom. Teacher ignores white man. White man walks closer to teacher and proceeds to touch teacher's twisted/partly-locked hair. Teacher cocks her head back and students laugh. Teacher puts up her hand to motion for the behavior to stop. White man says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. I was just admiring your hair from afar and wanted to see what it felt like." Teacher says, "You are sorry. This is my hair, not yours. This is my body, not yours. You don't own me. Ask first."

White man leaves.

Who is he? And beyond his white skin, male genitalia and middle-age, what allows him to think he can touch me?

What's his is his and what's mine is his?

Hell naw...logging off to address the situation.

White Privilege (on the job)

2010-09-23T12:07:00.001-04:00

I was just sitting here in my room during my lunch period helping some of my students when a man, a white man, a little over middle-aged (what do you call 50-somethings anyway?) entered my room through the rear door.

He was walking around my room. I continued to tutor a young lady as he picked up Windex from the dry erase board, and then proceeded to my desk to take a stack of tissue. Not one or two, but like twenty. Then he left.

My students were just as baffled as I. I said nothing as I wanted to see if the behavior was as offensive and awkward to them as it was to me.

"Miss, uh uh, did you see that? How he gonna come in and take your stuff? Not even say hello or anything? Woooow."

Um, yeah.

And for those who may want to know why I didn't say anything, I just wanted to watch...just to see. That, and I was in shock. And just like that, he came back in and said, "I borrowed your things." And left.

Mind you, I don't know this man.

That's real entitlement. I'm not sure where he got it from barring his white skin and years of existence on this planet. What's his is his and what's mine is his too, I guess. :(

If you ask me, I'm ready

2010-09-22T13:22:00.004-04:00

Well, without bragging or boasting, I have done a lot in a little bit of time. I completed my Master's Degree by 22, purchased my first (new) car at 23, purchased my own home at 24 and had my first child at 25. At the tender age of 28, I’ve been in my own home for more than four years, am doing a fairly decent job raising a three year old, have paid off my car, owe Sallie Mae less than 10k and make over 80k a year in a profession that, arguably, doesn't pay that well.

I’m proud of myself and should be.

Anyone who knows me should be shocked I even typed that, because when it comes to my accomplishments, I'm typically fairly humble and don't like to brag.

But I'm proud.

I'm stating this again because, I almost have it all together. Everything is nearly how I want it to be. Each day, I'm growing ok with who I am, and working diligently to alter the things about myself that I'm not so excited about. I like what I'm seeing.

On a day that I'm struggling, I'll self-motivate by saying that everything I own and built, I own and built off the back of no man. I'll keep telling myself, "You made it this far without a man, so keep going."

Cheers. Effing cheers.

But bragging about my I-can-do-it-by-myself accomplishments does very little to warm my cold bed (that I bought.) Nor does it give me company when I'm watching the tv (that I bought.) Nor does it help me load and unload the air conditioner when the seasons change. My accomplishments don't help me shovel snow in the winter, help me bring groceries and a 40 pound kid up the stairs, and put flowers on my kitchen table. None of my accomplishments tell me, "I see you're doing it. I'm proud. I appreciate you."

And that's where I'd like to declare, as much as I don't need a man to obtain many of my accomplishments (nor sustain them,) I'd like one.

I've always been the woman who rushed to do things on her own because I had grown accustomed to doing just that. I've been "by myself" (in some form or fashion) for so long, I don't know how to let those who want to help me do just that.

But I'm lonely. And I've done everything on my checklist that could be accomplished alone.

So if you ask me, I'm ready.

I'm dope...and dynamic too ;)

2010-09-21T16:07:00.006-04:00

My Black English has me in a new state of mind.

I think I might've created the dopest lesson ever.

Let me note that I just finished a powerpoint presentation for Friday's class. That's "big money talk" if you know me. ;)

In all due seriousness, I'm teaching characterization. I'm teaching the kiddos the difference between dynamic and static characters. I'm using Kanye West and Dory from "Finding Nemo."

Go me.

For Kanye, I gots me "You Can't Tell Me Nothing" looped in with some other classic Kanye tunes. I'm showing images of the "College Dropout" preppy Kanye, then the "Late Registration" and "Graduation" Kanye, then the "808 and Heartbreak" Kanye, then the "Taylor Swift" Kanye, then the Taylor Swift aftermath Kanye. I'm looping three different Kanye songs which show just how much he's changed.

I'm dope.

I'm linking speakers to my laptop so I can bump my rap music as loud as possible. So the kids can feel how dynamic a dynamic character can be, feel me?

Then...I'm showing just how static and flat a flat and static character can be. I have Dory, time and again, humorous, kind, and forgetful.

Students are going to take their newly found information about static and dynamic characters and analyze and label the characters in "Everyday Use" ~~(a short story by Ms. Walker if you're nasty)~~--a story we've already dissected a bit this year.

I'm guaranteeing that my babies won't forget the association between Kanye's dynamic self and Dory's static self.

Cause I'm fly.

And my white English colleagues can't teach English the way I can.

And this is my second time using music and movies this year...and it's the second full week of school...last time it was Jay-Z's "Party Time" to show how plot and setting affect mood.

Brush my shoulder off cause you can't tell me nothin'.

I used to think I was too young...

2010-09-20T11:09:00.001-04:00

A few years back, I started getting the external nudge to be an administrator. While I thought I had the vision, I was convinced I simply wasn't wise enough to lead.

I still believe that. But some minutes ago, a thought stumbled into my head...

Malcolm X was 39 when he perished. He had so much influence in such a short span. He was definitely a visionary, someone committed to the cause who was wise beyond his years.

What if he said he wasn't wise enough to do his job?

Rebel! (Sometimes, f*ck what they think...)

2010-09-19T16:58:00.002-04:00

I've decided that I'm going to preoccupy myself with speaking Black English during my meetings with the English department.

Lately, I've had several disagreements with those in my department about English grammar rules, why "our" students' writing is so poor, and subsequently, what to do about it.

In the arguments about the grammar rules, I was right. Every time. Neither of the white teachers admitted their error. Go figure.

The irony in all of this is that shortly after their own errors, they went on to criticize their Brown students' speech, grammar and writing. I responded by saying, "Word?!?" They looked at me confused.

I went on to explain that it was rather amusing and terribly insulting to hear people who don't seem to have mastered their first language, who are the teachers of this very subject, criticize other, Browner, poorer and less-educated younger people who share their short-comings. I then said, "I wonder what Malcolm would say about this." I still don't know why I said it, but they looked even more confused than they did when I proved them incorrect the first time, so I was happy.

But I realize there is little schooling to be had between a hood girl and some middle-aged white folks who have some deeply-seeded racist beliefs. I couldn't possibly know their language better than they. So, I've decided I'm going to eff with them, and not code switch and see what happens. My Black English can't possibly cause more damage to their perception of me than my Black skin already has.

I'm composing the following email to my department colleagues:

Hey,

Was wondering if anyone know where I can find the books at. I looked everywhere. No one's responding to my emails. If you know where they at, let me know. If not, I'm gonna have to borrow yours. Hope thats ok.

I'm looking forward to far more fun at work this week :). See what happens when you stop thinking about what they think?

Not feeling so righteous about my hair

2010-09-14T09:00:00.005-04:00

A little over a year ago, I cut off my permed hair. Since then, I've been complaining about my hair. In the 15 years where I religiously permed my hair, I forgot about my natural hair, didn't quite know how to take care of it, and for nearly a year, woke up, showered, put in some conditioner, and went along my merry way with my teeny weeny fro.

As my teeny weeny fro grew, the complaints did likewise. My already long face started to appear longer. I didn't like the way that I looked. I grappled with the thought that my face was the same, but that perhaps, I just didn't like my fro...on me or something...but I couldn't accept that pro-Black sistergurl didn't appreciate, or worse yet, was disgusted by, her own, natural self.

So I tamed the fro by rocking cornrows. And then, one day I woke up and decided I was going to lock my hair.

Just as random as the cut was, was just as random as the locks began. I researched locks for an hour and made an appointment. I walked out of the salon, two hours later and seventy-five dollars poorer, drove less than five minutes to get some fried fish, and in less than twenty minutes, received more than ten compliments on my hair.

WORD?

So when my hair grows out, no one likes my hair. But when it grows down--when it's twisted and "neat", I get all the compliments I was spared for the past year. Ouch. One man was so excited about me and my hair, he literally jumped out of his moving vehicle.

But the issue I'm having isn't just external. I'm having serious issues within. Why wasn't my natural fro good enough for me? What does my tamed hair, even in my own mind, make me feel prettier? Did I get locks to do the best to tame my hair without perming it? The fact that I'm even asking the questions probably suggests that I know the answers...and the answers are unsettling.

I'm still not where I need to be. I guess I'm not so righteous after all. :(

Faith over Fear

2010-09-13T08:09:00.000-04:00

This morning, I woke up at five and couldn't go to sleep.

And, as par for the course, I worried.

And then it dawned on me...if I believe I am going to be ok, which I always am more than, I don't need to worry. Worry and faith are countering forces.

Hope this perspective helps you on this merry Monday.

Blah and blah and blah. Boo. And yay.

2010-09-12T09:19:00.003-04:00

So I've been in a bit of a funk lately.

I promised myself that if I could just find the time to sit down and let it all out, I would somehow feel better. I told myself that because it was all too personal, I wouldn't post it, but instead, would just print it out, throw it in the trash, and feel like I accomplished something.

But since honest conversations with friends are difficult to come by these days cause err'body strugglin', and everything I feel doesn't have a forum to be heard, I decided this would make me feel better.

Without poking my chest out, I dare say, I'm a great f*cking friend. (My friends, none of whom read anything I write, could co-sign if they actually read this.) I've been a better friend than a lover--always. I'm far more patient, and forgiving with friends than with lovers. Hmmmm.

But I'm feeling rather poopy. I feel like by and large, what I dish out, I don't receive in return. There is one person--and this person knows who they are--that I can count on for any and everything. That, regardless of our personal differences has pledged and followed through with support of any and all kind--through and through. I cannot question this friendship, nor the dedication of this friend.

Dear friend, I thank the world for you.

I'm hurt. I'm going to start all over so you can see the craziness that is my brain when I talk about emotions. In all my years of living, I never knew how to say, "I feel..." until about two years ago. That didn't work out too well for me. But, I'm going to talk about how I feel today...and why.

So, I'm hurt. I spend most of my days being insanely productive--to my own surprise. And when I'm not being productive, I'm being and feeling hurt. And for the first time in my adult life, I feel remorseful. On most days, I feel plain bad. When I try to avoid the triggers, life pulls a funny trick on me called life and the reminders are everywhere.

I want to escape my most recent past. I want to run from it like I did from all of my other pasts once they became my pasts--leave them there, pick myself up and move on. But, that "leaving the past in the past" in haste does nothing for my future. All my past mistakes go with me and repeat themselves, instead of the lessons learned from them. So this time, I'm revisiting my past with a fine-toothed comb--examining my mistakes from beginning to end--from poor decision to poor decision--wondering why what makes no sense to such a logical woman made so much sense for so long. I'm examining how I arrived at the desperate places I arrived at, and why I couldn't seem to let go.

While I thought I was being so honest with myself about myself and my past mistakes, I was moving entirely too fast, and was wrapped up in too much company to do much of the work on me that I needed to do...alone. Cause while I like myself a lot, I don't like the idea of being alone.

And now I get why.

Alone is where worries can run uninterrupted, fears can trump logic, and, well, silence becomes loud. When I'm alone, I am faced with all of the things that even my closest friends don't know. I'm a secret-harboring fool.

While many that know me may be so surprised to learn this, and may, quite impressively tell you in a heartbeat that I am highly motivated and driven--I harbor secrets. I don't know why I do, because truthfully, these secrets, and my running from them, don't work out well for me. I hide my emotions--I don't know how to say small things like, "I don't know how to be by myself." So there you go, I said it. *Patting myself on the back.*

I came up with a lot of reasons why I had never been alone before--I just kept finding a new man, I just kept falling in love, I love to flirt, I had a lot of suitors, and so on. But I can confirm that one aspect of being alone sometimes feels flat lonely--and with no one to "buffer" that loneliness and nothing big enough to buffer it, I sometimes feel flat...sad.

And I keep on moving on because the school year just started and who has time to be sad and a great teacher? Who has time to be sad and cook dinner? Do homework with a three year old? Dance with him in the living room? If I take the time out to be sad, I wouldn't be doing something else that might be a wiser use of my time--say, like sleeping. But my sadness finds a way to creep out--in a random burst of tears, in recent space from 5am to 7am when sleep escapes me.

So now I get it. Since there is no man, there is no buffer. There is no one to hide the fear. There is no one to mask the sadness. I mourn all of the loss from my piss poor decisions and subsequent ridiculous expectations, by myself.

And on many days, for many moments of it, I'm flat disgusted with myself. (If you're still reading by now, poor you. I would've stopped reading this Kanye West rant bullshit a long time ago.)

But for real, sadness sucks. And sometimes reality sucks. And a lot of time, reality sucks cause some of it is just sad. And because I don't know how to just sit and be sad, I try to keep moving. And the world sees me looking good, and gaining weight again, and smiling more, and can't see that sometimes, I'm human too, and need someone to take me out on a Saturday night because it's really the worst to come home. Not because I don't love my little home--I really really do. But in order for me to get here, I have a loud reminder of my mistakes. From before I make it onto my street, to the name on the mailbox as I enter my building. And everything in between and before and afterwards.

But I keep telling myself that one day, the reminders will get quieter and quieter, and the lessons louder and louder. But boy oh boy, this meantime is quite isolating.

And on the days that I'm sad, like this one, I mourn the losses--all of them--and strategize, cause that's what I do really well, how not to ever, ever make the same mistakes again.

All with myself, by myself, because, ultimately, that's the only way.

If I can conquer myself, truly, I can conquer anything.

And, I feel better now. :)

And if you read this, maybe we should be together. Even if you're a girl. Or a pet monkey. Even though I'm not gay like that and don't really like animals like that. But life throws you curve balls and you either duck, or catch. I'm just trying to learn when to duck, and when to catch. :)

My experience with the Black stereotype in academia

2010-09-10T08:31:00.002-04:00

There are some benefits when you aren't the model minority. While I'd argue that in most cases, low expectations are absolutely horrible, college is one of those places where I kind of benefited from the low expectations that existed because I was a Black girl from Dorchester.

As the Black girl from Dorchester, I was consulted to answer all questions having to do with Black poor people, where, to my defense, my response remained the same: "I cannot represent the Black poor because I am Black, but certainly not poor." It appears that the two are intrinsically linked in mind of even the "most educated." So, despite my defense, I was still called upon for my expertise--repeatedly. I soon learned there was a silent benefit from the assumption that, "wow, you made it all the way to this top-ranked college with bullets ricocheting through your bedroom windows, without knowing your daddy, with your family obliterated because of crack cocaine and the subsequent war on drugs, dining nightly on government cheese sandwiches and no one to help you with your homework while you completed it in the dark in a cockroach infested government housing establishment."

In the rare spaces when I took a hiatus from learning because ~~my Uncle Tito was shot twice in the back , and my sister stole my mother's identity to support her drug habit~~ my boyfriend broke up with me, I was greeted with more than favorable support from my professors who were less kind to my lighter counterparts. When I didn't have the available text and all copies in the library were nowhere to be found, I emailed my professors telling them I didn't have the money ~~cause my mom stole my scholarship money to buy my little brothers and sisters clothes and bought herself a new television~~ and they more than understood and offered free (yes, free) copies of the books that I could keep.

There were times, seriously, that I wrote papers at the 11th hour and received grades that I wouldn't have given to my sophomore high school students--never mind a college student. But, the expectations were low, and so, I won!

Many would argue that I was losing, but I know the game all too well. And while many criticize darker-hued people from using a system of oppression to their benefit, I dare say that other groups of folks have learned how to do this quite impressively.

Either way, thank you, alma mater, for two degrees for only $20,000. Thank you for all of your assumptions about my background and home life. I'm a winner! Your assumptions benefited me quite well.

Welcome Back to School (sigh)

2010-09-09T09:03:00.001-04:00

First writing prompt asks students if they could place anyone in jail, who they would place in jail and why. Here goes the response, completely unedited.

I would put all niggers in jail because they're ignorant. Niggers are those people who act rude and obnoxious in public as well as their homes. They think they know everything when they actually don't. And all they do is gossip. Niggers just mess up everything.

WORD?!?!?

This was written by a Brown kid. Welcome back. This will be an interesting school year.

Edited to add:

I would place all young black men in jail that kill and commit crimes and got away with it.

*sigh*

Me and The American Flag

2010-09-08T13:33:00.002-04:00

I'm not sure what's going on with me. But every time, and by this, I mean every single time, I see an American flag, I want to pump my fist in the air, or run.

I'm not joking.

I went to my friend's school the other day to assist, and found he had two American flags that were visible upon my entry. I also found an empty flag stand that was being used to prop a door open. There were flags in many of the classrooms. I soon noted, "There must be a lot of ~~racist~~ patriotic white folks here." I didn't want to touch anything.

But then I entered his office. And I saw, posted, the American flag.

I immediately assumed it was some sort of political thing, and asked in jest, why not the flag of his birthplace, to which he responded, "No. This is my flag."

Check please.

I can't claim the American flag. Patriotic people scare me. I associate patriotism with Anti-Black sentiments. When I end up in towns where there are more than a few flags present on any given block, I immediately feel uncomfortable. Like Klu Klux Klan they-comin-fo-yo-ass uncomfortable.

Does that make me unAmerican?

Even though I was born here, and have come from generations of people who were likewise, I don't feel American at all. Perhaps this is why, when it comes to "home", I feel like an orphan and secretly wish I was born on this land, but that my parents were not. And truthfully, it all feels so stupid because this country, as we know it today, was built on the backs of my ancestors. So it is mine. I have 40 acres and a mule owed to me somewhere. But I don't want no flag.

While I'm typing, I'm thinking about how, on my first day of teaching in 2004, I threw the flag out the door. Maybe it's my silent f*ck you to what those in power in this country have done and continue to do to people who look like me.

Or maybe I'm just paranoid.

In A Sentimental Mood

2010-08-20T16:29:00.000-04:00

*cue named song*

I deleted my Facebook account.
I made my Twitter account private and am removing my picture.
I deleted many people from my phone.

I'm going to start this life thing all over again.

And as for the rebirth, who knows...

My few assertions

2010-08-17T17:43:00.004-04:00

I received a rant/honest reflection from one of my friends. This is an excerpted piece from what I wrote back. Good, bad or indifferent, I actually believe what I composed. In my newfound space of ignorance, these are my few assertions. Everything else is a blur...

By and large, people want you to be who and what they want you to be. There are few people in this universe who can and will accept you for who and what you are. The rest of the people are trying to change you--not necessarily for THE good, but for their good. Sadly, none of this is necessarily personal, but, just is.

Play good music, dance and write your life away. Live in truth. It's always more difficult, but it's the only way to truly live.

Who's really wrecking homes?

2010-08-16T22:59:00.001-04:00

I am not perfect. Read a few posts down to hear about my own transgressions.

I read an article over at The Root about the difference between the media's handling of the Alicia Keys-Swizz Beatz affair and the Fantasia-T Mobile guy affair. While it appears that both women had long relationships with men who were married, the former was spared media scrutiny while the other, not so much.

I agree with much of what was said at The Root...but my opinion still stands that the focus is in the wrong place.

I do not condone cheating. I state this emphatically, despite my history. When I was caught out there, I remember I asked my-then boyfriend to hate me, instead of him. I tried to explain away that it was I who made the commitment to be in a monogamous relationship. It was I who told the lies. It was I who agreed to engage in a relationship that threatened and destroyed the sanctity of our relationship. Beyond morals (or ethics), he had no obligation to do right by "us." I still believe that.

But, in relationships, we are always mad at the "home-wrecker." Love prohibits us from being as angry with our lover as we are with the "home-wrecker." Effing love.

We still have really antiquated notions of women and sexuality. The man who steps out of the confines of his marriage is forgivable (unless his name is Tiger Woods.) The woman with whom he engages in these adulterous affairs? Not so much.

What bothered me the most about the article in The Root, and the comments below it, along with all the other articles written about these love affairs, is that little venom is spewed by this largely female jury to the supreme criminal--in both cases mentioned here--the man. It was he who made the commitment. He who proposed. He who took vows of celibacy. It was he who planned and partook in a wedding. He who wore a ring. He who broke the vows of the marriage.

Why isn't Swizz Beatz or T-Mobile guy a home-wrecker? After all, weren't they the ones who wrecked their home?

Or, do we just pardon them because they're men who can't control their d*cks anyway? I guess too many of us still believe that men don't have the power to say "no." Something in all of this sounds like self-loathing and unfair judgment by women, towards women. I'm not saying we should sympathize with the other woman, but I am saying if we're going to chastise her, the least we could do is castrate, metaphorically, of course, the man.

What he said vs. What I heard

2010-08-09T12:13:00.002-04:00

A long time ago, I used to subscribe to the mantra that you should judge a person not by what he or she says, but rather, by what he or she does.

Admittedly, I'm very keen with the eye, but not so great with the ear.

I'm working towards becoming a better listener and realized that you can spare yourself a lot of...a lot, by not only watching, but listening too.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend where he described being "in a situation" with a woman. I asked him for clarity. He explained that this woman was the woman with whom he spent the greatest amount of time, enjoyed her company, and so on, but with whom he had also made it clear that he did not want a relationship.

I went on for five minutes about how he was misleading her and how his actions would come back to hurt him and her too. And then, late at night, I thought about it...

Did he do anything wrong? After all, he did tell her that he wasn't interested in a relationship. So even if they were going out regularly, having sex regularly and speaking on the phone regularly, he did draw the line in the sand.

It's funny how the ear hears what it wants to, and dismisses that it does not wish to hear. Then, I confronted myself. No fun.

I was in a situation for nearly two years where I was told, repeatedly, that there were no guarantees. Being the ~~pessimist~~ realist that I am, I would constantly lean towards the negative and was politely reminded that there were no guarantees. Of course, my heart heard, "Don't believe that negative thought, boo. We gon' be together." Funny how that works, huh?

When it all came to an end, and I realized that what he said initially was true, I had the nerve to be upset! Though I'm entitled to be hurt and disappointed, I was upset with the person who declared at the gate that there could be no guarantees. Gotta love displaced emotions...

I should've been upset with myself. Why? Because at the end of the day, I was told the truth. I didn't like the truth, so I dismissed it, and instead, opted to believe my version of the truth.

How can I play supreme translator for someone else's emotions and then hold their feet to the fire?

Sometimes, in love, we forget that we too have power. I heard what he said. And with that declaration, I had the power to stay knowing the situation wasn't secure, or leave to protect my heart. I chose to stay and ultimately, have my heart broken. I'm ok with my decision because I have no regrets but I won't do this again. If security is what I'm seeking and it is not present, I will exercise my ability to leave.

Next time, I'm going to listen as intently as the baby in this picture. ;)

A Toast To, From and By Myself

2010-08-08T20:16:00.000-04:00

This afternoon, I sat down with my ex-boyfriend and struggled to explain how, if I could've done it all again, I would've made the same decision that caused heartache and pain on all sides, so that I could've learned.

I could hear the gasp in his voice as he heard me say, "Yes, I would do it again." I understood the implications for him...Yes, I would've lied, I would've betrayed not only him, but our relationship. Yes, I would've destroyed our family. All in the name of (what was then) superficial lust.

So I figured I'd explain here. It's funny how we can be blinded by the most obvious cycles we tread. When I do a relationship reflection, I've always been a winner. As far back as I can remember, I scouted each of my boyfriends, identified him for such, and then placed myself in a position for courtship, or courting him. The relationship status of these men never mattered to me; and in hindsight, neither did mine.

A while back, I wrote about how I tend to stay in relationships too long. I stay when the warning signs turn into glaring red lights, when frustration turns into resentment, when salvageable spaces become hopeless. I stay in the relationship and the confines of it, while departing from the agreed upon terms. Translation? I cheat my way out.

I do not boast nor brag about this--I share only to illustrate to myself and to the world, that I am now aware of what is obviously a pattern.

I've never been single. Ever. Even when I appeared to be single, there was somebody or some bodies in constant rotation--playing the role of my man until I found a man suitable enough to bear the title. And until now, I never saw the use to be single. I went from boyfriend to boyfriend, seeking qualities in the next one that the last one lacked. I didn't realize, until now, that at the end of each relationship, I was left unfulfilled--just as unfulfilled as last time.

Boo.

None of this is easy to admit, nor am I proud. I have hurt, tragically so, those whom I loved most dearly. And in all cases, I will likely never have a chance to right my wrongs--which has also been a lesson learned. And unfortunately, many times, I've moved on so quickly to avoid being alone I've never had the opportunity to right the wrongs within me.

I'm 28 years old, and I don't know who I am. I can't function in a relationship, because I the only way I know what I want and need, is by stating what I don't want and need. That is no way to seek employment for a lifetime partner. If this were an interview, I'd get cut at the first question. It would play something like this, Potential Suitor: "So, why me?" Me: "Because you are not he." Yeh, that wouldn't go so well, would it?

And it hasn't.

So, after all these years, I'm not sure if it's "the relationship" or "the situation" that has lead me to this single place, or if it's just me.

And I'm scared and feeling pretty alone. But I like myself a lot, and am making some progress. I've finally decided to take care of me and put my wants and needs first. I finally decided to take the age-old advice and write down what I want in a life-partner. Hell, I do it for everything else, right? And then, when I'm done with that list, I won't have to figure out what I want by what I don't want.

And in the meantime, I'm going to figure out how to either make new friends, or figure out how to do the things that I've always done with my boyfriends (take walks on the beach, go to the movies, go bowling, watch movies and go to concerts) by myself. It's too easy for me to keep substituting men for men, but I'm tired of breaking hearts and this karma business ain't no easy pill to swallow either.

I'm sure I'll have plenty of realizations, much growth and development, and hopefully, in time, some happy stories and endings to share.

Until then, toasting to the new me, by myself.

Happy Birthday to You

2010-08-05T00:00:00.002-04:00

*I pre-dated this.*

I feel so silly that I didn't write this on your birthday, but I was so wrapped up in trying to be halfway as amazing and committed as you, that I kinda forgot that this blog even existed.

Either way, Happy Birthday to You. Seriously.

The last time I wrote to you, I sat behind this very keyboard, sick to my stomach, peering behind teary eyes to compose what felt like a "final days" letter. This one feels a lot better.

You are still alive. They said you'd long be dead. That you'd sleep a lot, and one day, never wake up. Do you know I've never called to check on you, or come by and see you, and you were asleep? You're a remarkable woman. For real.

You are refusing to die. Cancer won't take you. Diabetes won't either. And neither will old age. You just turned 96. If I could swear in your presence, I'd say "eff" all of those death sentences, because right now, you're playing God.

I remember I wouldn't travel beyond driving distance in April because I wanted to be around should that phone call come. And then I saw you on Mother's Day, and you were talking about how, when you were 100, you were going to stand up and read your cards aloud, because you'd be able to see again. And honestly, I thought that the illnesses were getting to you and driving you crazy, literally, saying things you didn't mean, but now I get that you mean every word of what you said.

When I left in June and crossed waters for the first time, I wondered what you would think if you could've ever seen The Bahamas. How you had never left the country in more than 95 years. When I returned, all you did was tell me how you wished you were "just a little bit" better and younger so that you could travel the globe with me. Me, you and Gina. You said we'd be a good team. That made my July a most beautiful month.

I was shocked to see you. I hadn't seen you in a few weeks and you were pulling yourself up, rolling yourself over, feeding yourself food. I couldn't believe that this woman was the very same woman, who months ago, lie still, waiting for assistance for, literally, any and everything. Now, you were inching your way back to independence. Aren't you so remarkable?

I came by with "the baby" on your birthday. You were talking about turning 100 again. And this time, you were cracking up laughing--singing Happy Birthday to yourself with every guest who came by and every person who called on the phone. You were a big kid, smiling and laughing the entire time. I've never seen you that happy in my life. It's a moment etched in my brain forever. Thank you for sharing it with me.

Your presence is part humbling, part inspiring. What an incredible thought that someone can will themselves to live. What an inspiring thought that despite the odds, you can see the light. Thank you for showing all of us, through your deeds, that we shouldn't listen to the doctors and experts, but instead, to you, because none of them know what you do, because, hell, they've never seen 96 years.

I tip my hat to you.

I love you.

Always and Forever,
Me

I love Antoine Dodson

2010-08-02T14:47:00.002-04:00

No, seriously? There's nothing funny about attempted rape. But that Antoine? In his moment of passion, was funnier than the Kevin Hart special I anticipated for two weeks.

For real.

I pride myself on being a passionate person. If I'm passionate about something or someone, Oh Lawd. I give it/them my everything. It's evident in my speech, walk and talk. And let something threaten my passion--call the cops. No, seriously. Call the cops. And stack your dollars--cause I'm willing, ready and likely to go to jail.

I love Antoine so much because underneath the bucked tooth declarations that "We gon' find you" is a brother who loves his sister dearly. He's willing to catch the predator that the local police force seemingly cannot. And as much as many a Brown folk were upset that they "let him out there talking like that with that scarf on his head" no one can argue that that's a brotha with some passion. He's committed to see this thing through. I vote for Antoine. He keeps it real.

Reasons I love Antoine Dodson:

He saved his sister (and his niece) from "some idiot from out [t]here in the projects" who tried to rape his sister. Enough said.
He sends out a PSA, "Obviously, we have a rapist in Lincoln Park...he's climbing in yo' windows, snatching people up."
He advises the common folk accordingly, "Hide yo' kids, hide yo' wife, hide yo' husband, cause he rapin' errbody."
He points out the attempted rapist's errors, "We got yo' fingerprints, we got yo' t-shirt..."
He draws a conclusion, "You are so dumb."
He adamantly stares into the camera and passionately declares, "We gon' find you. Yup, we gon' find you."

How can you not love the man who tried to save his sister, sent out a public warning coupled with advice, is visibly angry with the offender and then makes a passionate promise to catch this menace to society? I need me an Antoine. For real.

"With Every Goodbye, You Learn"

2010-07-29T23:24:00.000-04:00

This evening, I'm sitting here thinking on the mistakes of the past decade of my life. And while there are many moments I wish not to relive, and surely wish that I had thought, and more importantly, acted differently, the lessons learned from all of them make the moments, with all of the pain and tears, worth it.

When I was in high school, I had a journal. On it, was a symbol of love in Chinese. (While I discuss mistakes, I should note that the journal was so important to me, I had the symbol tatted on my back...seriously.) The journal was filled by my writing in the front of it and back of it, simultaneously. I wrote from the back to the front, quotes that I had come across, poems that I thought meaningful and valuable, and any other writing/saying by anyone other than myself.

The front of the journal was filled with my own words--my first rhyming poem that I was actually proud of, my first love letter, my letter, filled with promises to myself.

I was sitting at the computer contemplating whether I should write this paper that was due a week ago, or write a letter to myself, when the line from one of the poems in my journal popped into my head. That line, "With every goodbye, you learn" rang so loudly that I felt the need to find the poem.

When I read the poem this time, it took on a different meaning than when I read it prior. As a younger woman, it reminded me to think positively of those whom I've lost in death. As an adult, it reminds me that with every goodbye of any sort--the dissolving of a relationship, the loss of a piece of one's self, the loss of a chunk of time, there are a multitude of the lessons that accomodate the departure--thus, making the departure worthwhile.

So, my avid two readers (thanks y'all), here it goes. Hopefully, the poem will help you in some way, get through something. (PS: I feel really weird putting someone else's words on my blog, but, oh well...)

Learn With Every Goodbye

– Veronica A Shoffstall

After a while, you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats

With the grace of a woman,

not the grief of a child,

And learn to build all your roads on today

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight

And after a while, you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure…

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth

And you learn

and learn…

With every goodbye, you learn.

Music just ain't what it used to be.

2010-07-21T17:34:00.000-04:00

I've been spending the past few days listening to old school music. I rarely, if at all, listen to the radio. Even with XM Satellite Radio, I rarely find a song, a single one, that makes me want to move, smile, sing along, anything.

I've turned to The Stylistics, The Delphonics, The Chi-Lites, The Commodores and a number of other bands, trios, quartets and so on to get my groove back. Sadly, I realized there's a whole generation or more who only know of these amazing vocalists and bands through the samples used in rap music.

Sex Workers: Please don't speak for the masses...

2010-07-17T15:00:00.000-04:00

For the record: I support sex workers' rights. I do not support all sex work.

I recently got into a rather long conversation with a friend about sex workers. My friend, who supports sex workers, often cites how the largely female sex workers are judged for their actions. They are in two classes: victims or hoes.

Often, according to him, these voiceless women are shamed for their action by both men and women due to the notion that women should be prudish. Women who are boastful and active with their desires to engage in non-menogamous sex, purely for the lust of it, are violating the notion that women should be prudish. I agree. Thus, the judgment cast against the class of sex workers who a) love sex and b) like to be paid for it.

He then goes on to say that this class of sex workers is often mischaracterized as victims of sexual abuse, women who lack of resources, women who lack of self-love, and so on, because when those who pity sex workers do so, they cite these very same reasons (amongst others). So the sex workers who love sex and the money they can earn from doing what they love, are rebelling. And speaking up for your people is a good thing. But here's my response...

Those folks who have deconstructed gender, who have learned to embrace that which is normal (sex) and all pleasures associated with it, and enjoy it so much so that they choose to be sex workers even when they have the option to engage in other occupations which would provide a decent living without compromising their moral/value system DO NOT represent the majority of sex workers.

Sex workers are largely female, young and poor. Sex workers, by and large, lack ownership over their own bodies. Unless you are self-employed (and this goes for all employees, regardless of industry/occupation) you have a pimp. Most sex workers have pimps. They, like most of us, work for big business. They, like most of us, offer a section of their body for money. And many of them, like many of us, do not have many other options. Poor folks are limited in terms of educational attainment because the same obstacles that render them poor are the same obstacles that prevent them from obtaining a job where they could make a decent, livable wage.

My only problem with the minority of sex workers rebelling against the "victim judgment" is that in doing so they are using the term "We" too loosely. "We" is synonymous with "sex workers." And tragically, the "we" in the rebellion does not represent the majority of those in the industry. I take similar issue with the rare Black guy boasting about being rich in this country and arguing against the victimization that often accompanies the struggle of being Black in America because in doing so, he deflates the struggle that affects the majority of those in the group to which he belongs.

Sex workers with the voice are those with the power in the industry. Those are the women we hear from. The rest of the sex workers are silenced and only have others who advocate for them. So, sex workers, when you speak, speak for yourself, but also advocate for those who share an industry with you, but for completely different reasons.

Because the truth of the matter is, the industry will never die. But ownership over one's body absolutely can change if those in power (the men who run it and the women who make a decent living and have more ownership over their bodies) assist those who lack power instead of silencing them.

Let us not glorify an industry that by-and-large isn't glorious at all.

That's all.

Warning: I am incredibly defensive.

2010-07-17T14:12:00.000-04:00

I haven't written on this blog in over a month. Truthfully, I had nothing to say. Not too long ago, I hopped on and left a message to my two readers: Yes, I still exist and Yes, I will be back.

I got private messages almost immediately. People still come to this place? Thanks.

But as is customary for my two readers, they often give me responses via my email inbox, text messages and over the phone. It's feedback and responses anyway, so I'll take them.

I set up this place so that if anyone ever came by with something to say, I'd know.

I was so surprised to learn that someone actually commented on my post about nothing. Wow, someone thought my nothing was worth responding to?

And then...boom. Boo. Read the comment. It is here.

Seriously, woman? You send me to your blog and then, by the way, happen to like mine? This is a place where I voice my serious opinions and feelings and stuff. Why you marketing yourself to me?

So folks, please don't peddle your site to me. Attach your site to your name, so when you post a real comment, I will click and see your name, your site and move accordingly.

Not what I wanted to write, but damn, I just had to say something.

Now y'all gonna really think I've lost my mind. Serious post forth-coming. I promise ;)

Sorry...

2010-07-12T17:41:00.000-04:00

Not that anyone reads this site or anything.

But if you do, I'm sorry for my unintended month-long hiatus.

I really have too much in my head and truly can't sort out my thoughts. I have few opinions these days and so many questions.

My heart is broken and I'm embarrassed by my own actions and inaction.

I'm going to work to clear my head, then I'll be back.

Consider my return as a starting anew. :)

Miss writing, for real, I do.

Why they think there's no Black folk in Boston

2010-06-07T10:17:00.000-04:00

I'm a proud Bostonian. And I never recognized it until I first traveled to Cleveland, that folks outside of Boston, namely Brown folks, do not think that we (Brown people) live here.

As soon as I declare my home city, the immediate response, met with shock and awe is, "There's Black people in Boston?" Naturally, I'm always simultaneously offended and confused by this conclusion. Didn't New Edition rep Boston hard? Weren't there the busing incidents? Didn't they read The Autobiography of Malcolm X? But I get that all of those references, at this point and time, at best, are antiquated. But it's kind of hard to believe that there are "no" (code word, few) Black people here, when I live in a sea of Brown faces. It is rare in my neighborhood and others like it, to find white people. They live over there--in the forbidden South Boston zone, or in the "nice" parts of Boston. We have three towns in Dorchester that, for all intent and purpose, are synonymous with Brown (and poverty and crime).

But I say all this to say, I went to see Erykah Badu last night. And you'd think, given her direct and genuine lyrics, fist pumping Pro-Black style, that the arena would've been filled with a bunch eclectic, earthy, natural-haired Brown people. But as I arrived with my date, I soon noticed that Brown people were severely outnumbered. In front of, behind and beside me were White people! And not that White folks can't enjoy Badu's music, but I mean...damn? I spent a good deal of the concert ducking my head behind this white guy who would sway, erratically and off beat, on random intervals, blocking my ability to see Ms. Badu in all her glory.

But for real, where were the Black people? As I walked out of the theatre, I concluded, "And THIS is why folks think Boston is white." Because beyond a neo-soul artist (and the Black to White ratio is even more extreme at a hip hop show) where would you find the Black folk?

Know when it's time to go.

2010-06-03T09:39:00.000-04:00

I wrote about this post recently, but it's on my mind once again. And since I'd rather write about anything other than the violence that has plagued my city and is starting to feel like it's hitting way too close to home, this is it.

My closest friend, a (sometimes) Catholic, used to tell me, "You have to hear the signs from God. The longer you choose to ignore Him, the louder the signs become." And while I do not know what I subscribe to (in terms of religious beliefs) I do know I am not good (at all) at knowing when to leave.

I stay entirely too long.

In relationships. At jobs. At everything.

I have worked at my place of employment for six years. Doing the same job. In the same building. Every day. While many in my parents' generation would laugh at my esteemed accomplishment, gloating of accomplishments that are more than five times mine, dammit, I feel praiseworthy. None of my friends have held any job at any one place for longer than I. Go me, dammit.

But seriously, while I boast of my accomplishment, I wonder if it is praiseworthy at all. I wonder, while I boast, if I really should be holding my head in shame, sad that I stayed until I no longer want to wake up in the morning, until I lost sight of why I entered the profession in the first place, until sick days became more frequent and, most recently, I've developed an intense desire to walk away not just from the building, but from the profession entirely.

And if you know me well enough, you know that this trajectory is not foreign. I stay too long. The signs that I should have left were quite noisy some three years ago. And I found reasons to stay. I kept asking myself, "What about the kids?" I hated the idea of starting all over again, at a new school, with new students and new colleagues. I didn't want to have to build a reputation all over again. I didn't want to work to earn the trust and respect of my students and colleagues.

And in not wanting to do all of that, I stayed. And ruined my work ethic. And lost hope. And became angry.

It's time for me to go. But I'm afraid to leave. What the hell is wrong with me?

I just love me some me.

2010-05-23T16:01:00.000-04:00

This morning, I tweeted something that was so damned good, I thought I'd give it its own post. If you want it, here it go...

When what you hear and what you see don't add up, subtract yourself from the equation.

I'mma bad muthaluva.

I apologize

2010-05-21T13:00:00.000-04:00

I was undeniably one of Lauryn Hill's biggest fans. My admiration for her music and persona was a bit unhealthy. Every time, I mean every single time, her song, any one of them, came on the radio, I pulled my car over to "be" with her. I would stare at her, eyes open wide, mouth open wider, with extreme admiration. I loved her. I wanted her lips, her locs, her musical talent, her legs, her...everything.

Then she got married. Then she had kids. Then I thought she went crazy.

And I waited for her to come back. The old Lauryn, with the locs and the lipstick. But she didn't. Instead, a little boy emerged, voice purer, lyrics more sincere with an acoustic guitar and some earrings and some baggy clothes. That's it.

I kept looking for the "Miseducated" Lauryn Hill--so caught up in what she was that I couldn't see that the new her was so much better. I was just listening to music a few minutes ago and that lady had some serious shit to say on those albums where critics and fans alike (shamefully myself included) declared her a lost cause. Just sharing, hoping that I can forgive myself for being so simple.

Oh, for maturity.

"Nobody's gonna force me to do something against my will. What do I owe anybody that I should submit my will to them?"

"Every time truth comes we hate it because it's coming against our ego."

"I hope that by people seeing the result of freedom that they'll want some too."

"I ran very fast in the wrong direction."

I'm in love all over again.

To The One Who Will Love Me Forever...

2010-05-18T10:59:00.000-04:00

I am crazy. If we've already dated, I've already told you this. I don't know the how to do much of anything just a little bit. If I'm with it, I'm with it, till I'm no longer with it. I don't like a little bit of anything--including men, attention, success and believe it or not, failure. I want it all.

When I bought my little corner of this country, it was the first time I added a dimmer (both literally and figuratively) in my life. I thought it would help me to calm down, particularly in the evenings. I had visions of Yankee Candle's burning, Gonesh incense sticks burning, and Love Jones playing. I would learn how to be mellow. I'd paint the walls all sorts of earth hues and decorate accordingly so that I had a place that screamed peace.

And then I entered it. Clumsily, crass and opinionated. Loving passionately and stupidly. Obsessing about everything from the floors being swept nightly, the fridge stocked for the family of one, and everything being in its proper place. Because, this was my life and my space, and I could do with it as I pleased.

And if you didn't like it? If you wanted to walk around with your shoes on? If you wanted to listen to loud music at eleven pm? Fuck you. Leave.

It was that simple. That's how life works with this lady. A loud-speaking, fierce and passionate woman who masks her true feelings very well. You could be my best friend for years and know very little about me. Those who know me best have seen me weep the least. I cry internally, the battles I can fight I do, and those that I cannot, I surrender.

I never declare I surrender though. It's the space where the switch flips to the other side, and I go mute. I walk with my feet pedaling backwards, waving goodbye when no one is looking and hello when someone is.

I never professed to be perfect. My insecurities exist--they are real. I will tell you each of them, and why they exist, by our second date. You will know the intimacies of all four of my relationships, what I learned, what went wrong and where, and how I would do things differently. You will always hear me ask, rhetorically, why these people, years later still love "crazy ole' Me", and I still can't answer.

But the relationships never work out. I consider a relationship with me as a very, very, long distance run. With no socks and worn down shoes. There will be moments where, along the route, the scenes will be pretty, and running will seem effortless; and then there be moments where the pavement will touch the bare sole of your foot, the ground hot and rocky, your chest burning and struggling for air--and all along, you will question why you got into this in the first place.

And there I will be, running right alongside you, psycho-analyzing you--"Are you trying to quit? Don't leave now, we've made it this far." While saying, "Hell, there's a really good restaurant over there...so if you want to quit, now's the time." And if you run over to the restaurant, I'll conclude that the restaurant was more important than the challenge of completing this arduous task together. So after we eat, and resume the trail, I will look defeated. My run will slow to a jog, and I will take frequent stops on sidewalks while I pressure you to push on.

And effectively, I end up quitting. And those whom I love, sit there, wondering, "This was her idea, though. I thought she wanted to give it a try." And I will sit on the curb, defeated, saying,"Yes, I asked him to take this test of endurance with me, and despite anything, I never wanted him to quit." And then, the relationship will end. I will quit because I somehow felt like he quit first.

I am no easy woman to date. I am Ms. Independent--I walked in at 23 and bought a new car, at 24 a condo, and at 25, I had a baby. I was ready to do it all by myself. I had to prove to myself that I didn't need a man. And all along, all I wanted was a man to love and support me. But every hand he offered, I refused. I never wanted him to ask me for help, I wanted him to see the hole and plug it in. I wanted him to jump in where help was needed, and help me. I didn't want to keep asking for help time and again. I don't like waiting.

When he (whomever he was) needed help, I rolled up my sleeves and was there. He never had to ask. So you, You who will love me forever, as complex as I am, the formula is quite simple:

Love me more than anything in the world, after yourself. I will do the same. Anything that interferes with us that we cannot resolve, let's agree to banish it. Let's both have a hobby. Let's have dinner outside the house, once a week. When I'm frustrated or sad, it isn't that you did anything. Feelings don't always result (at least directly) from an action, and not particularly your actions. Some things are, just because.

I need you to be my best friend. I need to feel like I can tell you the best and worst things. I am a bad liar, and you are the last person I want to lie to. I am damaged. I've had my expectations met with chalk on a raining sidewalk. Admittedly, some were too high. So, here they are. I want your friendship, unconditional love, trust, honesty, ear, focus, backbone, dedication, commitment and teamwork. I want you to hold my words to my face, I want you to remind me of everything I said I would do and am straying from--be it my goals for myself, our goals for us, honesty, integrity and/or character.

Every relationship can endure temporary change and sacrifice. I am willing to make the changes and sacrifices needed for us to work--as long as they don't compromise my self-worth, value, body, integrity and character.

And over time, you will see that underneath the tough, loud-talking and combative exterior is a young woman who wants to be loved like her daddy loves her, who wants to learn a plethora of things about the world, her man and herself that she never knew before, who wants to grow and develop in areas she never thought possible, all while having an uncompromising trust and honesty and dedication. And after that, just a sweet little place to be plain ol' crazy me.

Love,
Me

Susie Homemaker the Feminist?

2010-05-14T12:27:00.002-04:00

A recent examination of my life reveals that I am Susie Homemaker. I don't cook because I don't think I'm good at it, but if I thought myself to be so, I'd be cooking too. I'm having a hard time drawing the line between being a parent/running a home and being Ms. Susie Homemaker. I vowed I'd never be Susie. But I am she.

Any rundown of my day entails me cleaning, ironing, washing, folding, and preparing (in some form or fashion) food. All while my mate sits on the couch and relaxes, watching television, playing on the computer, and talking on the phone.

What the hell!?!

I don't own land for him to do the traditionally "manly" duties like mow the lawn and milk the cow (tee hee.) So instead, I end up Ms. Susie Homemaker, teaching during the day, raising a kid during the afternoon, cleaning and ironing and packing lunches nearly through the night.

So much for that Sociology major. So much for feminism. I'mma big hoax. I'm part of the system. And because of it all, I'm not going to work on Monday, and am going to sit in a pig sty, drinking beer, watching ESPN, and surfin' the net. Patriarchy, I rebuke thee! Amen.

"What the hell are you waiting for?"

2010-05-13T13:40:00.001-04:00

I am a self-described impatient person. In fact, I entered into the teaching profession to learn patience in general. And truthfully, it worked. There is no rushing comprehension, nor is there rushing maturing the immature. There are some things, many of which are tied to simply growing up, that you have to wait for.

And then, when I do the flip flop betwen my work self and my personal self, I immediately notice that the selves don't merge as beautifully as I anticipated. The work self is patient, but the personal self is not. And until today, like, literally hours ago, I really didn't like that I was so impatient.

But patience, like many other things in life, is trickery at its best. While generally deemed a great characteristic to possess, a fool is also patient.

In examining my own life and the lives of those closest to me, I've wasted a lot of time waiting. I've been waiting for a dream to come, for someone to come and change my fate--to inspire me to change that which I do not like about myself. In my waiting, I have give my power away to others while I waited for the right opportunity to switch careers, the right mate to pledge his word to do forever with me and the right moment to take risks.

So what is waiting worth? A lot. But in this "hustle hard" culture we all live in, waiting isn't a cure all. It doesn't necessarily guarantee one's success. While waiting, movers and shakers are doing just that. And if you wait long enough, you'll find yourself waiting alone.

So what happened to the good ole', patience is virtue saying? Well, patience has littleplace in our quick-fix culture. And admittedly, I'm regretful that I've waited in many places for so long. I've waited for long periods of time to be broken-hearted. I've waited to be unrecognized. I've waited for others to realize that they weren't, in fact, ready. So many times, I've waited for clarity that I had before I planted my feet in the ~~quick~~sand.

Good things come to those who wait. Better things come to those who hustle. Look before you leap. Look twice before you wait.

On This Mother's Day

2010-05-09T22:01:00.000-04:00

Since I've become a mother, I haven't liked Mother's Day. Not because I'm anti-holidays, but because, despite my yearly optimism, it never works out how I envision it.

I don't really celebrate Valentine's Day, or Christmas, or New Year's for that matter. I go all out for birthdays, Mother's Day and Father's Day. If you know me, you know this.

When I was a lil' one, I had a job at the good family store. I'd spend each Mother's Day working hard, stocking and restocking cards, curling the strings on balloons, giving lost men guidance on what to get their wives/child's mother and so on. I'd work really hard and request my pay at the end of the day. I'd then take my pay, circle the store, and buy my mom a Mother's Day gift.

I started this "work on Mother's Day" business at the tender age of 11. I would continue this through high school. I was so excited for my first Mother's Day when I reached college--I'd actually be able to spend the day with my mom. I lived less than 20 minutes from my campus, and would return home on Saturday--we'd drive over an hour to see my Nana, take her to eat seafood, catch up on family stories, listen to her laugh and wail about her past and present, only to sit in the car with my mom, for an hour ride back, thinking about how that woman is the strongest woman I know.

And since I've never mentioned it, my maternal grandmother is the strongest woman I know. She buried her husband, and five, yes five, of her children.

But despite the overwhelming guilt and sadness that pained me on the return rides from seeing my Nana, I still loved Mother's Day for giving me a reason to sit and just be with her. And I loved that follow up day where I'd take my mom to get her nails and toes done (because she's so "country" as my dad calls her, that she will use old bubbly nail polish to "do the job") and then take her out to eat where she'd be all upset that they changed the menu.

But it was Mother's Day, and I loved my mother, so I very much enjoyed it.

And then, I became a mom. And seriously, after I fantasized about what my young son would look like, what he would smell like and whose personality he would have, I fantasized about what type of mother I would be. I wondered how much my parenting style would mirror my teaching style, if my bossy demeanor would make me an overly-aggressive parent, if I was too young and would somehow become cool instead of respected. But I was determined to be a good mom.

And when he was born, I felt natural. I enjoyed parenting. For the first time in my life, I wasn't the center of attention, and I was ok with it. And when Mother's Day came, I was excited...and then I cried.

I ended up at my Mom's house answering a host of questions with half-truths because I was so embarrassed. But embarrassment is fleeting, and pain is not. I would hold on to that pain for a year, until the next Mother's Day.

Which was a disaster, too. This time, I made some decisions which lead to the disaster, but for the second year, on Mother's Day, I felt like a daughter, but not at all like a mother. I was alone. Key people forgot to wish me a Happy Mother's Day, and I somehow felt like in some odd way, I wasn't worthy enough or public enough or something enough to be remembered by those closest to me on this day.

And then this year. My mom left me (this is our first Mother's Day apart.) She, along with my father, went to handle some well-needed business, and I told her, upon her departure, that the least she could do is appoint a stand-in so I had a mommy on Mother's Day. She giggled, but I was serious. I need a mom to appreciate and appreciate me--up close and personal--on Mother's Day.

But today, it's nearly ten, and I haven't heard "Happy Mother's Day" from some key people. Some other key figures played me at a distance. I didn't see my son until the evening, and spent a great deal of my afternoon hurt and disappointed.

I wonder if I'm expecting too much or looking at this all wrong. I called my terminally ill grandmother and had a decent conversation with her. I didn't go to see her because through her blindness, she would see my pain.

So, I'm going to go now, and figure out a way to hold on to my expectations, but not put them in the hands of others so that I can't be disappointed.

And in the meantime, I'm going to keep reminding myself, that even though some key people have forgotten about me, I cannot question my parenting and more importantly, myself.

I will, next year. I will.

Happy Mother's Day.

My Open Letter To You...

2010-04-28T20:45:00.000-04:00

I love you. I want you to know this, because I'm not the "I love you" type. I hope you can see that I love you. And while I'm at it, I believe in you. I believe in you more than I think you believe in yourself. God, you have so much potential. The distance between where you are and your foggy dreams is very short. Your perspective often concerns me.

I used to spend many of our sessions offering better advice than what I've been able to offer lately. Now, everything has turned kind of maternal--I offer "Be careful" and "Uh oh, that doesn't sound so good" and occasionally share the conclusion that "You shouldn't believe everything you see or hear or read."

I've always liked you--even when you read other books in my English class. I knew that you knew much of what I was teaching (but be careful, you don't know everything--the line between confidence and arrogance is thin--floss thin, love. You can only learn if you open your mind to receive the information, but I digress) but there was something about your spirit that was contagious.

I engaged in many conversations with you about life, power, struggle and so on. And our relationship grew. We had a funny funky type of relationship--kind of like your hair, partially straight, partially wild, and in some places flat short and bald and curly. Yes, that describes us perfectly.

But I learn from you. In a strange way, I count you as a key player. You'd be honored to know I think of you when you aren't around, look for you when you don't peek in to vent, to share just how angry you are that your skin is so light and your hair isn't kinky enough. I admire your love and adoration for your people--and take all of your "righteous" decorations because I want you to learn that eventually, you don't need to mark yourself--if you're conscious and right within, those with good eyes will see you. And hear you. And feel you.

But I worry incessantly about you. I do. You are part genius, part fool. A bi-polar young-un. High highs, low lows, and no in betweens. A lover of Malcolm X and rebellion. A hater of chunks of your personal history, understandably so.

But seriously, you might be one of the most resilient people I know. While you struggle to do simple "stupid" tasks, as you describe them, you somehow manage to get out of your bed everyday despite an awful family history. Want to know something? I knew something was wrong there before you told me. I wondered why you preferred books to people and then, when you started talking, I got it. Books never hurt you, they shielded you, in fact. But people had. Bad. The ones who were supposed to love you were hurting you all over the place. The day you told me the story, you were stoic, in your classic form. I went home and cried. I felt like someone had wronged my sister.

You inspire me. You make me want to be more well read, more articulate, more rebellious, more persistent. You rebel against the box because you live and think outside of it. So you won't do celebrations, you won't do menial tasks, you won't do anything that doesn't mean anything. I hear you. You don't want to play by "their" rules and hell, on most days, you don't want to play "their" game.

When I listen to you, I feel like I'm looking in a mirror at a better version of my younger self. Then I realize that even though it's a tough task to get you to do simple things (like go to bed on time and read the book you're supposed to be reading in class and walk across the stage so I can see you and be proud--yes, it's purely selfish) I can't help but know that you'll be ok.

And by the way, you aren't bad at Math. You are well read enough to know that Math went wrong the day that man was putting girls on his lap. Will yourself to love Math like you love your native lands.

Love,
Me

In my mind, lost for words...

2010-04-27T17:29:00.000-04:00

I keep saying I'm going to talk. I visit the site at least three times a day. I type in the address and realize that yes, indeed, silence is loud.

I comb the Internet for information, for something that will produce a reaction. I walked the streets of Montreal a few days ago noticing much--walking away with many thoughts about American ignorance, the stripper woman who was mouthin' Lil Wayne, the one that looked drugged (and made me want to leave--it conjured up too many memories of old school Sociology classes), the hotel that was above and beyond my means while beneath me, my worries that travelled a city, and so on, but I have nothing to say.

I keep telling myself that the more I filter, the more I wait until I have something to say, the less I have to say. I'm not used to this silence. Someone, pull the plug so at least I can write even if I can't speak. I'm uncomfortable with my own silence.

No words

2010-04-21T22:40:00.002-04:00

You're home now. The room that I've known as the dining room my whole life was transferred into your new bedroom. I came late the day you came home because I couldn't bring myself to be happy at the thought that you were coming home to die in the very home that held so many happy memories for me.

When I saw you in the dining room, my eyes welled with tears. This wasn't your bedroom. This wasn't your brass bed. This was the place where we'd all gather and discuss movies and politics and business and family dynamics. This was the place where the adults would eat, with classic southern food piled on gold-rimmed china sets. This isn't the dining room that I admired, the place where I hoped to one day have a seat at the distinguished table.

Who would've known that when you didn't come downstairs for Thanksgiving, and then, for Christmas, that that was the last time the dining room would be used for that. That when you requested that we leave Grandpa's seat decorated but vacant in memory of his life (though he's been gone for nearly 15 years now) that we'd soon be preparing to leave a vacant seat in your memory.

There you lie in your dining room--the place of fond memories, dying. I come over semi-regularly, to wash dishes, to help in any way I can, and, of course, to talk to you. You take a little longer to recognize my voice, and are always looking for the baby. You sit and recall fond memories that involve you and I, the dress shopping, the oodles and noodles, the "Let there be peace" song and in moments, you are your old self--hearty laughter emanating from fragile lips.

You won't eat though. You're in the dining room and you won't eat. And sometimes you tell me to be quiet because you're such a woman and you think you're still in the hospital. I've watched your daughters run around, preparing meal after meal for you, hoping, rather relentlessly, that you'll eat something. And ashes to ashes and dust to dust, just like the baby used to (when you told me eventually he'd come around) you stick your tongue out and shake your head--acknowledging that yes, the food is good, but no, you don't want it. I get happy to see you sip milk. Yes, milk. And then it hits me like a ton of bricks--you are a baby again.

Every time I hold the baby's hands and approach the doorbell, I try to imagine what it will be like to ring this doorbell and have someone answer it and you not be inside. I've grown accustomed to your bedroom being housed between the kitchen and the parlor, and I am used to the frequent company that used to indicate that it was a holiday, nation-wide or particular to us. And folks have flown in from all over the country. To spend some hours or days before you leave us. And then they leave and then someone else comes.

And I keep avoiding clocks and calendars. They said anywhere between 2 weeks and 2 months. It's been 6 weeks. I don't want to think of what that means, so I just don't look at the calendar. I still want to believe you are immortal. I do. But I come often, and every time you look more lifeless than you did the day prior. You're sadly thin. You have bags under your eyes even though you sleep most of the day.

But you're still pretty. And oh my, still a lady. You don't want anyone discussing any of your personal business when company is around (and company is anyone other than three of your daughters.) When your hands do come out of the covers, you still have that pinky finger poking out, as to say, "This is no sick elderly person here...this is a lady." And a lady you are.

And you are still you. When everyone thinks you're sleeping, you're there, listening. And when we least expect it, you chime in, giving your opinion which we all know, is the only one that matters anyway.

We came by for breakfast this morning, and you were as happy to see us as we were to see you. I cooked eggs and turkey bacon, and you ate one piece of one egg. But you didn't say it was gross, so I was pleased. Everyone just knew you would eat because I made it, but even I am not enough to combat this dying thing.

So, I will keep on coming by. And I think that one day, when no one is looking, when it appears that all is well, you will slip away. And I will be all sorts of devastated as if I wasn't prepared.

Oh God how I love you. You are my second mom. I am so honored you had space in your heart, with ten kids, and all the other grandkids and great-grandkids, to love little old me.

Thank you for loving me. I'll take the large mid-section that comes with your genes cause if that's the hit that comes with all the greatness, Lord knows it's so very much worth it.

Love,
Me

I've got me going in circles

2010-03-28T15:06:00.001-04:00

I'm sitting here on a Sunday afternoon being way too pensive. I think "the Universe" (my answer for all things inexplicable) has me in this place so that I can truly reflect on some things in my life. I am all too fond of great quotes and swift one-lined advice on life and living, but I get that life can't be summed up in any one phrase.

In a recent pensive state, I started to think about how the universe was aligning so that I would have space and time to be by myself.

And then I realized after all these years, I've dreaded time alone. Cause time alone meant time to think, and thinking inevitably lead to worry, and worry lead to criticism, and the cycle goes on.

But at this moment I'm alone (even if only in my mind, which is all that matters anyway) and thinking, and sharing. I'm sharing why I have few regrets, how I've let myself down, hurt others and would do it again.

I've long since been okay with being disliked. In fact, I've always aimed for respect over adoration. If you dislike me but respect me, I'm okay with that. I learned in high school that aiming to be liked oftentimes meant that you would be compromising a big chunk of your self--so much so that you would be promising yourself a lack of self-love and disgust that was just going to spiral you downward swiftly.

But that's not the point. In the past five years, I've hurt, tremendously, those whom I've loved the most. I've alienated those who seek to comfort me in midnight hours, only to learn that life is short, that no one is guaranteed, and all this running leaves you no where but by yourself.

But by yourself is where you truly learn how to love yourself. And I realize that I kept running for so long precisely because though I liked myself a great deal, I didn't love myself. So despite the fear that literally leaves me shaking at times, I'm about to do this self-love thing...by myself (besides, what other way is there to self-love?)

It took my hurting others to run. It took my running to learn that I've let myself down. It took my letting myself down to learn that I lacked self-love. Which is why, despite being short of breath and filled with tears, I'd do it all again.

Mo Money, Mo Justice?

2010-03-26T10:38:00.000-04:00

Since I've been teaching at this school, students have been forbidden from wearing their hats in school. Shortly after being hired to work here some six years ago, I questioned the rationale behind the rule and was told that during the gang era, such hats were the cause of much turmoil. I understood the origin, but still didn't understand why the rule was in effect then given that the few gangs that were in existence were not identifiable by any given article of clothing.

When I probed further, I was told that the hat rule (which has been one of the BIG rules of the school even though it has changed administrators four times in the past six years) remained in existence because when offenses were committed, students could not be easily identified via the school camera system with large, low fitting hats, thus rendering the camera system disadvantageous.

But this morning, I heard of a fundraiser for the junior class which allowed students to pay a dollar to wear their hats. I immediately wondered, could I pay a dollar and pull the fire alarm? What about pay a dollar and wear a mini-skirt? Eff it, I'mma leave a dollar in the main office and run down the hallway shouting "FIRE!" That's it.

I really do love you.

2010-03-21T22:55:00.001-04:00

Every time I see you, I feel instant paralysis. I don't know what to say. I don't want to look into the sockets that once held eyes that could look into my soul. I see two blue-gray circles that have taken the place of piercing eyes that caressed broken hearts and bruised knees.

I don't know what to make of the emaciated the body that is left. You've been old my whole life, but what "old" is has changed as I've aged. I remember you making biscuits from scratch, protecting me from "all those boys", taking me shopping downtown in Filene's Basement for that pretty dress with all the bows (remember I was so chubby we had to buy it kind of big so it fit over my belly?) Then there were the memories when you encouraged me to sing my Christmas Carols in front of the too big family because your "baby sounded so good." Thanks for the homemade french fries every day after school with Oodles N Noodles cause "they wasn't gonna hurt nobody." You always told me I was so pretty, and simply wished that I got your hair instead of this "stuff that Malik gave everybody." But you reassured me that I was pretty and smart nonetheless.

You were always so honest. I never questioned anything you said. You kept advising me to go on to keep reading, and keep studying so that I had options, so that I didn't just have to be someone's momma. And you lived proudly in moments--when I read the speech at my pre-school graduation, when everyone turned and looked in awe that a five year old could read, and you blushed, "Yes, she is my granddaughter."

And though you never told me, I knew I was (and still am) your favorite granddaughter. I slept in the bed with you even though you had all those rooms because you comforted me. I never slept well because you snored loudly, but you made sure I took my medicine out my little black pill box with the Chinese writing. And every time I got sick, you were the first one there.

I remember the first time you got mad at me--we were all over there, thinking we were grown, on the porch, in the dark having a discussion (that morphed into an argument.) We never thought you'd even know we were out there since you slept so soundly. But once the door opened, though you've never been the one to yell or hit us, we were scared. We were scorned, and you kept speaking of your disappointment in us--telling us that we knew better--that we were raised better, that we were disturbing the elderly neighbors (which was all comical seeing that you were the eldest on the street.)

We gathered, all six of us, and came to your room to apologize, and you quickly banished us telling us we looked the part of a bunch of trees. It was funny then, and still is funny now. But no one got in trouble except for my brother and I, because it was our father with whom you spoke for hours on end every day, for as long as I can remember.

I remember so many small things--how embarrassed I was that you drove so slowly. The time we were on the highway and you pulled over for forty minutes because it was raining. And then I remember that same car lie parked in the driveway for years, while your battle with your diabetes and glaucoma began to take over your body.

I thank you for all of the traditions that never existed in my house. The "Night Before Christmas" bedtime story in your bed, the decorating of the Christmas tree, the Christmas dinner, the Thanksgiving dinner, the Kwanzaa celebrations, the Easter church outings, the random Sunday church outings (when I wore your too mature clothes and shoes--before I got too big). Thank you.

I remember all of your stories about how with a little patience and teaching and learning, you can turn anything into something. Your repeated stories, told each time with love and adoration, about how my dad was just so adorable, but so ill behaved. About how, on so many occasions, you would just sit there and cry, with four children lying in your bed, because one, the eldest, just would not comply and you couldn't understand why. I remember you'd always end the story with the same, "There's always hope."

And you were there, at every graduation, even though you have nearly thirty grandchildren. You were there for pre-school, elementary school, high school, college graduation (which meant the world because it was hot and the place was crowded and you were going to see me through to the end) and arrived the very next year for graduate school, when your sight and limbs were failing you. You were there, cheering me on, smiling, proud.

And in between all those graduations you showered me with advice--tons of it--about listening and learning, and why I should strive for a happy relationship, and how, with a little dedication, any bad part of ourself can be morphed into something beautiful, and that nothing is certain but change and death, and so on.

I relish our moments when you'd call and ask me to fix your linen closet--during which times you'd tell me how being neat was never one of your strongest moments, and how, in hindsight, you never knew how you kept a tidy home with ten children (arguably eleven, as you put it) occupying it. Then you'd give me all these nifty ways to clean by telling me a little vinegar and bleach could clean any kitchen or bathroom, that I didn't need to wash my hair but every six months (cause that's how it grew) and that every thing made from scratch tasted better.

I remember all of those moments distinctly. And as time went on, and you aged, I started to fade away. Your death felt nearby, certain, almost, and I didn't want to get to close to you in case you died on me. So I stopped stopping by as much to swing on the swing because it hurt to much to hear you ask me ten times in as many minutes, "What day is it, baby?" or to watch you flinch as a loud car cruised up the street because you couldn't see the car coming and the noise startled you, and have to now explain to you why it was important for you to eat when you were once the one begging me to eat and so on.

I started to wither away because I somehow felt that if I took a step back, losing you would be easier. And in the moments that I've popped up, despite your illness, despite your confusion about your surroundings, you've always picked up my voice, placed your now delicate hand around my wrist, and reminisced on these same stories that I am reflecting on today. Then you'd go on to ask, "What happened? Why don't you crawl up in grandma's bed anymore? Why aren't we best friends anymore?" and I never know what to say, except that I am terrified of what life is going to be like without you.

As I type, you are in the hospital for the second time, and I still haven't gone to see you. I didn't like the way you looked the last time that I saw you. The updates I'm getting are discouraging, and I'm truly trying to prepare myself to watch you deteriorate. Yes, I know you're 95, but you've always been old to me, and I just don't want to imagine this life thing without you.

Love,
Me

Disappointment is my good friend right now

2010-03-21T21:56:00.000-04:00

There are days, many of them, that I wish I could wish so many things away.

I am wildly outspoken and eerily secretive. I've spent hours and days trying to figure out how some private things end up so public, and how some things just stay hidden in the deepest darkest part of me, in a place where they are so wonderfully masked I convince even myself that these things do not exist.

Anyhow, I have spent the past week of my life in a place I've never been. I've sat there, on many occasions, flatly disgusted with myself.

I've always lived by the mantra that you should be proud of the life that you are living and the choices that you've made. And if you are happy with the life you're living and choices you've made, when others criticize, you are well-suited to take the verbal thrashings because, well, you believe in you.

But most recently, I am not proud of me and I do not believe in me.

I missed a lunch date with a dear friend.
I have been out of work for four (and soon to be five) consecutive days--right before my babies take a big test.
I have argued, in some form or fashion, with all of those who are closest to me.
I have been hospitalized once, and will have been to the hospital twice more by the close of tomorrow.
I haven't seen my son nearly as much as I'd like to, and more importantly, can't make sense of his recent shift in attitude towards me (though the explanation seems so obvious).

Everyone is upset with me. And for the first time, I actually care.

I am not proud of who and what I am right now.

My ugliest parts are no longer masked, and I'm operating outside of myself looking at myself with disdain while I fly around with no direction.

This space isn't always happy moments and responses to trivial incidents and such, but a short glimpse of all that, well, makes me me.

I'm typing listening to Maxwell--the first time I've sat in the light and listened to music I like in a long time. This is the first time I've abandoned the thought of leaving everything here (wherever here is) and moving to some place to leave all of my mistakes behind and start life fresh, anew.

This is the first time in a week, that I am suiting up and opening all the doors to hear the ugly truth about me from all those who truly love me--without boxing gloves and earmuffs on.

Whoever said this life thing was easy lied.

Blogging has been slow because outside of worry and internal disappointment, this is all I have to say. What is coming next are a serious of letters to nameless people. Then the fun will resume.

They actually might be onto something...maybe

2010-03-11T17:17:00.001-05:00

I like plans. Plans are good. I like high expectations. Those are good too.

When I came across this article about a plan to make high expectations the norm for all students by creating common school standards, I thought, "Hey, this is a good idea." And not as soon as I got to the last period, I asked, "How are they going to equalize everything else that creates disparities in education?"

And then I asked, "How are they really going to do this?" And I thought...

How wonderful would it be if, beyond standard common school standards for all students, regardless of ethnic background and money and geographical location, there were common standards for resources so all students, regardless of whatever, had simple things like an educational environment where there were adequate resources to teach these universal standards? If all high schools, say, had a functioning science lab so that students could learn through experimentation, like they are supposed to? Or if classrooms had books so that student learning could take place beyond the school day? Why can't we distribute the resources equally if we're really trying to stabilize the ground and have grounded and solid education for Americans?

Oh wait, that would be socialism though. Was a good thought and made sense. If only we could make what made sense a reality.

Fighting battles when this is war.

2010-03-09T11:22:00.001-05:00

Black people abort too much. We also murder too much. Not good.

See the image above? These billboards were plastered around Black Atlanta as a deterrent to the astronomically high abortion rates amongst Black women. I saw a documentary a few years ago that showed the abortion numbers for Black fetuses. Though I never verified its claim, it claimed that abortion killed more Black people than heart disease, guns, AIDS and cancer combined. The numbers are indeed alarming.

William Saletan suggests that instead of focusing on the alarming abortion rates in the Black community, the toomanyaborted.com folks should instead focus on guns because "they are killing the present, not just the future." My question is, would gun control affect the high murder rates amongst Blacks? I don't have the facts nor figures, but I speculate that most guns that make it to the streets and subsequently have bodies on them have not been obtained legally. How does gun control control the dispersing of illegal guns?

I get the hypocrisy between the leftist anti-abortion folk who are anti-aborting Black babies but love their guns. But perhaps I am partly Leftist too--because I don't believe that guns kill people, but instead that people do. And I believe that if you increase gun control, you don't decrease gun presence in the poor Black community. Skeptical? "In 2003, the ten cities with the highest violent crime rates for 2003 include three cities in the very strict [gun control] state of New Jersey and one in the fairly restrictive [gun control] state of Massachusetts." Go figure.

I don't think either side of the abortion v. guns debate is sound. The common denominator in the disproportionately high murder and abortion rates amongst Black people is, well, Black people. So, instead of exploring the means of death (we can throw in the disgustingly high rates of obesity and diabetes and heart disease--all of which are perfectly preventable too) and begin to look at our bottom line--which is that we are dying because of, amongst many other things, our own self-hatred.

So, I ask, a la Malcolm, "Who taught you how to hate yourself?" Fighting abortions or guns or diet or exercise isn't the issue. The issue is we hate ourselves. And if we should start anywhere, we should start there. Let's roll out those billboards, people.

Why pay when you can get it for free?

2010-03-07T14:07:00.002-05:00

Admittedly, I am too attached to celebrities. It's certainly a guilty pleasure. I was on twitter this morning asking if anyone has heard from D'Angelo and Lauryn Hill, and received a barrage of responses.

Do I have a right to be disappointed that D'Angelo is soliciting head from a prostitute for forty dollars?

I know some women (myself included) who would've been willing to do it for free.

I'm just saying...

Memories of Yesterday

2010-03-05T16:22:00.002-05:00

Many yesterdays ago I had unpacked all of my belongings and settled into what would be college life. I like to be a step ahead of my game, so I was there before my roommate, before most of the folks that would be housed in the Browner section of the building.

I headed down for a bite to eat when I received an alert from my pager--followed by 911. I ignored the first one, but couldn't ignore the others that would come in rapid succession. I called my girlfriend who then notified me that our friend from elementary school died.

In a dumb-founded moment (I literally was numb) I asked, "Patrice who? Are you serious?" Clearly she was. All the markers were there. She was crying. She was angry. The longer I stayed on the phone, the more I wish I hadn't. She had been shot in the head. She was dead. Her mom was on a flight to go identify her body.

And that's how I started Freshman year.

I spent the next few days like a zombie, avoiding the story that graced newspaper headlines and the local news. I overhead strangers talking about that awful shooting in Atlanta that killed those "two pretty girls." And I hid in my room when I received news that there was a shootout between the police and the killer streets from my dorm.

I'm writing today because my dear friend's blog brought our dead friend to life. And I've spent the rest of my day on the last page, stuck on her death.

There's little I can still remember about Patrice. My closest memory is of her in a scantily clad outfit at Boston's West Indian Carnival, with red lipstick on. And of course, she had on her trademark glasses. Then bullets went off--and almost like magic, I took off after her, while she ducked for cover. I remember telling myself, "Follow the boobs." Who would know that only a few months later, she would die from the same bullets she escaped months prior.

And that might have been the last time that we spoke.

And now when I think of her, I can only see a winning smile with dimples, glasses, and a chubby brown-skinned girl with big boobs. But I can't hear her voice. I am haunted--more than I ever care to share--by the image of her opening the door after her first day of class, only to be greeted by the barrel of a gun held by a visitor she knew all too well. And I can only imagine the screams that I cannot shake from my memory, the loud thump that must've accompanied the firing of the bullets, and the few convulsions that occurred shortly thereafter.

And then, her life would end.

And every June 14th I think of Patrice. I think of what she would have done at 21, what outfit she would have worn, how she would've smiled and radiated the room. The day I graduated, I wondered what her graduation would have been, what she would have done after college. The day I gave birth, I wondered if she would've had a child at the tender age of 25, what she'd be doing for a living and if she'd be married

I remember the last dream I had of her, when she was sitting in the back of a car that I was driving, in an all-white Hanes sweatsuit, with her trademark glasses and smile, saying nothing while saying so much.

And I keep thinking about how she shows up in my life--in fond memory, in tragic image, and most importantly, in inspiration and appreciation and a loud reminder that life is all too short.

Though my friendship with Patrice began to fade long before she did, I feel like she is amongst the most influential people in my life.

This is more disappointing than it should be.

2010-03-04T09:06:00.000-05:00

With all the issues going on this world, it's a wonder that I am concerned about this. But I am.

I always flinch when I see anything remotely public with a gross spelling or grammar error. I once met a sign-maker who told me that his job was to please the customer by making signs and posters in the exact manner that his customer requested.

You mean to tell me that no one from the poster designer, to the printer, to the purchaser of the poster so adoringly given to my son on his third birthday noticed that the GREAT Michael Jackson's name was spelled improperly?

Please tell me y'all noticed.

The bassackwards business of education.

2010-03-02T09:01:00.000-05:00

Last year, when the district attempted to close both my school and the school underneath it, they had a formula that consisted of, amongst other things: school choice, whether or not the school met adequate yearly progress (AYP), student retainment and retention and promotion and graduation rates.

When I fought to save the school, I fought because I thought the formula to be inherently flawed. The student retainment rate was computed by examining the number of students who enter in the ninth grade and graduate by the twelfth (within four years). This formula is intrinsically unfair seeing that we are rarely chosen and thus, have a population of kids who just "show up" into the system, many of them as over-aged ninth/tenth/eleventh/twelfth graders. Because these students have started school elsewhere, they are not factored into this data.

I came across a document moments ago, showing student choice numbers (excluding the exam schools.) It appears that my school was the least chosen high school with only five (yes, five) students electing to come here. I'm sad because as I hear my teacher-friends' stories about their schools and look at the data, despite being the least chosen school, on academic performance levels, my school is performing much better than our more chosen counterparts.

In this business model, appearance is more valuable than reality. It matters not how much progress that we make, how much we improve students' reading, writing and analytical skills, but instead, how much students intially choose to be here.

The hypocrisy of it all is that in business, the dollar is the mighty Allah. And here, student choice equals dollars. Even if the dollars don't produce a bit of short term sense and long term cents.

Wrong for so many reasons...

2010-03-01T12:15:00.001-05:00

One of my louder (Brown) female students came running into my classroom telling me a story that went a lil' somethin' like this...

"Miss! Oh My God! I just went into Mr. Middle-Aged-White-Teacher-Across-The-Hall's room and said, "Hi Mr. Middle-Aged-White-Teacher-Across-The-Hall, you faggot. Then he said, "Hi Loud-Talking-Black student, you bitch."

I looked down.

I said nothing.

This disturbs me for several reasons. The child's age does not justify her calling the teacher a slur. Neither does her relationship with the said teacher, even if they have a relationship that extends beyond the typical teacher-student boundaries (as her approach and his subsequent response indiate.)

But seriously, did that man really call that little girl a bitch? Even in jest? Something is horribly wrong. It feels like a gross abuse of power--feels sexist, racist, ageist.

I don't even know how to proceed.

Nibblin' on that half-pipe

2010-02-21T11:48:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one who thinks that the Scotty Lago story is funny?

A man who wins a bronze medal for the "halfpipe snowboarding" event voluntarily goes home after images surface of a woman biting the said medal while it is hung around his waist. Perhaps if she just bit his pipe (or half-pipe) Mr. Lago could've hung out in Canada a little longer.

Geesh.

Jogging while Black

2010-02-19T12:29:00.000-05:00

My brother told me that was jogging in the street when he got pulled over by the police. He was issued a ticket for $158.00 for jogging in the street (apparently it's a law that few people know of.) The police officers called for backup and he grew concerned because he really thought that he was going to get locked up for jogging. He appealed the ticket. He has a court date in the middle of March. When he went to City Hall to inquire about the legality of the ticket, the clerk was so shocked that she laughed.

When I initially heard the story I laughed. Part of me was shocked, and the other part of me was outraged.

I wondered if anyone would have "pulled him over" and radioed for backup if he were anything other than Black.

What harm does a nigger jogging in the street pose to an armed officer with a car, a taser, mace, a handgun and a billy club?

Car or no car, a nigger is still a nigger.

Why This Black Girl Likes John Mayer

2010-02-14T10:08:00.000-05:00

On my day off, I had the pleasure of sitting on twitter for hours on end, communicating with the "educated Black folks" that I follow (and some of whom follow me) about John Mayer's Playboy interview.

I like John Mayer. I do. I like his music. I like his "say what's on my mind" style. John Mayer is a musician, not a politician. I like the truth. Sometimes it's ugly, sometimes it hurts. But I very much enjoy it.

So, when John Mayer spoke, without thinking about what he said (or how others might misconstrue it), he sounded like a sincere man freely expressing his thoughts on a magnitude of topics.

There was nothing in the interview that bothered me as a Black woman. I was more concerned about how his former loves Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Aniston would feel about being mentioned in the same space, but one could not read the entire article and not notice how much that man adored both women.

How many women would be upset if they were likened to "crack cocaine"? Sheeeyit, I wish that were me. And how upset can you be that a man says that a relationship didn't work out because he was "just 32" and wasn't ready to be anything more than that? That's pretty respectful.

So let's talk about what had much of Brown America in an uproar Wednesday morning.

On John Mayer's Hood Pass...

“What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?” And by the way, it’s sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass? But I said, “I can’t really have a hood pass. I’ve never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, ‘We’re full.’"

If he meant what I think he meant, he was questioning the validity of a Black pass when he can't use the word nigger nor experience, wholly, the black experience (i.e. being told a restaurant is full when it is not.) Moments earlier, he explained the Black experience as...

"...making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that’s seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you’ll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude’s."

Now, perhaps it's a bit much to liken his experience to any one Black man. But, I could see where he was going given his definition. Particularly since he elaborates, at length, about how he was indeed making the most of his life and taking his struggle and turning it into something beautiful.

On not dating Black women (aka the David Duke cock)...

"I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick."

First, why do we care? Do we know how many white men don't date us? Shouldn't we be more concerned with the brothers that we do want (that don't want us) then the others that we don't want that don't want us? Truly, I thought he was trying to link the distance between his "Benetton heart" and "David Duke" cock by stating that he would expand his bed to welcome the Black women that he has long since adored, but never entertained (he said it further down in the same article.) And after seeking clarity, I get why the parallel to David Duke, even if in jest, isn't funny.

I get the interview was racy. It was a man speaking with no filter, defending his character and life choices. Perhaps he was too honest, and we don't want nor need honesty. Perhaps he shouldn't have spoken of Jessica Simpson as a sex goddess because I'm certain she was far more than that. But seriously, we missed some salient points. And more so, we missed a genuine man sharing genuine feelings. He is an artist, not a politician. He said what he wanted to. Very little of what he said was disrespectful to a class of people (Blacks, women, etc.) I saw a man with a "chip on [his] shoulder" defending himself, explaining his decisions, opening his heart and head. Without a filter. He didn't use the word "nigger" with ill intent. He used it to make a point and to affirm us. Why are we so mad?

Why did he apologize when he didn't have ill will? Because he hurt people? The truth hurts and sometimes, we have to learn to swallow it. Or...do we prefer doctored up, jazzed up versions of things? If he said "the N word" would people have been ok? Why did he apologize when he spent the entire article talking about how regardless of what you say, it will be misconstrued and people will be unhappy. Didn't he say that he had relegated to making himself happy instead of making the world happy?

What I've learned from this...
There are many Brown folks, with many official letters after their names, whose reading comprehension is piss poor. And that's more disappointing than anything John Mayer said. You know why? Cause John Mayer will still make records and make money, and have risky thoughts (even if he doesn't share them) and many educated Brown folks still won't be able to understand what they're reading.

(Sigh.)

Don't impersonate the niggas

2010-02-12T08:18:00.001-05:00

The Japanese folks is mad.

One of their own is impersonating a nigga.

Kazuhior Kokubu, the prized Japanese snowboarder, was "seen at Tokyo and Vancouver airports with his tie loosened, shirt hanging out and his trousers worn low down off his hips."

This is, of course, "in addition to his trademark dreadlocks and sunglasses."

Yo, I like this dude. His response? "I am reflecting on it...This won't affect my performance."

While I understand the Japanese Olympic secretary general's position tha the attire isn't appropriate for those who are being sponsored by taxpayer's money, I think this less has to do with inappropriate clothing (because I am certain the uproar is silenced a bit if the clothing does not replicate that of the Black American hip hop industry.)

Anything but a nigga.

I hope this man wins. :)

On Goodbye

2010-02-09T12:50:00.001-05:00

I remember being really young--like three or so, requesting that visitors tell me that they'll "see me later" instead of telling me "goodbye." Something about the word sounded so permanent.

Awkwardly so, I've always been afraid of death. For some reason (childhood illness, maybe?) I've always felt it lurking in a closet--feeling like it would seize me and those whom I loved far before I was prepared. And because of this, I've been avoiding it ever so sweetly.

Which brings me to goodbye. In the not so distant past, I've had really serious separation anxiety. Every time my (then) boyfriend would board a plane for his weekend football games, I would cry. Every time he would go home for two days, I would cry. I couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might not ever set eyes on him again.

And then, almost magically, I got over it. It wasn't because I fell out of love with him (because I'd fall in love all over again--how magical) but somehow, I'd become ok with goodbye--so much so that it rolled off my lips freely and even in the most painful moments, I could wave my hand and declare departure.

I was listening to Sade's "Skin" this evening--a sad ballad where she describes her desire to "peel...away" the skin of her loved one because "you not right within." And then, seriously, like a boulder, it hit me. I could easily say goodbye because I felt like everyone I was leaving would be ok without me. In fact, in all "big" goodbyes, I felt like everyone would be better off without me.

But these days, I'm struggling to say goodbye. And separation anxiety has settled in all over again.

How do I say goodbye to a profession (a group of kids) or a relationship when I feel like the people won't be okay without me? Where is the good in that goodbye?

Black History MONTH?

2010-02-02T10:24:00.000-05:00

To Whom It May Concern:

It's Black History Month and I'm sorely dissatisfied. One month doesn't do the trick. It will not supplement nor replace the fact that in the students' United States History textbooks (African) American History is not told as the ugly story that it is, but instead as the glorified version that you want it to be. Contrary to your notion, it will not uplift our people to believe that we are important. The one month of the year does not cloud the remaining eleven months that do not belong to us.

Black History Month is a month long health kick--it is good while it's present, but when it goes away it has effects similar to yo-yo dieting--getting the body to feel healthy, operate in its optimum state, only to jerk it back into the unhealthy habits that lead one to diet in the first place. I am not a fan of yo-yo education nor am I one of yo-yo inspiration. (How effective is it to uplift you for a month and beat you down for eleven?)

Someone tell me that Black History is part of American History for longer than 28 days, and we can have discourse. We are bigger than Martin and Malcolm and Hariett Tubman and Barack Obama and entertainment and slavery and the Civil Rights movement--for real. We are not just a bunch of firsts and Black inventions. We need to be posted up there in forever history--the type that's plastered throughout history books and in the minds of not only Black America, but America America.

Since we can't rewrite the ugly history, we can rewrite how we retell it and honor it.

At the time that I am typing this post, my history is only important for 26 more days...

Sincerely,
(Justifiably) Angry Black Woman

Confession on a Saturday

2010-01-30T19:08:00.000-05:00

So, I'm not the most affectionate person in the world.

I never have been.

So much so that one of my closest friends was "seriously concerned" when I informed her of my pregnancy because she thought my child my suffer from a "lack of feeling loved" despite the fact that she knew I'd probably love my child unconditionally.

She checked in when he was two to tell me that I was doing a "good job."

But most recently, I've heard from at least three sources (romantic, personal and professional) that I seem to lack affection. Sigh.

But seriously, I thought I did a good job showing those whom I love that I love them. My son gets a goodnight kiss and gets told at least fifteen times a day that I love him. I have tons of acts of love "I missed you! C'mon, let's go so I can hang out with you" to "I'll give you a piggy-back ride" to "Come sit down and eat with me!" but I'm guessing that none of it is probably enough. Even as I type realize that all of those statements (even if followed-through) aren't necessarily acts of love. (I'm starting to panic.) Does my son know that he is loved?

Subsequently, do all of my past lovers know that they are/were loved? Or did they feel like a close relative?

And seriously, I really don't know how to be affectionate. Sometimes, I sit on the couch and say, "If you want to kiss him, lean over and kiss him" and I want to, and get stuck.

What's wrong with me? Seriously?

Can you really be a Black conservative? Like for real, for real?

2010-01-28T13:31:00.001-05:00

I have a tough time understanding how one can be a Black conservative. It feels unnatural. Like really unnatural. Not permed hair on a deeply chocolate woman unnatural. But permed blonde hair and blue contacts with a Irish accent on a deeply chocolate woman unnatural.

I automatically label Black conservatives as inauthentic Blacks who lack self love. Something about it seems wildly judgmental. And I even make it so far as to automatically assume they were swindled by a hooded Klansmen into their beliefs. I'm not joking. I simply cannot fathom that any Black person could arrive at such beliefs on their own. No sir.

*scratching my head*

"Every thug needs a lady..."

2010-01-27T11:32:00.000-05:00

I sat and watched a student's peers console her as she wept over the fact that her man was in jail. They offered to accompany her to the court to see how much his bail was, and even offered to donate money to help come up with the bail. They theorized about how she could "hold him down."

I sat there speechless.

What happened to, "Girl, why you dating somebody in jail? You need to let that man go. What good is he to you in jail, girl?"

I let it play because I wanted to do just that. I'm disgusted and planning an intervention. Sure, every thug might need a lady, but every lady damn sure doesn't need (or deserve) a thug.

Admittedly, this might burn a little more because she's one of my strongest students. Damn.

The Boston middle class has me feeling kinda poor

2010-01-26T10:11:00.000-05:00

I am a proud Bostonian. I am a product of Boston's schools, a proud inhabitant of the city and now happily work for and live in the city.

One small problem: When you work for the city and own property in the city, NOTHING is sacred. Not your address, not your income, nothing.

Recently, I googled my name to see what was out there. I spotted myself on Facebook, a few websites and my income from last year.

According to the website, a sistah grossed $62,555.47 with an additional 4,442.64. Not so bad for a 28 year old who only works 180 days out of the year. But what's my dollar worth?

I've had to explain on countless occasions that while it looks like I make a decent living, much of what I make isn't worth much.

Once I tally up my monthly bills and subtract it from my monthly income, I have a whopping $532.00 left. I live off of $440.00 a month for gas and diapers and food and entertainment.

I look really good in the google world. In the real world? I'm feeling kinda destitute. $67,000 doesn't go far in this city. Sigh.

Where's Wyclef's due praise?

2010-01-20T18:31:00.000-05:00

I've spent the last few days watching CNN loop what reporter's described as "violent looting" in Haiti. There was nothing violent about what I saw. I observed many Haitians climbing up what was left of scaffolding to gather necessities for their loved ones. No one was fighting, no one was pushing, no one was arguing. There was a system even. Hyperbolic, CNN? Sho' nuff.

The only violence that took place was the Haitian police force who showed up firing bullets at their brethren. Give a nigga some power and a gun and he's willing to turn on his people.

But leave it up to a blue-eyed Jesus to come to rescue the young Negro from the violent Negro . Thanks, Mr. Anderson Cooper for being the hero. While I appreciate him stepping in to help a bleeding child whose life was in danger, Anderson Cooper is getting too much praise while Wyclef faces too much criticism.

Wyclef was wrapping the dead bodies of his people while raising millions of dollars and suffering the pangs of guilt associated with the fact that a school that he built collapsed and killed all its occupants--including the students whose dreams he wished to make a reality. All of this while his book-keeping was being questioned (only to discover later that few errors had been made .)

The man is a hero. I watched the man fight through tears begging the media to stop the photo-ops in his native land and instead implored that they "Do something." He said he planned to go back on Saturday, hours after doing a nationwide fundraising effort because he doesn't like the way they are throwing food at his people. He reminded the world that his people "are not animals."

Wyclef, you are a god.

Thank you for being the voice of your country--you long declared your people beautiful and strong before the rest of the world was forced to do likewise.

You are my unsung hero.

I'm going to a sex clinic, too

2010-01-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

Shit, if sex clinics are the hot spot for when cheaters get caught, I guess I'm surrendering.

I'm not poking fun at my past trysts, but seriously, when famous folks go to sex clinics, do we forgive them? If sex clinics are par for the course, I'm rewriting the manual.

Here it goes:

1. Clear your phone of any racy text messages.
2. Eliminate records that show constant communication.
3. Wear a condom.
4. Deny everything.
5. When caught, admit to nothing until it's absolutely necessary.
6. Apologize for your actions.
7. Go to a sex clinic even though the world is cheating while judging you and have a counselor counsel you on how not to entertain all the lust that comes with fortune and fame. Don't entertain anything the counselor says.
8. Refrain from cheating for a while. Give time for your ugly history to fade.
9. Repeat steps 1 through 8 as necessary.

Bypass the sex clinic, Tiger. I forgive you. You supported your people in Haiti. Your three million dollars goes further than the stroke of your penis. For real.

What intentions are truly worth

2010-01-18T10:18:00.000-05:00

Not much. I'm just saying.

My response

2010-01-15T08:38:00.001-05:00

Dear (Student's Name),

I believe in you. Your carefully crafted letter shows me three things: one, that you are committed to doing better, two, that you have engaged in an honest reflection of what you think your strengths and weaknesses are and three, that you are bold enough to seek help.

I appreciate you reaching out to me. It takes a certain level of maturity to do such.

You are a far better-skilled reader than you realize. You read and understood the article about Antonio, right? That means that you do have the ability to understand what you read. Perhaps things may get a little hazy when the text gets difficult or boring, but between the two of us, we can identify exactly where you are getting lost and work on your skills so that you can navigate difficult texts.

You are not slow. Please don't say this about yourself. In fact, you sat down and did what most young people (and adults, quite frankly) would never do. You expressed what you thought was a weakness, admitted your faults in the issue, and asked for help.

I believe in you. And truthfully, if you ask my opinion on the matter, all we need is for you to come to school. When you are here, you are phenomenal. But much of your confusion lie in the fact that you aren't here regularly.

Perhaps we can meet to figure out why you aren't coming so often. Then we can devise a plan to get you to come more often. Then we can come up with a plan to help you become a better reader and writer.

I believe in you and am so proud of you for reaching out to me. I am committed to working with you.

Sincerely,
Ms. (my initials)

Help me help her.

2010-01-13T15:27:00.001-05:00

I received the letter below from one of my students. It's heartfelt and touching for so many reasons.

Dear Mrs. (my initials)

I don't know how to start this off, but I need and want a better grade in this class. In order for me to get that I know I need to come to class more often, and I will work on that.

.....How do I say this remember the story about Antonio, well I'm almost sort of like him. When I read I can't comprehend. I can read something but then again I won't understand what's going on! Maybe you can say I'm slow in a way! I'm so scared to ask for help because, I'm afraid of how you would think of me.

.....I need help though! I know I sound stupid, but I wrote this letter because I just wanted to express my feelings to you on paper, I didn't want to feel embarressed! I hope you understand!

Your student
(Student's name)

My response is forthcoming. Got suggestions?

Secret: I don't always want to be a mom.

2010-01-11T21:15:00.002-05:00

I love my son.

More than anything in the world I do. But I'm harboring an ugly secret I've only disclosed in two places. There are days, many of them, that I wish I was not a mother.

I miss being me.

No one told me my identity would change when I became a mom. That I would lose a big piece of me when I became a mom. That even in moments when I thought I would have free time, I would spend it preparing for his return. That my life would become a series of rewind-and-play scenes, put the toys up, make the bed, change the diaper, color, paint, watch the television show, read the book, and intermittent explanations of why a two year old can't get an ipod, or drive the car, or ride in the front passenger seat of the car.

Then he goes to bed. And I sigh. And pack lunch, and iron clothes and clean up the toys and fold the laundry and go to bed to wake up to do it all again.

I utter at least three times daily that things get a lot easier when there's someone (hired help, a willing spouse, maybe?) to do all the rewind-and-play part of motherhood that is so mundane.

There are days, plenty of them in fact, that I just want to be. That I want to be an aunty, say. Pick up the adorable little boy, spend the day, the weekend, the week even, with him. And then have some space to be free of thought, not to worry about developmental milestones, or if I'm disciplining him appropriately, or whether I should send him public school or private school or question how much my actions are adversely affecting him.

I hate that I have to worry, at every moment, if I'm being a good mom. Did I let him watch too much tv today? Am I too critical? Too liberal? Should he know more than he does? Is he behaving this way because it's developmental, or because he's unhappy? Did I give him enough attention? Why did he throw all the toys out the tub? Throw a shitty diaper on the floor?

I love my son. I hate the worry.

On any given day, I worry more about my son and more so my parenting, than I do anything else. I have arrived at questionable self-esteem because of this worry.

I know I will become more confident as I start to see a product of my efforts. But I feel like a first-year teacher in her second year of parenting--more questions than answers, more worry than comfort, and at many different intervals on any given day, feeling the need to quit.

But then I remember why I got into this in the first place. Because I knew I could not just be, not just be good, but because I thought, with time and patience and dedication and effort and practice, I could be great.

And so they say, there are no breaks on the road to greatness.