I Can Blow Big Bubbles

"They Gonna Talk" by Beres Hammond


...some things were meant to be...

MyLove

I didn't fall in love.  They say not to use the term "falling" in reference in love.  Love is supposed to be deliberate.  Not that you decide "I am going to love this person" but that when you feel the unmistakeable, you admit and accept it.

Love is my favorite thing to do.  I used to fall in love at least twice a year, haphazardly, insincerely, and with juvenile understanding.

And then I met this man, just after one of my lovely haphazard accidents.  He was supposed to be just a rebound, just something to do in the meantime as I recovered.

One fine day, I realized that something was happening.  I didn't process with my friends about it.  I denied and played it cool.  Love kept knocking at my door.  This b*tch is relentless, I thought to myself.  I gave in and I answered the door.  I let Love sit down and we talked it out.  She said Girl, you're grown now.  You don't fall into me anymore.  I realized I wasn't going to fall in love.  I had the option to love him.

So I chose to love him and love him I do.

This is the first time in my life that I have had the option embrace Love and not fall, like a dummy, into it.

OurLove

And this man I love loves me back.  We fight in the cutest way, get really mad but can't stay mad.  Reconcile and concede that we're both wrong.  He's working on being a better man for himself and for me.  I'm working on being a better woman for myself and for him.  We realize every moment won't be perfect or even good but joy is always available and prayer is the way to it.

And we're working on being a better team for OurLove.

I forgot to tell you, but about a month ago, we found out that we're pregnant.  It was scary news, especially for me, because I wasn't planning on having a baby and I was insecure about whether he was planning anything with me.

But he's been very supportive and so wonderful to me.  I fee like I love him anew everyday.  His family has been so kind and supoortive.  And I looooove his family. 

And I'm so excited about the family we are going to be, especially about the father he's going to be.  He amazes me everyday.  Yesterday I had so many moments where I heard my father come out of him...and you know I loooooooove my father.

I love the love between a Black king and his seed and I can't wait to see them together.

Confirmation:  I was looking for a song to start this blog entry with.  I hit up Pandora and picked the Beres Hammond station...and of course that song spilled out of the speakers...because God knows I love my man who taught me that love conquers all.

Training Pandora

"Good Love is on the Way" by John Mayer

...good love is on the way / I heard them say...

It's been a lousy day, mostly due to the gray skies outside and the black thunderstorm inside.  I've been minimally productive, crying, and irritable my whole day.

But I feels better.  Music Therapy.  I turned my Pandora on and set it to my Edwin McCain station...my good White music I picked up when I was younger and finessed in my tenure at an all White college preparatory school...the good old days.

Then I exceeded my skips and switched to my John Mayer station.  And he came out kicking with "good love is on the way."  I just have to remember that good love is on the way.

I'm frustrated with the continued struggle in creating a healthy and functional relationship with my mother.  I can get passed being rejected.  I can get passed being left alone or abandoned, even if I never understand why, the love I have for her will let me get passed it.

But she puts up this wall.  She treats me like a sleezy business partner or a disgruntled ex.  She is not my mother and I am not her daughter.  I want a way to breakthrough to her.  I want a breakthrough.  Get her to stop putting on that stupid face of dominance and stoicism... and show me she has feelings.

Alas, I am being impatient.  I have spent the last six years constructing a wall similar to the one she has had up my whole life.  I keep running into my own wall and blame her.  I keep her and my father at a distance, arms length, feed them with a long-handled spoon.  I did/do it in order to protect myself from being rejected.

I am not afraid of rejection anymore so I don't really need that wall.  I think it's time to be vulnerable...just lay here and be vulnerable and hope that she lays with me...ready to be vulnerable too.

In the Evening Baby

Tell Him by Lauryn Hill

...let me patient / let me be kind / make me unselfish / without being blind / though i may suffer / i'll envy it not / and endure what comes...

I first loved this song way after I discovered this album at the age of 12.  I didn't get this far in the album.  Not that I didn't listen to it, but just that I wasn't old enough for this song in particular to mean anything to me.  For one thing, I was still Muslim, and only because my Mom made me.  I had no real concept or interest in God or religion.

Four years later, I was obsessed with this song.  I had completed half of high school, met the same friends I still have today, and grown into a Christian.  Wayward and still backwards, but exposed to the light at least.

Since I rediscovered this song, it's always been a favorite of mine.  I play it when I'm worshipping, when I'm bored, when I'm sad especially.  It's always been a comfort and a lesson.  To this day, I play it specifically for the purpose crying in order to release the bad and inhaling to breathe in the good.

There is someone I really, really, really care about and love and adore.  And I don't think that person feels the same way about me.  It's a difficult blow to your ego to be in love by yourself.  It's an even more difficult blow to be a Black girl in love by yourself (my Black girls feel me).  Our population of men is scarce and our population of progressive men is even slimmer.  Every Black girl's heart is struck with fear when she meets love: 1).  Love is scary.  It's a risk you take, confessing to the universe that you're prepared for the heartache that this love may one day riddle your body with.  2).  Being alone is scary.  It's a risk you take to live alone, to be without a mate, confessing to the universe that you are prepared to trek on your own.

Black girls learn love hard anyway.  But the fear is dichotomous, afraid to be with love and afraid to be without love.  Black girls learn love hard anyway.  I know I did.  For 23 years, I misunderstood myself, faith, and hope.  I believe that is because I learned love hard.

So I dropped this person I really, really, really care about off and I cried, like I usually do.  I don't want to be alone and I feel heavily alone.  I am looking for someone to belong to.  I am looking for the family that I had to give up in order to stay alive and be sane.  Literally.  I need validation and approval and love and tenderness and reassurance.

But I was looking in the wrong sources.

I needed to pacify myself after my emotional car ride.  I hit up Google and searched for words to teach me how to calm my resentment from being in love alone, and to encourage patience that I lost in the fast-paced world I grew up in.

And of course I found something...profound.  God will never leave you without the nourishment you need if you truly seek it.

I came across the definition of love.  Love is the cure to resentment.  I read quite a lengthy passage that detailed the manner in which resentment is born and the ways to kill it.  Something that stood out to me:  The way we view ourselves determines how we respond to offenses, and also keeps us from committing offenses against others.  It shouldn't matter that other people do not appreciate us or treat us with disrespect because our self-worth does not depend on those people.  We are servants who answer to one Master.

My self-worth is very external.  By that I mean, I only acquire a self-worth by what I am worth to another person or group of people.  That is just absurd, but that is always how I have lived.  I have never appreciated myself, loved myself, cared about myself but I want everyone else too.  And today I learned that no one has to--for 2 main reasons. 

1.  Self-worth should be an internal conversation.

2.  The world and nobody in it owes you anything--not even their approval or love.

Another thing that struck me to tears:  Another cause of resentment is an unforgiving attitude.  Unfortunately, it is all-too-natural for us to have an unforgiving attitude because our personal dignity demands justice.  In our eyes, the other person is certainly wrong and should compensate for our hurt feelings.

Child! If this ain't me!  I think I have been waiting my whole life for an apology.  I don't even know from who really but I gather, from my chronically unforgiving attitude, that I am waiting on justice for a pain grandeur that I cannot cure.  Oh but no one owes me an apology.  And I'm glad to be delivered from such a ridiculous waiting room.

It would be nice, of course, to have an apology.  It would be nice for someone to recognize that he/she was wrong, that my pain is real, and that someone wants to make it right.  It would be nice if my Mom said she was sorry for driving me crazy.  It would be nice if the person I really, really, really care about would say sorry for using you, for dragging you along, for being inconsiderate.  It would be nice if Comcast apologized for overcharging me for a whole year.  All that would be nice.

I am realizing however that the lack of acknowledgment or lack of apology doesn't make the pain of the infraction any less real.  I'm still in pain and I don't really need anyone, other than God, to acknowledge it.  And I don't really need anyone, other than God, to get over it.  Because I can get over it.  I spent my day crying, reading the word and I feel like maybe I might just be brand spankin' new.

So love 'em even if they don't love you.  I'm not doing it for you.  I'm doing it so that when others see me, they praise Him.

It'll be all right -- in the evening baby.

So Far To Go

"Heard 'Em Say" by Kanye West


...and I heard 'em say / nothing's ever promised tomorrow-today...

I don't know how to pray for love.  I don't really understand love or think I understand love like the rest of the world understands love.

I understand love to be a huge overtaking of passion.  I understand love to be a fire, a serious burning flame burning away the disappointment, heartbreak, and melancholy other loves may have caused.  I understand love to be comprehensive, impossible to ignore, impossible to not show, impossible to not let grow.


I think I am in love.  I'm not sure.  And not being sure leads me to believe that I am not in love.  Love don't love nobody but she do love to be herself, in your life, over and over again.  I have been in love.  And I loved.  Really I did.  I was truly devoid of any rationale, logic, or anything that wasn't love.  The object of my love was my focus--always.

I want love like that.  Of course, we all have lives--lives full of obligations, deadlines, bills, workplace politics, etc.  And those things in life consume much energy, make you tired, stress you out and kill your passion.  I don't mean that I want to be someone's obsession.  Gross.  Please go about your life, have a life.  But I want to be an important of your life.  I want a love to escape the cruelty of the world, to forget the disappointment of relationships, a love to make me overlook the misfortune of work, to be unbothered (and pray for) the frustration of a Godless, capitalist society.

Winded

When I love you, I want to get away.  I want my love to be the place that I don't have to hide that I am crazy and nobody will make me feel bad for everything that's wrong with me.  I want my love to be the place where I feel better about myself, where I repair myself, like sleep for my soul.  I want my love to carry me over when I don't think I can.  I want my love to hold all my secrets.  I want my love to be organic.  I don't want you to think about what to tell me, what to say to me, what not to tell me.  It's a harsh world and I don't want to brave the weather alone.

I want my strong Black man love--to him I will belong--he who will love me and protect me with nothing more than the soul he was given at birth.  I don't want no money.  I don't care about gifts.  I'm not interested in how much you make or how much you're going to make or how much you're not going to make--if you love me.  I want to be able to give you everything and always know I'll get everything--all of my love--back.

These material things will come and go.  I may be poor or rich, I don't know.  I don't care because God will always be there to provide as long as I have faith and work hard.  But after I work hard, even if I'm the poorest of the poor, I want to come home to you love.  I want to make it home to you love and be in love--in a small, cold apartment or in an estate, or in a car, or wherever you are.  If you'll love me, I'll stay wherever you are.

Shake It Fast

In middle school my family and I lived in an apartment complex called London Towne in Henrico County.  It was the first place we lived in when we first moved to Richmond, before my parents bought our beautiful house in Glen Allen.  I remember I loved it so much because I was coming into my own as a chef and it had a gas stove.  Ain't nothing like cooking on a gas stove.

Back then, Lima was about 7 or 8 years old.  I remember that he used to talk to himself incessantly and none of us understood what he was saying but it was incredibly entertaining to him and us.

So one day, while playing outside with him and my other brother Sheikh, I decided to listen to one of his infamous conversations with himself.

Being that he has Autism, his language is severely limited.  On top of that, his pronunciation and annunciation are almost completely absent.  I listened intently for a whole minute and could make nothing of what he was saying.

Then I heard it.  I heard what my baby was saying to himself.

He wasn't actually saying anything.  He was singing.  He was singing the song "Shake It Fast" by Mystikal with incredible accuracy.  I busted out into hysterical laughter but it didn't faze him.  It didn't stop his song.  He sang it in it's entirety, sitting on the steps of our apartment, freshly barbed head down in lucid concentration on the string in his hands.

After that I lived to hear him sing.  I discovered that he had quite the repertoire of music in his head.  He would sing a song from beginning to end in a silent room with nothing to prompt him.  He does it to this day.

I've always considered Lima to be my first child.  He is my youngest brother but I always attended to him like he was the child God gave me.  I love him so much.  I love him because he is my brother.  I love him because he's so vulnerable.  I love him because he is so funny and he has no idea he is.

He really is a gift.  If it weren't for him, our family would have fallen asunder so long ago.  But for his sake, for his love, we endure: all the fighting, all the disrespect, all the pain because he is our family's higher calling.

And it hurts my heart to not see him, to not hug him, to not watch him run from my kisses (because he doesn't like kisses), to not cook for him, to not yell at him to take a shower, to not cut his hair, to not do his nails, to not make necklaces with him...all because my parents and I can't get over ourselves.

One day Lima, we're going to get it right.  We're going to function and have peace just for you my pretty baby boy.

I do love you.  I love you I do.

Sometimes I Cry Over The Spilled Milk

I don't really understand the meaning behind the "spilled milk" saying,
but since I'm emotional and I love/hate to cry, it is interesting.

I say love/hate because anything you love to do too much,
you probably hate on some level too. 
I love the melancholic rush of crying
but I hate the messed up make-up, the puffy eyes, and the sleepy feeling,
because I never cry at convenient times,
when I have the time to take a nap.

Anyway, I imagine my whole life to be a full cup of milk spilled all over the floor,
drying and evaporating at an extremely slow pace...which is good. 
I imagine that means I'll live long.

I love milk. 
I have no idea why but I love it. 
I don't drink cow's milk anymore
(adventure's of a hoodrat African vegan--cookbook title?)
but it don't mean I don't still love it. 
I love milk = I love my life.

Of course I'm a huge crybaby with all the mood swings. 
I'm extremely sensitive and somewhat histrionic. 
When I'm happy, I'm extremely happy. 
When Im sad, I'm extremely sad. 
When I'm disappointed, I'm extremely disappointed. 
I feel everything to it's purest intensity. 
I feel strongly all the time.

If I feel blah or numb or detached,
that's about the time I should be committed because I hang onto this life mostly for the feelings.

I'm always "in my feelings." 
For a while I thought that meant something was wrong with me. 
I thought that other people had it more together than me because they could curb or hide their emotions. 
But that shit ain't real.

I feel...really intensely. 
As such, I can't curb or hide anything. 
So I'm forced to deal with it. 
So I'm going to force you to deal with it because I won't harbor this negative energy by myself. 
You are responsible too. 
So we'll talk it to death or I'll talk you to death. 
It doesn't matter to me as long as there is a catharsis of my feelings. 
And along with my emotional nature is my compassionate sensibility. 
My catharsis is inviting. 
You'll find it hard to not talk and resolve with me. 
Unless you're my mom or dad in which case, my feelings are irrelevant and I don't know how to operate under such conditions.

I say all that to say I'm in my feelings...in a good way this time. 
I told you I am working on my faith...for real this time. 
And my faith is kicking in. 

I've made some deals with the devil.
I've made some with God. 
The universe is funny enough to make either deal successful, even if it's just in the short term,
but God's negotiations endure and change for your benefit.
Sometimes without having to re-enter negotiations
(because God already knows what I need).

I'm making deals with God...exclusively. 
These deals require more patience. 
They test your faith. 
But a happy ending is almost completely guaranteed...if you keep the faith.

The deals with the devil don't require faith. 
He's gonna deliver because he wants your ass. 
The success is short-lived and the resolution is a big risk.

You might hear me say this life sucks.
I might tell you, on any given Thursday, that I hate my life.
It's not beyond me to ask you "What's the fucking point of this [life]?"
I might get really irritated if you give me a super-poetic, spiritual answer.
You might catch me crying though nothing appears to have happened...just because words fail my feelings and waterworks say it all.
I can occasionally be found in a glorious stupor of dejection in a room full of joyous chaos.
Don't be surprised if I fail or refuse to do something semi-important because, on that day, I think "life is pointless so what does it matter if I do it or not?"
It's all temporary.
I want to be here.

And I want to be here with you.
All of you.

This is my linguistic installation for sad Black girls stuck in bodies too small for their grandeur...
Stuck in cities too light for their darkness
In relationships not present enough for their vacancy
Stuck in shoes that are not their own
In futures too simple for their profundity
Stuck in shit for which you did not eat enough to produce
In a job in which you assume everyone's darkness and are paid by the lives you light up
Stuck on a bus to somewhere and nowhere at the same time
In a constant cognitive shift
Stuck in clothes that don't fit your mind
In a house full of babies you weren't prepared for
Stuck in a time you know you weren't meant to be born in
In a world where happy is a commodity
This is for sad Black girls who'd rather be sad than die.

Believe In Me

"Heartbreak Warfare" by John Mayer

...if you want more love :: then why don't you say so?

Problems are easy to identify, great to lament about, energizing to dwell in.  Answers and solutions are elusive, elusive, secretive, elusive, and difficult to maintain patience to seek and greet.

You can always list your problems without hesitation.  If anyone begins to lend an ear about what ails you, you have perfect linguistic ability to detail all that's wrong with you and your life.  You're broke.  You want another/a new job.  You're in love and scared.  You're still broke.  You're bored.

It's difficult to list remedies you have considered of even implemented, mostly because you're stuck listing the problems.

I have one problem: my easily compromised faith.  I'm a drama QUEEN.  I love for life to be full of craziness.  But there is a level of craziness I cannot manage.  I get really impassioned about dejected moods and I just wanted to stay melancholic.  I do enjoy being sad for some reason.  I get all down in the dumps, never-no-sunshine-no-more, end-of-days sad.

Why?  Because I lack faith in my God.  I think the solutions have to start with me.  But they don't.  I can do what I can to facilitate change and improvement because God does help those who help themselves.  But what power of authority I lack, my God makes up for and I need to learn to let Him do His job.  I NEED to surrender authority.

So for the duration of the year, I need to focus on my faith.  It's a little late for New Year's Resolutions, but this is not just for a year.  I want great things to happen to me and the people around me in the coming years.  These coming years are pivotal and set the stage for the rest of my life...for real.  I feel like they said that when you graduated from middle school, high school, and then college.  And all those were pivotal times but this is the real show.  What will I do with all this education?  What will I do with all my passion?  What will I do with all my love?

I have to become a career-woman, a wife, a mother, fighter for Africa...a fighter.  And I can do all these things through Christ Jesus.

Lost Without Me

"We Don't Care" by Kanye West

...and to all my people that's drug dealin' just to get by / stackin' money til it gets sky high / we wasn't supposed to make it past 25 / but joke's on you, we still alive /throw your hands up in the sky and say we don't care what people say...

I'm feeling a little lost.

I've always been really opinionated, calculated, anal-retentive, and obsessed with planning.  I used to make a daily calendar listing what I would be doing at each hour of the day.  Literally...for real :: I would use the calendar application on my iBook G4 and type in what I was doing at each hour, even if it were just to type up that I was taking a break, writing in my journal, or taking a nap.

And I have obsessive-compulsive tendencies.  I try to be in control of my time as much as possible.  I try to be in charge of how I lead myself to my goals.

Of late, I have no idea what I am doing.  I feel aimless.  I feel a lack of motivation.  I feel a lack of utility.  I feel a lot of confusion.  I feel a lot of anxiety.

I'm not in control of myself so much.  I have all of the thoughts and none of the ability to make them materialize.

College is over.  I don't know what I want to do: go to nursing school, go to law school, go for a Master's in social work, have a baby, work for another year, move away...I just don't know.

Six years ago, I was going to be a nursing major and follow it up with medical school.  Sounded like a plan.  Then life happened :: didn't make it to nursing school :: changed my major and then got to use my academic training in the field.

That's what really changed my mind: field experience.  Working with the children that I was and interacting with their parents, learning their environments and their histories and witnessing how little the system cares and how little it is willing to do for CHILDREN changed my mind.  I wanted to be an OB/GYN but now I feel unaccomplished serving the uteri of middle and upper class women.  I wanted to go to law school and do constitutional law...f that.  The babies are hungry and I'm gonna spend my time in court arguing amendments?  I can't.  The babies are hungry.

So I have to figure out a place where I serve the beautiful young Black children of the world, survive financially and psychologically, and have time to make and raise babies.

Plus I gotta learn to make my parents behave.  I gotta find peace of mind.

I Know I'm Imperfect

now playing: "tell him" by lauryn hill

...i know im imperfect / and not without sin...

this was supposed to be the last official day of my summer.  today, my lease ends and i was gonna take my Black hindparts back to the parentals house and live for free.

it's a difficult thing to do--to be early 20-something, college graduated and working--to return home to your lovely parents who have sacrificed everything for you to be what you are.

it's hard because you develop a sense of autonomy and independence while out in the world.  you witness what they've been trying to tell you all your life about being an adult.  you grow up out in the world without the cushion and proximity of mom & dad, messing up and fixing it all by yourself.

so to return to their dungeon/castle (because it is simultaneously both) is hard.  it's hard to have to tell someone where you're going. it's hard to have to tell someone when you're returning. it's hard to come back at a decent hour.  for real, it's hard to leave at a decent hour.  it's hard to have to answer to anyone after 4-5 years of hopping and skipping, coming and going as you please.

it's a blow to your ego, to this sense of autonomy and independence you have developed.

and such is my life.  my situation is made that much more viscous by an extreme falling out with my parents.  for a year, we did not talk.  the left me or we left each other and i struggled to get on my financial and psychological on my own.  but i sort of did after a while and came out all the stronger.

all that i endured was very strange, dangerous, fun, exhilarating, and humiliating all at the same time.  but i am so STRONG because of it...sometimes.

therefore, i just don't like to be told what to do.  i have never, ever responded well to authority and i have never wanted to be given directions but after suffering and conquering like i did, you definitely ain't about to tell me nothin.

however, i love my mommy and daddy. there are not two people in the world for whom i have such admiration, such pride in.  i brag about them all the time to friends and complete strangers because they are extraordinary people who have done and continue to do extraordinary things.

but this family is fractured, damaged, burned and in desperate need of healing.  i am a good person and i come from a good family with big, big issues.  are't we all?

there is nothing in the world i want more than a functional nuclear family.  but i ain't got it.  after all the damage, i was never able to return to trusting my parents as the big superheroes i grew up thinking they were.  regardless of all my horrible anxiety, i have always had a sense of security that my mom and dad would always support me, always love, always make a way for me.

until one day, one day i needed all that the most, they didn't.  and i have never recovered.  i find it hard to share little inconveniences with my parents.  i don't trust that they'll help but hurt, not fix but fracture.  when i was alone, figured out a way to do everything and that sense of self-reliance has not left me. and they resent it.

they interpret it as ungratefulness and "liking my American friends more."  my parents have always been in this awkward competition with my friends.  in reality, there was never any competition.  i'd pick my family over anything. but after enough let-downs, those friends became my family.

gwenny, brittany, christina, ravi, forrest, and will are a family engineered in Heaven.  my parents told me all my life not to trust my American friends; that they wouldn't weather storms with me; that they're there only for the good times.

in recent years, there haven't been many good times and none of them have left my side. not once.

i'm not ungrateful.  i thank God everyday for everything and everyone i have in my life.  i thank Him for the broken things, for the lost things, for the people who don't like me, for the people who want to do me harm, for the people who wouldn't spit on me if i was on fire...because all of it--negative and positive--constitute a life and a life experience i can never repeat again.

i am especially grateful for the family and culture i was born into because i wouldn't be the crazy, loving, lovable, giving, kind, airheaded, bleeding heart that i am.

but i am tired of suffering because of my mother and father.  no opinion in the world matters to me quite like theirs and i've never been able to get any real approval.  they nod their heads for achievements they expect and scold you for mistakes and inadequacies they do not tolerate.

i know i'm imperfect, but i think they have no idea that i'm human, that i have to mess up, that i have to fall short, that i have to be inconsiderate, that i have to be self-absorbed, that i have to be rude, that i have to be demanding, that i have to whine...sometimes.  i'm only human.  but i'm not allowed to be.

i feel inadequate.  in everything, i feel a tinge of inadequacy.  i crumble when people don't like me.  i may not show it and usually act like i don't care and i don't like them either. but the truth is i feel small, i feel unlovable. as if my parents hate me and everyone else that does is in cahoots with my parents.  it doesn't matter that so many relative and friends love me.  my unspeakable thoughts say that they are wrong to love me and i don't deserve it.

i hope i don't spend my life looking for approval. but that seems to be the trend.

i know i'm imperfect and not without sin.

Seventy-two

I am currently reading this book my friend Malinda gave me just before the heffah left for
Boston (I do miss you).

I haven't read a substantial portion of the book at all.  I may be 13 pages in but already I am reading about a heavy emphasis on the pride of being a male and the commodification of women that is blatant, viscous, annoying, arbitrary and stupid.

The book commences with an account of the young female protagonist learning her lineage from her bulldozing grandmother.  Rather than learn a complete history of those who came before her, she memorizes her literal forefathers only -- back 800 years.

I thought it was a great concept to be knowledgable about your ancestry.  I wish my parents had made me learn the names of my lineage.  Other than my maternal grandmother, the only surviving grandparent I had for a long time, I didn't really know about my grandparents.  As I grow older and more African, I am interested in my ancestry and I ask.  Once I know them (and my baby's daddy's lineage), I'll make sure my babies know from jump who they are.

I digress.

In learning the names of the men, they were communicating to this small girl that she is a consequence and is somebody because of the men who preceded her and not the women who birthed them all.

Typical.

Given that the author is a female, the book details the commodified, strict life of Muslim women in Somalia.  Something I find peculiar about Islam is the obsession with sexuality.  If you know anything about Islam, there is a high degree of obsession with decency, morality, submission, and humility.  However, I am observing a serious obsession with sex.

The ideas behind the decency, honor, and submission of women in Islam is all about sex.  Women must be decent and cover themselves so as not to arouse their men when their men should be focusing on Allah and providing for the family.

Women should honor their bodies (virginity) so as not to shame the men of their family.  Their bodies and the limited sexuality they are granted are not their own but belong to the men in their life at that time.  For an unmarried Muslim woman, her father, brothers, uncles are the masters of her body and sexuality.  Once she is married, her husband possesses dominion over her body and sexuality, much how it was in ancient society.

Ayaan, the protagonist of the story details the rationale behind wearing the now vilified burkas.  No part of a woman should be exposed because it is sexually incendiary.  A woman should not wear high heels for the clicking sound a woman makes as she walks will remind a man of her legs which can be an unending distraction.  Woman is unclean when menstruating and should not talk to God, attend mosque, or sleep on the same bed as others.

There are two things communicated in the aforementioned regulations.  For one, it appears to me that Islam understands men to be wild sexual beasts, unable to contain or control themselves.  Their every thought, motivation, desire in life is to have wild sex with every woman who walks by.  And they cannot control it.  If a person cannot control something about themselves, then they also cannot be blamed for what they do.

Hence the onus of decency being on women.  A woman should not show her body or remind a man that she has a body because it arouses something uncontrollable in him.  What type of shit is that?

The second thing communicated is that women are inherently defective.  Menstruating and childbirth make women vulnerable and weak, physically and mentally.  Women need decisions made for them and are in constant duress if left to make decisions on their own.

I observed that women are not people.  They are confined by so many rules that unequivocally deny their humanity.  They are not to feel, opine about anything, and should definitely not express those opinions.  They are defenseless and at the mercy of often times cruel men who shape a cruel culture.

Women are to be seen and not heard; used but not considered; protected but ignored; necessary but negligible.  Boy children have more freedom and dominion than do grown women.  Absurd.

It is quite sad because I think Islam is such a beautiful religion.  I try to live my life by the five pillars and exercise submission and humility in my life.  I think the core tenants of Islam are pure and would make for wonderful world if people could actually practice it.  But the Qu'ran and the laws must be reconsidered and re-interpreted.  It excludes a whole half of the population who is responsible for the creation of the other half.

Women around the world should go on a sex strike and watch mountains move. 

I aim to change the position of women in the world and I aim to make you like it.

All For the Love Y'all

"Oh Me Oh My" by Garnett Silk


...pretty baby don't be shy / oh me oh my / i'm gonna tell you why...

I got a new job.  I'm so excited to start but I'm highly hesitant to leave the job I currently I have.  I absolutely love the children that I serve.  They make me laugh.  They make me feel young and old at the same time.  They make me tired and they give me energy simultaneously.

And they totally aren't babies but as I have gotten so much older, the seem like babies to me.  I remember being their age and in retrospect, I realize how young I was.  However, I thought I was all 'growed up' and my parents couldn't tell me anything.  So happy there is a God because kids like me...no bueno.

Sometimes I feel like this isn't my life.  Things have changed so so so so much, of course for the better...I assess.

At times I sit around and wait for the other shoe to drop because y'all don't know how far things have come; how much people have changed in my life; how much I have changed; all that.

At this junction, college is over, life has started...like really started. I'm being pulled in many different directions at the same time, which of course I love because I love stimuli and all that...but it's slightly overwhelming.

I used to know exactly what I wanted to do.  I wanted to go to nursing school and be done with it.  I still want to because it's stable and good money but that's really the only appeal.  I do want to do obstetrics and gynecology.  I love women's health, especially focusing on the health of women of color around the world.


But I also love law.  I'm great at reading, research, writing, and debating; most effective tools for the artistry of law.

And now that I have discovered social work, I love social work.  I consider it to be the physical implementation of psychology.  I of course love psychology, but social work demands that one applies psychology.

There are so many options, so many talents I could use, so much I could change, so many people I could help and simply not enough time to do it.  For one thing, life is short.  Secondly, the good die young.

Up

Graduation was on Saturday and it was killer!  My roommate and I graduated and sat next to each other during the morning ceremony, talking and tweeting each other at the same time.

The speaker was terrible.  I was low-key hungover.  I was starving and didn't have time to eat before I left the house.  And I was hot as hell in that thick silk dress and black gown.

But I didn't complain and I didn't even really care sitting in that cap and gown.

And then when I walked out of the Coliseum it was held in to find my family, I was overjoyed.  They were so happy, giddy, and so proud.  I was happy to have made them proud.

When I got to my parents' house, there was soooo much food!  My parents spent so much money on a real live party.  All my family came and everyone was so proud of me and made sure to tell me a million times.

I even discovered some closet feminists amongst my aunts.  They were sure to remind me the manner in which education qualifies you to be in control of your own life.  They were sure to impart that no man can ever do for you what your education can and it's my responsibility and obligation as an African woman to use this education that the system would like to deny more or discourage me from engaging, and take it back home.

My mother, my mother was so proud.  My mother was so happy.  Afterwards, she met me outside and hugged me for such a long time.  We don't do hugs but she was happy to hug me.  I decorated my cap with glitter and it read my parents' names.  She loved that.

Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart to every soul that has contributed to this accomplishment.  Especially Him.

My God is so good.

Don't Call My Name

...don't call my name / don't call my name Alejandro / i'm not your babe / i'm not your babe Fernando... 

"Alejandro" by Lady Gaga

Who do you love? Me or the thought of me?  I remember writing about this topic before.  I can't really tell the difference between love and lust.

Some would venture to say that means I have never been in love.


But I have been. I'm always in love. It's my favorite state of affairs.

I really do think I have been in love before, it just always ends so bad.

At a point, I believed that I was not lovable at all.  I would get burned everytime...and I was the only common denominator each time so I offered myself as the defective party.


On some level, I still believe I am defective.  I do believe that I would be a waste of somebody's love.  No one has yet been able to capture my attention for an extended amount of time.  No one has been truly selfless in their love either.  I have always felt I am getting far less than I am giving.


And I don't mean materially...because I have a feeling some folk will be reading this entry and begin to mentally calculate all they feel their giving has cost them.

I can compromise.  I can accept defeat.  I can assess the hell outta your state of mind based on real behaviors and reactions (go Bachelors in Psychology!).  I can change the game, flip the script, and improve the worst of situations.  But somehow that true stuff evades me.  True love evades me.

eXcept in one instance...(Whoa)

I love love but she don't have time for me. 

Making My Own Sandwiches

"Ego" by Beyonce

...it's too big / it's too wide / it's too strong / it won't fit / it's too much / it's too tough...

Good afternoon Saints and Aints!

I know it has been so long since I made time to write.  As you are aware, magicwoman, I have been working pretty much full time and going to school full time.  I have been partying too much with new friends and loving on old ones.

So much has changed and I don't even really know where to start.  I can't remember what I have written here...

Well you know I have been natural since December 18, 20009.  That was such a process.  I remember I didn't leave the house for a couple days, preoccupied with how I looked and maybe I made the wrong decision and general "What the hell?" type of thoughts.

I have come a long way since then and so has my hair!  It has grown so much, so fast, faster than any perm or braids has ever done for my hair.  It was about an inch long when I cut it in December.  It is a strong 4 inches long now.  And Lord knows my hair don't grow like that.  When I had a perm, I had the baddest bob on deck, but it was never more than a bob (hmmm wonder why?).

So when I went natural, I went natural right?  By that I mean, I only put natural products in my hair.  I am careful to avoid laboratory concocted ingredients and stick with brands I know to use only naturally occurring products, mixed together and isolated.

And then I kept reading about taking care of natural hair and how it is very oxymoronic to put all this wonder expensive product in my hair and eat, drink, and cosmeticize as unhealthily as possible.

So I dropped all the mess.  I gave up Palmer's Cocoa Butter and if you know me, I have sworn by that bottle for the last 10 years.  As soon as I got sense of enough to not allow my parents to smear Vaseline on me, it was me and Palmer's, my ride or die.  I even put the White kids at Collegiate on because I was constantly putting it on.

I use raw African shea butter for pretty much everything.  I use it as lotion for my body, conditioner for my hair, oil for my scalp, chapstick for my lips, moisturizer for my face, light foundation for my face before make-up, medicine for wounds, cuts, scrapes, and the ilk, and I recommend/give some to anyone else who asks me "What should I...?" and I always interrupt, "Shea butter.  Just use shea butter."

My roommates got these detestable piercings in their ears and I make them do a warm saltwater rinse and put some shea butter on it.  Say it ain't workin...cuz it is.

And then I continue to OD.  I use natural laundry detergent, deodorant (not anti-perspirant because they block your pores and for real, you ain't supposed to smell like cucumber and melons all the damn time), natural toothpaste, natural floss, natural Black African Soap (or Mango Shea Butter Soap) and of course everything for my hair is natural.  At least once a week I put extra virgin olive oil in my hair to protect the tips.  My hair and skin and teeth are amazing.  My head my look like brillo pad, but it's the softest thing up against your skin (natchel curly hairs...please don't touch! bahahahahaa!  *inner thought: i wonder if anyone gets that*).

And then food:  I went vegetarian/vegan.  Well, I am trying to go vegan but I love cheese!  I gave up milk cold turkey (and this is one African that loves milk.  my parents used to buy 2 gallons of milk when i lived at home because i needed a gallon all to myself...it was so real).  But there is no need to drink milk after your mother's milk.  No other animal drink the milk of another animal.

I limit how many times a week I can have cheese and have "fast weeks" in which I am a strict vegan.  For real, it isn't that hard because I wasn't raised on a serious meat diet.  I never liked beef for some reason.  My family is Muslim so I had never seen pork until I went to my American friends houses.  Chicken and seafood is basically all I would eat and I much preferred my Mommy's fried fish over chicken so I wasn't losing much when I went vegetarian.

I cheat on my veganism though.  I eat ALL the cake and cookies.  Well not really because I don't have much of a sweet tooth, but for the 2 days of the month that I eat sweets, I don't care what is in it.  I am however very strict about keeping meat and milk out of my diet.

It's a wonderful life.  It is such a wonderful life.  I have come through so much and been blessed with so much.

I am a good, conscious person.  I know to much.  I have seen too much.  I have too much fight in me.  I want to fight the good fights.  I want to be a minimalist.  I want to fight the nasty capitalism that has destroyed many lives.

Those are the kind of people who get killed.  I don't have much time here so I changed my life to be pure of body and spirit to fight the good fight and be buried a skinny, pretty warrior woman. 

Streetlights...Glowing, Like Moments in Front of Me

"Blame It On Me" by Chrisette Michele

Sometimes you can work it out…sometimes you can’t
Sometimes you’re forced to watch everything fall apart…its out of your hands

Sometimes leaving is easy…sometimes it ain’t
Sometimes it hurts to know the lovin’ you had is slowly fading away

You can say whatever you like
As long as we just say goodbye

(chorus)
Blame it on me
Say it’s my fault
Say that I left you outside in the cold with a broken heart

I really don’t care…I ain’t cryin’ no more
Say I’m a liar, a cheater, say anything that you want
As long as it’s over

I ain’t a quitter…I just ain’t the type

I tried to see it through
I tried to make it to the finishing line

Oohh you thought it was meant to be
I admit…so did I

Every once in a while you think you figured it out...
Sometimes you’re not right

You can say what ever you like
As long as we just say good bye

Blame it on me
Say it’s my fault
Say that I left you outside in the cold with a broken heart

I really don’t care…I ain’t cryin’ no more
Say I’m a liar, a cheater, say anything that you want
As long as it’s over

Yes I love you but I really gotta lose you… freedom's where I want to be
Yes I’ll probably always love you but I’m over…I gotta do this for me

(repeat chorus twice)

Cause its over

I completely overlooked this song when her album came out.  I cannot remember why but I never even listened to it in its entirety.

On the way back from Charlottesville today (to see my baby cross Delta!!), Gwenny played this song for me and I almost cried.  This song says all that I wish I had said when I was breaking up.

I fought so hard to defend my assassinated character, to salvage my attacked ego, to protect my defiled person.

Listening to this song, I realize that I didn't have to do any of those things.  He was going to think of me just what he wanted to regardless of the defenses I employed for myself.  His anger had to little to do with the accurate assessment of me.

I spent all this time defending myself when I just should have said goodbye.  Why was I defending myself to someone who consistently assassinated my character and talked to me as if he hated me?  Who knows?

But Chrisette sings my experience VERBATIM!!  If I could go back in time when all the mess started, I would literally sing this song to him because my words did horribly in communicating anything.

I'm still mad I had to go through all of that.  I'm still mad I had to deal with him.  I'm still frustrated.

But it doesn't matter because it is over. 

Everything To Me

"No Woman, No Cry" by Bob Marley

My birthday is coming up soon.  I'm not going to say how old I am turning because I think this age is a cumbersome, useless number.  I have passed the big milestones of early life (turning 18 and being able to buy alcohol) so this is really, plainly just me getting older.

For that reason,  I have decided I am turning 21...again (don't judge me).

But every year that I have had a birthday since I turned 20, I have been ecstatic.  I cannot explain to you why.  It's between me and my God.  God has seen me go through a looooooooooooooot, things that, quite honestly, I should not have survived.

I know it sounds cliché but God pulled me through.

for that reason alone, I don't need any gifts,
I don't need any money, I don't need any alcohol,
I don't need a party, I don't even need a cake.
The greatest gift I get everyday is the moment I awake.

My God is good.  Things have changed so much in the last two years.  They have gone down, up, down, and up again.  This time, however, I believe that things will stay up.  Things will stay good and "normal".  The sorrows that I will encounter from here on out are unavoidable human experiences and will not be the result of the soul eating disease called depression.

I will never be normal.  Depression is like terrible leprosy for your soul.  The scars will remain and my visceral flesh will always look different from everyone else's.  However, the disease is under control and I'm not in so much pain that I cannot pay attention to how the "normals" behave and cope.

Oh but I am so different.  I am so different.  The things I thought I needed -- I don't.  The people I thought I couldn't live without -- I survived.  The things I thought I would never get over -- I'm over it.  The things I thought I'd never get -- I got.  The people I loved that I thought would never understand me -- they get it.  Everything I gave up on, washed my hands of, lost hope in, deflated in my mind has been revived by my God.

I remember all the reminders from people around me that would try to remind me that trouble don't last always.  I know they meant well but that shit used to irritate me so bad.  Because when you're in that kind of pain, it isn't that you're "pessimistic" or that you have even given up.  It's just that the pain is so enormous, so indigestible, so distracting that optimism doesn't occur to you, let alone being able to muster the energy to ignore optimism.

Even now when I run into someone being very pessimistic, I bring it to their attention that they are being pessimistic, might nudge them to look at optimism, but completely understand if they can't.  Pain creates tunnel vision.  You can't see anything but the pain, even when you want to.  There were times I wanted to be optimistic and I would pray to God just for the energy to stop looking through the tunnel and consider something else.  I would genuinely pray to God for just one moment's peace, freedom from pain, the ability to look at something other than my pain.

But that is how comprehensive pain is.

However, it is a tunnel.  I did come out on the other side.  And eventually, you will too, whether you run through the tunnel, or crawl at snail's pace.

Happy Birthday Zainab...Doin' it for Afraka since nineteen eighty sev...I mean eighty nine.

Missionaries

"Money to Blow" by Birdman featuring Drake & Lil Wayne (I had no idea this was Birdman's song)

...no particular lyrics / I just feel like missionaries and churches have money to blow...

I hate missionaries.  I hate the idea of missionary.  I hate the idea of any persons representing a religion going to a developing country, especially, to go and preach their Truth.

It's absurd.  For one thing, the idea of missionaries is nourished by a sense of cultural elitism.  Those going to spread their Truth are typically under the impression that their way is right, that the the 'natives' are pagan, poor, unhappy, and have no idea what they are doing (despite the fact that most of these 'natives' have a history far longer than the few hundred years of these uppity White and Western nations...you really think you discovered the Native Americans?).

It's absurd!!  Additionally, these missionary trips are made somewhat successful due to the poverty of the people who are being preached to.  I know if I were starving and some White lady said she'd feed me if we talked about some man born to a virgin and read some leather book, I'd be all about it.  I'd do it now, even though I'm not starving, if only it would get me out of class and get me a free lunch before I go to work.

I don't say that to belittle the Messiah or the Holy Bible.  But to a starving child, that's what the situation is reduced to when your basic needs are not met.

Why aren't these missionaries lobbying for free trade? Education? Finding a way to bring electricity and clean running water to people?

I have always felt like the issues missionaries have the clout to correct are left unaddressed.  The soul and salvation of a people supercede their physical and material needs.  Heaven is all the compensation you need for the misery (or bliss, depends on who you ask) you currently live in.

I once heard a pastor say, "If you wanna go to hell, you got a right to go".  I love that quote because it's the realest thing they ever wrote.  Religion, believing, God, reading holy texts are all optional activities.  If there is a God, She ain't finna strike you down the minute you decide you don't believe.  We all have free will.

So if religion doesn't come to a people, that is okay, as long as there is a moral code that works (because being religious does not denote being moral).

How about helping people procure the basics for survival and introduce religion in a time of comfort and not as an 'alternative' to their duress?  I think it's cruel  It is the most unappetizing aspect of organized religion, but especially Christianity because Christians go hard body for some missionary stuff.

Don't let me catch a missionary on the streets of Freetown, Sierra Leone.  You are likely to catch fade.

Wind Capacity

"Not Anymore" by Latoya Luckett

...somebody say i don't want it anymore / i don't want it anymore / somebody say i don't want it anymore / i don't want it anymore / cuz i've dried my eyes and realized / i deserve somebody that'll treat me right / because i know my word so you can keep / that drama, i don't want it anymore...


Happy Valentine's Day.

I don't usually have an opinion one way or another about Valentine's Day, at least not anymore. 

Now that I am older, Valentine's Day just becomes another commercialized holiday that means absolutely nothing.  It's a capitalist money experiment that has gone and is going very well.

I don't feel sad if V-Day rolls around and I am single.  I don't really care.  I just want cupcakes.  And I make ally my friend's be my valentines.

I had a good Valentine's Day this year.  In the midst of a death in the family, stress at work and school, and an extremely incommodious breakup, the spirit of romance is beyond me.  As I sat in my office at work on Friday, crying, shaking, disturbed, and worried, I thought it to be some kind of poetic justice that I would be so brokenhearted just before Valentine's day.

I spent the weekend recovering from Friday's agony and the tempest of the last week by getting to see two of my favorite people in the world.  Brittany came down for the weekend and Christina made an appearance!  

And I got a phone call and an email from my husband, both of which were quite sweet and reminded me to remain focused but relaxed in my hectic schedule. He said he was praying for me as we grieve over darling Amina who died last week.  He told me to be strong for my mother, who is taking it hard (I didn't even think he would know what Valentine's Day is but I underestimate the pervasiveness of a global capitalist society. WTF do Afrakans need with Valentine's Day?)

 

I was surprised by Brittany with wonderful gifts.  She got me a build-a-bear!  I love stuffed animals.  I always have one stuffed animal that I'm obsessed with for a while until I get another one.  I sleep with it, put it next to me when I study, watch tv with it.  I love stuffed animals (what a ridiculous tangent).

I got flowers, a wonderful card, eyeliner, a bottle of Moscato D'Asti, and some new clothes from F21 (but of course my focus is this bear, who I named Isaata).  She said all because I deserve to feel special.  I deserve a little distraction and happiness given all I have endured these past few weeks.

The second greatest gift I got for Valentine's Day, however, is strength.

I have given up my strength, my power, my own fortitude and for no particular reason.  I panic, panic, worry, get anxious, panic over things as if I have control over anything.  And while I don't have control over other people's behaviors, I have control over how it will affect me and how I will manage it.


I have been feeling down, out of control, pessimistic, and flagrantly morbid (Death always makes me feel that life is absurd).

And somehow I managed to remember that I am getting better.  I am gaining more control.  I am learning about optimism.

I'm not ashamed of what I've been through.  I'm not ashamed of being "crazy".  I'm happy to know there is something wrong so that I may be able to fix it and live a long life.

My friend Brittany has been trying to remind me of my strength, remind of the wonderful, normal things going on in my life, and encourage me to keep them in focus.

The greatest gift I got was my relationship with God.  I have never forgotten my God.  After all I have been through, I know that I should not be alive and I know that I have been changed.  No matter what beef I have with organized religion or how enamored I get with science, I love my God.

I have been talking with my God and I was finally able to see that my God has never deserted me, but I occasionally stray from my God.

And my God said don't cry.  My God said that my tears are being counted.  My God said that it is not the end of the world.  My God said a broken heart can be mended.  My God said that no weapon formed against me shall prosper.  My God said that revenge is not in my hands and those for whom I shed tears will be duly punished.  My God said my happiness will no longer be elusive.  My God said pray for my enemies, my doubters, my naysayers, my criticizers.

I am worried but I am not afraid anymore.  Fear and anger are incongruent with progress and improvement.

Thank you Brittany for reminding me of my inner strength, my capacity to fight, made possible only by my God.  Thank you for reminding me that I am intelligent, resourceful, and backed by supportive people these days.

I give you no power by disavowing fear.  I just want to be happy Black woman...a student, a teacher, a daughter, a believer and a happy Black woman.

A true friend is someone who sees the pain in your eyes while everyone else believes the smile on your face

Daddy

"Daddy" by Beyonce (duh)

...I want my unborn son to be like Daddy / I want my husband to be like my Daddy / there is no one else like my Daddy / and I thank you for lovin' me...

Snow day number 4,000.  The kids had the day off of school today and I didn't have to go to work (I did pick up that check though!).

I hung out with my new roommates after I did some studying in the library.  They were fun.  Then my Daddy picked me up on his way home from his classes.  I don't know why he didn't cancel them, but whatever.

The adventure began when my Dad picked me up.  We went to my bank to deposit my check but my bank was closing early because of the impending, doomsday snow storm.  So we went to my parents bank so I could deposit it there.  The teller we went to was this nice Indian lady who knows my Mom.  She made small talk about whether or not I went with my Mommy when she went to Sierra Leone.  I told her I'm going in the summer and she said I'm to spoiled to go to Africa, which is true.  Twenty-one years of America spoils you.  Then we picked up pizza for Lima and my cousin MaHawa who babysat him today.

Then Daddy and I went to Chipotle.  I told him he needed to try Chipotle and he agreed to, since he is consistently buying me lunch or dinner from there.

Let me tell you what this man ordered.  My Daddy ordered a burrito with steak, peppers & onions, lettuce and no rice and beans.  I asked him "What's the point of your burrito?"  The lady who was ahead of us busted out laughing at me and my Daddy.

But old man ate his entire burrito in a flash!  That's how his son eats.  Lima doesn't even really chew food for real.

Then we went to Ukrops and bought all these snacks that he and my Mommy eat.  I bought separate stuff for Lima and I because they eat all this strange stuff that I don't think my baby brother should eat.

We finally came home and I was sitting here, dozing off to sleep, I decided to write about my father.  Hanging out with him reminds me of being a little kid, when we were a happier family and I followed him around like I was his shadow.  I thought my Dad was just a little less famous than God (and I still do really).  He knows everything, he does anything for me, and he buys me Chipotle.  That's the way to my heart...Chipotle and Baker's.  Anytime I get mad, I would get food or shoes.

My Daddy has always been my knight in shining armor.  He has always been my hero.  He has always made me smile.  Every second I am with my father, I smile and laugh a genuine smile and laugh.  He is so funny to me.

They say if you laugh too much, expect to cry later.  But I don't believe that will happen as long as my Daddy is around.  

My father has always served as the most brilliant example of a respectable, selfless Black man.  He has always respected and been kind to my mother.  I have never heard him raise his voice at her in my whole life.  He does her laundry, irons her uniforms, gets us ready for school (when we were younger), mediates between me and Mommy (when we were at war), taught me about analytical thinking, the importance of being an educated Black womyn, the importance of compassion, being an activist in the way I live and not just in calculated moments, and most importantly about respecting and loving Afraka.

I should and should have never settled for any man who doesn't make me believe of myself what my father has struggled, coming from the deep poverty of Sierra Leone to make a grand life here, to teach me of my Afrakan queendom.

I love you soooooo much Daddy.