Look At Me

My friend, Tiffany Holbert, started a writing project about our experiences with, and feelings on, our appearance and I've submitted my story! Check it out! And submit something yourself.

Sun Do Shine (Just Pictures)

My relationship's with Spring and Summer are the healthiest I've ever been involved in.

Me and Justin a.k.a Young J.C. a.k.a JCizzle a.k.a The Dragon

I LOVE PEONIES! My favorite flower

Found the BIGGEST Dandelion blowy thing EVER. The Dragon is confused by it.

This peach rose could easily be my third favorite flower (after gerbera daisies).

Fly as I wanna be. Per usual.

Sometimes You Find Things

I came across this story today and I haven't read anything I liked this much in a LONG time. Enjoy.

Kinky Stuff

I'll go ahead and apologize now to the readers who were expecting a sex post.

Suckers.

This post is not about sex. It's about my hair. 

I'm going to be really real right now and address the fact that most of my followers are white, and so, it may be really hard for you to understand why I would write a blog post about my hair and how it could possibly be relevant to anything.

I wish I had the time to sit everyone down and really explain to them the delicate relationship between a black woman and her hair. But let's be honest, even then, no one else could truly understand it the way black women do. Not even black men.

Fourteen months ago (March of 2009), I was forced to shave my head. I needed to have a medical procedure and baldness was a surgical prerequisite. I bawled from the time I was told until I got home and called my best friend who is white, but also has her long hair issues.

Like so many other little black girls, I was raised to believe that long hair was the key to beauty. Not just long, but as close to the texture of white people's as possible. Girls who achieved this were rewarded with the title of having "good hair." I can't tell you how many times I've heard a parent encourage their children to procreate with a partner who had "good" hair to make sure their children would have the same.

This kind of thinking has endured from the time African slaves limped off the boat, to this very moment while we are a nation being served by a black President. Natural hair is still scary to some black people. My own grandmother says it's tacky and uncouth. 

My entire life I've been taught (indirectly) that the closer you look to white, the better. Everything from my family loving that I don't have a bigger (blacker) nose, to my cousin with the longest hair being deemed the prettiest, to the focus on my brother's lighter eyes, even finding skin bleaching cream in the cabinets of family members, all of these things that indicated to me, even as a child, that white is better than black.


And, I'm only 23 years-old. This isn't some 1930's self-hate bullshit. It's 2000's self-hate bullshit.


Well, I wasn't born with "good" hair. My hair is naturally nappy. My curls are kinky and tight and stay close to my scalp if I don't pick my Afro out. I didn't even know that this was the texture of my natural hair until this past year, because my mother started relaxing my hair when I was 4 years-old.


Now, I have to add that black hair doesn't come in one texture (the same way European hair doesn't come in one texture). There are many different textures that black women's hair can come in (I'm a 4C). One of my very good friends (she's a BG!) has hair with naturally more defined curls (more of a 3B/C) than mine, and she gets crap for it too.


Anyway, I digress, after 22 years of relaxing, pressing, oiling, brushing, combing, braiding, trimming, and desperately growing my hair, I was going to have to cut it all away. It felt like they were going to cut off my hand. I didn't want some dumb nurse to maim me, so I had my boyfriend (at the time) use his clippers to do it. 

This picture was taken mere minutes after the chop:

As you can see from the mega-wattage smile here, I didn't take it as hard as I thought I would. Indeed, only moments after having it cut, I realized that I kinda hated my hair. I had always hated getting it relaxed, and having to do so much work to it all the time. I hated the comments I got from other black people (mostly women) about how I needed to spend a fortune going to the hair salon every week. 

I didn't enjoy brushing it, combing it, curling it, NOTHING! The few times the I did get my hair done (or did), the praise from other's and attention from men, didn't make up for the 8 hour ordeal that it took to get the desired effect. My hair was such a big deal that it had become a source of pure negative energy in my life, and now I was free. 

Free to be natural. Free to (finally!) learn to swim because I didn't have to worry about the chlorine washing out my perm. Free to be unafraid of rain or getting it wet. Free to wash and go. Free to be me.


That sounds hokey, I know, but I've never felt more "me" than in the time I've spent with natural hair. I love to touch it, I love to play with it, I love to dress it up with headbands and barrettes. I'm happier.


Surely, I won't attribute all of my happiness to my natural hair, but I will say that it helps. I've never felt prettier in my own body, and I know that it comes from no longer striving to work toward a look that isn't MY standard of beauty.


So, I'll take the stares, the men who won't date me, the companies that won't hire me, the family that worries about me, the people who now assume I'm militant because of my hair. I'll take all of it, and I'll take it happily because I. Am. Happy.


I don't want to be this girl again:

Because I'm THIS girl:

And for the record, yes you can touch my hair, but only because I like talking about it and I'm a giver. BUT you had better ask permission before you do :)

Who Writes?

Yeah, I'm a writer.

I write a lot, I study writing, and I write fairly well.

I've been reluctant to call myself a writer for a long time. I think it's because I have so many good friends who are good writers and I could never imagine putting my writing in the same category as their work. 

But I guess that doesn't make me NOT a writer. Just a different writer. Not different as in special, but different as in not the same. Does that make sense? Probably not.

Anyway, in honor of my "coming out" as a writer, I've decided to share a short story with my readers that I wrote not too long ago. I hope you enjoy it:

Chocolate Cigarettes

Today I woke up and put in Annie Hall which meant the rest of the day would feel fat like rain. I opened the window next to my bed for some fresh air and my teeth started tap-dancing from chills. I looked down and saw my pants had brown smudges on them that I quickly recognized as remnants of the chocolate cigarettes I’d eaten in bed.

The only time I’d ever smoked real cigarettes was after he left. Before I met him, I’d been an anti-tobacco company activist. I’d been a lot of things before I met him. Tattoo-less for one thing, and now I have a goddamn bluebird on my shoulder for the rest of my life.

This particular night, after another unanswered telephone call, I’d walked to the gas station just up the road. I went up to the counter with a bag of corn puffs and two cans of Sprite. My goods seemed lacking and maybe not worth walking here for. I asked for a pack of Camels and a lighter.

            Walking back to my house, attempting to light my first cigarette, I tripped. The cigarette fell out of my mouth and into the gutter. I pictured my grandmother arching her brow and saying, “God is trying to tell you something.”

“Fuck you, Grandma,” I mumbled. I picked up the cigarette, and gave it a home between my chapped lips.

            I stood still while I brought the flame to the tip. I’d watched my mother do this my entire life and so my hand never faltered and I knew just how to inhale to get it going. Slowly and deeply, I took the first drag and my lungs expanded to make space for the toxic fog.

 It reminded me of the first time I cursed. The smoke between my cheeks and down my throat, rolling off my tongue like my first “fuck”. He had been a smoker and these were his brand and now he was in my mouth. He was down my throat and in my chest and he didn’t even have the decency to choke me to death. That night I slept with all of my clothes on.

The first thing I did the next morning was go out on my porch and light up. When I inhaled, I caged him inside my lungs where he couldn’t see through the smoke. Where the haze confused him, and he answered my calls because he couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t. I let the smoke blind me a little, too. I wanted to think he would come back, that he loved me more than he hated us.

Eventually, my roommate put her foot down, and I surrendered the last of the pack on my third day as a smoker. I watched as she drenched them in dish liquid then buried them in the kitchen wastebasket.

“They stink and you don’t need them.” She was being firm which was out of character for her. I smiled at her without my eyes so she knew I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said I appreciated her effort.

We went out that night to celebrate my liberation from a brief nicotine addiction. My roommates wanted to dance, but I didn’t stray far from the bar side. A man with a tattoo on his neck bought me a pale beer. I pointed my toes at him and showed him my bluebird. My ex hated few things more than neck tattoos.  But this man put one hand on my waist and with his other placed a chocolate cigarette between my painted lips.

So I asked him if he’d ever seen Annie Hall.

Fight for Feeling

It's nearly 4am. It's been a long one and I am not sober blogging. But after this tumultuous night, I need to write these words:

Pain does NOT equal passion.

Yelling, berating, hitting, and negligence are never appropriate ways to express love. I'm sure there are people reading this right now and thinking to themselves "duh." And I would bet all the free food on campus (and you KNOW how much I love free food) that they've convinced themselves, at sometime in their lives, that because a partner lost their cool, it was proof positive of their feelings for them.

WRONG. 

Behavior like that is only proof of a person's tendency to lose control and attempt to manipulate their partner's (you) emotions. What it is not, is affirmation of their love for you.

I understand that everyone fights and sometimes things get out of hand. What I don't understand, is why people think they've lost the passion in their relationship when they stop fighting! Conflict is not something you seek out, it's something you attempt to solve.

You need to shake things up a bit in your relationship? I get that, however why do you have to introduce a bout of drama ridden spats into your lives? Couldn't you have just bought somrthing new and sexy to wear, or even better, just walked in butt naked and let your partner know you're DTF?

Many of my male friends (and exes) talk about not wanting a crazy woman (or partner), and when they find one they say something dumb like, "I just don't feel sparks" or "I'm not sure we have any chemistry" or "I just can't tell how much we're into each other" THEN they meet a girl who was supposed to be a one night stand that turned into a monogamous relationship, fight with her everyday, and they have the nerve to talk to me about how she might be"The One."

Trick please.

Clearly, I'm not the authority on love. I'm not the authority on most things, but I know a few things about a few things and I do know that love isn't meant to hurt.

In fact, it's meant to do just the opposite.

Quick Update

Some things that are happening:

1. I changed the blog template. Did you notice? What do you think? Is it me? 
2. I'm Tyler Gobble's friend of the week! Tyler is a superb friend, a stellar writer, and my Monster Man. The Goose adores this kid. See the post here.
3. Spring semester is over :)
4. Summer semester starts Monday :(
5. So does my internship with the Ball State Foundation :)
6. Went to Cincinnati yesterday and met this guy.
7. Good friends had good news that made me smile big today.
8. I had homemade chocolate chip scones this morning.
9. Roomies are packing to leave forever.
10. I'm still not good at saying goodbye.

Mama

This is my Mama (and me)

Let me tell you about my mama.

My mama was born in June.

My mama has four sisters and one brother.

My mama was the girl that all the boys at Southside wanted to date. 

My mama can skate better than your mama. 

My mama was told she would never have children.

My mama married my daddy in 1986.

My mama had me in January of 1987.

My mama raised four children all by herself. 

My mama told me that I could do anything I want to.

My mama told me never to pick a career for the money.

My mama told me that I'm the one who has to live my life.

My mama told me I was beautiful in my awkward stage.

My mama always did the best she knew how.

My mama still got it.

My mama taught me to be goofy.

My mama is so proud of me.

My mama loves me.

I love my mama.

Why Won't He Love Me?

Happy Cinco De Mayo! I hope you've been doing something fun because all I've been doing is blog reading and watching "Fatal Attraction" in which Glenn Close is hot, BUT crazier than a tomato soup sandwich. 


Over at one of my most favorite blogs, The Black Snob, I ran across this:



"Why Don't You Love Me" - Beyoncé from Beyoncé on Vimeo.


Clearly, Beyonce has come out with a new video and I like the song. LOVE the video. I'm sure that's because I've always enjoyed that 50's housewife/Harlot kind of look. Kind of enamored with a black woman getting her Mrs. Beaver/Bettie Page on. 


Anyway, the chorus of the song goes, "Why don't you love me? (Why don't you love me?) When I make me so dame easy to love. And why don't you need me? (Why don't you need me?) When I make me so damn easy to need."


I can relate, B. I can definitely relate.


At one time in my life, I too thought of love as a meritocracy. That is to say, I believed that if I was pretty enough, interesting enough, and gave enough of myself to a man, then he would have no other choice but to love me.


I'd been reading magazine articles about how to get a man, how to keep a man, and how to make a man want you, since I was 12 years-old. I made the seamless transition from Teen magazine, to Seventeen magazine, and inevitably, Cosmopolitan magazine. I still read these publications from time to time, though I'm still bothered by the lack of representation of women of color (especially in Cosmo). But, I digress.


The overwhelming theme in these magazines is that a man doesn't want a woman who's looking for a man. He want's a woman who is living her life to the fullest all alone, and just happens to meet him at the right place and in the right time in their lives. 


Yeah...that's not how I took it.


When I was reading (and believing) these articles, I thought they meant that I was to become a really interesting person and try to attract men on many different levels.


Maybe, I'd study harder, not to get an education, but to impress a man with my quick wits. I was supposed to take cooking classes, not because I wanted to learn to cook, but because I could impress a man with my mad skills in the kitchen. I should start exercising, not to improve my overall health, but because all men like a hot tight bod, and think of all the smokin' singles I could meet at the gym! 


I don't think I'm alone in my misconception. As a matter of fact, I'm not entirely sure that I've misconstrued the objectives of these articles. I mean, they tell us not to worry about men and just live our lives the way we want and be strong independent women, but they end the article with some form of the old saying, "When you stop looking for someone, that's when someone will find you" indicating that the ultimate goal in "finding yourself" is to find a man.


Many of my female friends lament the fact that they seem to embody everything that men want and yet, they still can't find a partner. My theory? They embody everything that magazines articles written by women say that men want, and therein lies the disconnect.


You can't make someone love you. Period. It doesn't matter how funny you are, how sane you are, or how beautiful you are. Love is undefinable and commitment is a choice. You can't make it "easy" for someone to love and/or need you if they don't feel that way. Love is not a meritocracy. You don't get points for being awesome that you can cash in as he's walking out the door.


Unfortunately, you can look like Beyonce, be as poised as Michelle Obama, and live a life as interesting as Lara Crofts, and still find yourself alone when you don't want to be. No, it isn't fair, but it is reality, and you're gonna have to join us here eventually.


So what's a girl to do? 


I say do what you want. Learn what you want, love what you want, and always do it for you. Just try taking care of yourself and your own happiness. But do it for you. 


Men can be awesome and/or awful and we can't live our lives for or in pursuit of them. Recognize that finding someone to love doesn't always have to be a priority. Even if it is, recognize that you're not looking for someone to "complete" you, you're looking for someone to complement who you already are as a complete woman.


Love yourself hard, and don't do it only in the pursuit of love from someone else.


You're better than that.

Don't Touch My Kids!

I don't have any kids, but I love kids. I love working with kids, I love being around kids, I think they're just excellent. I've often said that I am way more excited about being a mother than being a wife. Pretty sure that's because I have way more patience with children than I do with adults. 


As I prepare to graduate, I can't help but think of what happens next in my life. A lot of my friends are getting engaged, married, or having babies. Any of those three things happening at this time in my life would be enough to send me into a full blown leg-shaking brown-paper-bag-huffing panic attack. Doesn't mean I don't think about them. 


This morning I had a conversation with a friend about her children and their father. She isn't married to the father of her children, but they still attempt to co-parent. So far, that isn't really working out. She is educated in child development and finds his "Well, I was raised this way and I turned out alright" method of parenting to be ineffective and potentially damaging to their children. She wants her children to have their father in their lives, but struggles with the idea that they'll suffer from his parental mishandling. 


I'm not sure I'll be into co-parenting. Even before having this conversation with my friend, I'd suspected as much about myself. There are very few things that I get all "control freak" about, but kids seem to be one of them. 


This past summer I was a nanny for a 2 and a 1/2 year old little boy and I loved it. Deciding how he and I would spend our days, keeping a schedule for him, and watching him learn made me so happy. I was his parent for all intents and purposes, while his real parents worked during the day and I enjoyed every minute of the time he and I spent together, bonding, and growing.


At the time, I was dating my most recent ex (makes it sound like I have a ton of exes), and every once in a while, he would visit Muncie while I was working and take the kid and I to lunch and the playground. While I enjoyed the lunch portion of his visits (you KNOW I love free food), I found the playground portion nerve-wracking.


The 2 and a 1/2 year old is fearless. He would try to climb on, jump on, and ride on everything that looked treacherous to me. I wanted to stay right behind him at all times, and the few times that I allowed him to go on his own, my eyes darted around the playground following his every move. The ex was less than helpful.


"Go, Charley! Go!" He'd scream while Charley climbed something that he was sure to fall off of and break his arm. I tried to stay calm, but would eventually run over and shadow him again. "This is how he'll learn." The ex would say to me, "Let him figure things out. If he falls, he'll try it another way or he'll decide he's not big enough for that toy yet."Consciously, I agreed with him. Subconsciously, I needed him to shut the hell up and let me take care of this kid. 


I'm afraid I'll be the same way if and when I actually have children. That I'll shut out the other half of my children's lives or that I'll procreate with someone who is an excellent partner, but a less than stellar father.


I realize that there are a lot of things to consider here. Such as whether or not children need a father in their lives and whether or not it's possible to parent and do it well on my own. However, I know what it's like to grow up in an environment where your parent allows someone else to co-parent who should not be doing so, and I am terrified of that happening to my children.


Luckily, these are things that I won't have to worry about for a long while. I only hope that by the time I'm ready to take on the monumental endeavor of motherhood, I'll have found the balance between control and vulnerability that will allow my children the upbringing that they deserve.


That ALL children deserve.