About Feet...

Baby, I’m BACK…again! (If you get the reference, we can be friends).

It’s been a while, but today inspiration struck.

I was perusing Twitter—its given name—when I saw a tweet that triggered something in me that I didn’t think it would, and that the original tweet never intended. The tweet was in response to Cardi B mentioning how she had “small feet” as a way to show her worth. The woman who retweeted it, jokingly said that she “caught another stray” because she has “big feet.”

Reader, I’m not sure why, but the first thing that came to mind was,

This is why mental and emotional abuse is so insidious.

I was going to post this on Twitter, but because I really want to sit with it for a while, and my blog has been gathering dust, decided to process on my platform.

I want to again point out that this may not be what the original tweeter was getting at, and I’m choosing to keep her handle anonymous, but it’s how it hit me. Look at her, creating art.

You see, I was in an abusive relationship for 7 years, and this illustrates one way in which that abuse manifested. I'm 5’1 (when I choose to stand up straight), and I’ve worn a size 7-7 1/2 sized shoe since middle school. Many of you know that I worked at Finishline for 4 years, and working there, and even just going to any sales rack at Nordstrom or Macy’s, I know that I have an average sized foot. This didn’t keep that ex from making “jokes” about how big my feet were. I say “jokes” because that’s how they were framed.

That he was joking. To the point that he called me a Hobbit more than once.

(Pause for laughter) It’s okay to laugh right now. In the moment, I did. If it was actually a joke, it would be a funny one. So, laugh.

Okay, you done? Good.

This ex, I now realize, used things about me to try to make him feel better about himself. Whether or not it actually did, I dunno, but I now see that this one in particular, was bred from his insecurities.

This ex wore what my athletic shoe store training and expertise told me was an average size for men. However, he felt it was small.

He felt small. And took it out on me.

My feet being what he thought were big, challenged him and his sense of self. So he had to tear me down. This is where the insidiousness comes in. He didn’t do it in overt and obvious ways. It was cloaked in “jokes".”

Abuse doesn’t always show physical signs. And not to participate in oppression olympics, because abuse is abuse is abuse, but mental isn’t easily detected. You can’t always see or hear what’s going on while in it, hence why, although it’s been a while since I left, I just had this particular epiphany.

Mental and emotional abuse make you question yourself.

Though I’d never been able to share shoes with my friends or mom (still can’t), though I knew that the shoes in my size were always the first to go, I began to wonder, “Do I really look like a Hobbit?” It was a gradual chipping away at my spirit.

This doesn’t go to say that all friends and loved ones who playfully tease are abusing you, but there’s a difference between a playful ribbing and someone picking on you, even if they say it with a smile.

Listen to your gut the first time.

On Perception

Perception is everything, get excited for what’s next. If God allowed it, and it’s out of your control, then what’s coming is even greater…be excited for the journey, the adventure.

-Meagan Good

I know, I know, I haven’t written in almost a year (geez), but when I watched this E! News clip of Meagan and Tia Mowry this morning, I felt compelled to write. Honestly, there have been many times in the last year when I’ve had these moments, usually in the morning, and allowed myself to become distracted by something else. Now, I’ll actually have fewer distractions, so there is no excuse not to put “finger to keyboard”. But we’ll get to the “whys” of that in a minute.

Meagan and Tia were both being asked about their recent divorces from their husbands, and how they’re coping with the new normal. Y’all know, so I don’t have to go back down that road, but for those who may be new, “Been there…done that…bought the t-shirt.” And their experiences and advice are spot-on. At least they were in my situation.

Back to why I’m writing this post—

On Tuesday, I found out that, for the first time ever in life, I was being laid off from the job I’ve had for the last 8 years. That’s right, I’ve neither been fired nor laid off before—I told y’all I’m a late bloomer. And like Tia and Meagan (and me when I was going through it), my support system surrounded me immediately. Between early morning check-ins, late-night check-ins (my little cousins knew I’d be asleep, but alas…), notes of encouragement during the day, people being pissed on my behalf, walks to get fresh air, laughs, offers to provide space if needed, and a 3-4 hour reworking of my resume (thank God for the boyfriend…), these past 66 hours have been a remarkable whirlwind.

And I thank you all.

Something that keeps being noted, however, is how I’m handling this situation. What would devastate some, and absolutely would’ve sent 2022 Monica on a spiral, is being welcomed by me. I’ve had a positive outlook and sunny disposition about the whole thing..so far.

Now, that doesn’t go to say that I haven’t been sad. I was in my physical office on Wednesday, looking for something, and began to get choked up. I even cried when I got back to my apartment, because this job has meant something to me. You don’t stay in a position for 8 years without getting attached. But, the news of the layoff hasn’t brought self-pity, loathing, or doubt in my abilities.

As Meagan said, “Perception is everything.” I’ve instead chosen to be excited about what’s to come. As I’ve pointed out to several people, my horoscopes (and the Pattern app) have been calling this for weeks, and I’ve been earnestly praying and asking God to close doors that are supposed to closed and open doors and windows that are supposed to be open. And if my life has taught me nothing else it has taught these three things:

  1. Be careful of what you wish for, because you will get it. Manifestation is real…and powerful.

  2. God answers prayers. The universe delivers. It may not, and likely won’t, look the way you anticipated, but you’ll get your answer.

  3. If you don’t move, you will be moved.

I tend to have the uncanniest knack at subconsciously preparing myself for major life transitions. Anyone who knows me, knows that I had been slacking lately in my spiritual connection..in fact, “slacking” is a HUGE understatement. It no longer existed. But, about a little over a month ago, I made the decision to pull myself out of a dark depression that I’d been in for a good 2 years, and reintroduce myself to myself. I’ve been making healthier decisions diet-wise (I still drink when I go out, but have y’all had the non-alcoholic wine/spirits/beers??? They’re bomb!), mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I’ve started picking up my hobbies again—who knew I could read?! I made the decision to live life instead of just existing through it. It’s been a journey, but a welcome one.

Okay, tangent over.

Where was I? That’s right, writing about perception.

For me, it’s simple: I can either choose to wallow and wonder “why me?” or I can be excited about the gift I’m being given and let adventurous Monica come back out to play.

I choose the latter.

Sunday Dinner

I grew up eating Sunday dinner every week. Like many other Black families, my grandmother, “Granny,” was in charge of the kitchen and cooked every week like clockwork. Granny was a very organized person, and my introduction to meal prep/planning didn’t come from some blog or new-age fad, it came from her.

Still, there were times when even she would forget an ingredient, and because she began cooking on Saturday, would then send my momma or one of my aunts to the store for the missing piece so she could finish, sit down in her chair, and wait for Sunday to come.

Because she was cooking, Granny didn’t have the time to wait for one of us to go out to the Price Chopper on 63rd, HyperMart, or even her favorite store, the Aldi by the Landing Mall, so she sent us to the one closest to our house: “The Stink Store.” “The Stink Store” was a SunFresh located on the corner of Linwood and Prospect. If you’re from Kansas City, you’ve at least passed by this store, or gone in it. The store always had an aroma of very fresh fish, and those who’ve gone fishing know that fish are not the best smelling things in the world. But I digress.

My family and I, the Aldi (though you wouldn’t know it today), and “The Stink Store” each existed in Black neighborhoods. Yesterday’s massacre in Buffalo brought these memories to the forefront.

“This could’ve been us.” is what I told my Momma yesterday. It’s not the first time I’ve felt this feeling.

Much like the Mother Emanuel massacre, this was not only an attack on our race but our culture. There are families that won’t have Sunday dinner today, because their grandmothers, mothers, and aunts/uncles, weren’t allowed to return home with the missing ingredient. Families, who, due to a white man’s hatred imbued by politicians and talking heads, did not get the chance to watch their granny take her seat in her chair last night, waiting for Sunday to come.

The Velvet Rope (Oct. 7) 2022 Edit

Remember when everyone thought Janet lost her mind?  The hair, the music, the insert. The phase I’m in.  You know, when I’m me.  A return.  

 

Rebellious, sensual, sexy, intellectual.  Fun.  

 

The last time I felt this free was in 1997.

wild red hair.  piercings.  

confident.

 

My family clutches their pearls.  

“Little sister is tripping” they say.

 

You bring out the best in me, the worst in me—me.  The first, my first who actually fell in love with me.  Not in my self-created fictitious world, but reality.  You’ve loved the woman.

 

You let me be me.  Encourage me even.

and that smile…makes me smile, coyly.  

 

You are my sexuality.  Or is my sexuality you?

You are my velvet rope.  the thing that allows me to break free. to take risks.

Our love is one hell of a risk.  Finding our sanity in a chaotic city.  

 

I took a chance with you.  

When I feel empty, you fill me--

feel me?  

 (2022 Edit): And to Jan… These cheeks, this smile…thank you for helping me love them.

The Fine Art of Disagreement

Before I begin, let me dust a bit, get rid of the cobwebs, and make sure my mic still sounds nice.  Check 1.

It has been a while, almost an entire year. Though I was struggling with creativity pre-Covid (y’all saw the posts), COVID really tried to take it out completely. But as Terrance would tell Khadijah every blue moon, “Baby, I’m back!” 

I think. Let’s see how today goes. 

I saw a tweet this morning that said their sexiest trait is having never had a phase where they watched Bill Maher. I liked it, agreed, and down the rabbit hole I went. You see, I like to talk to myself sometimes in order to process. I am, after all, an outward processor. My dislike of Bill Maher goes beyond him being obnoxious, exhibiting veiled (sometimes thinly) racism in almost everything he says (really, Black people? Why? Why did any of us ever see it for this man?), or a contrarian for contrarian’s sake. I also dislike him because he doesn’t know how to disagree without insulting, belittling, or demeaning the person he’s disagreeing with. So, as I was processing this with myself this morning, I was led to a theory—

Say what you want about the south and Midwest, affectionately referred to as “flyover states,” but growing up in these areas, we weren’t given the luxury of being able to escape or exist without encountering those we disagreed with. Sometimes on a daily basis. They showed up in our churches, our schools, our neighborhoods, and sometimes even in our families. So we learned how to navigate the fine art of disagreement. And we understood that everyone has and is entitled to their own opinion, no matter how much we disagree.

I was at an event for my job a few years ago, and said something like this. I caught a bit of hell for it. Let me be clear, no one is entitled to participating in the oppression or degradation of another person, that is wrong. And though opinion can often influence action, it is the opinion alone that is your right. Not the action.

I grew up in one debating-ass family. Some would take this as we don’t love or like each other. Those people would be wrong. We may not have gotten it right all the time, but ultimately, respected everyone’s mind. Respect, however, does not mean a pass. If you needed to be called out, you were (and are…they’ve seen me on the group chats lol). 

What did not, and should not, happen, is mocking or belittling someone for their beliefs. Life experience influences your opinion—it’s more nuanced than many want to admit. Accountability is one thing, mockery is another. 

And we aren’t talking satire, because the “Black Jeopardy” sketches are hilarious. 

Bill Maher, is not. 

An Ode to the End of Summer

Yesterday, I watched “Class Action Park,” a documentary on HBO Max about an amusement park in 1980s/1990s New Jersey. It’s actually really good, and you should watch it if you can.

However, this post isn’t about the corruption, (alleged) ties to the mob, negligence (seriously, that park should’ve been shut down long before it was), or even the lack of melanin present (I counted and found 2 Asians and 1 Black person…ooh, and in one of the newspaper articles about an accident at the park, there’s a fun headline underneath about a cross burning).

Nope. This will be about the nostalgia it elicited within me.

If you’re from Kansas City, or if you know a native, you have either heard of or been to Worlds of Fun. WOF, a Cedar Fairs park, opened on May 2, 1973 (learned that we are birthday twins during my deep dive yesterday, and considering all the good food at WOF, it would make sense that it’s a Taurus), becoming the competitor to Fairyland, the first and established, amusement park in KC.*

“I remember when it opened. They had Senior Night at the end of the year. They used to have a disco! Can’t think of what’s there now, but bands/groups would come and perform. Normally, they would charge a separate entrance fee, but not on Senior Night. You could go and dance and have fun.”

Worlds of Fun, when I was introduced to it, was separated into several “worlds”: “Orient,” Africa, Europa, Scandinavia, Americana, and the little kid-friendly “Pandamonium! (sic)”**. It also had a sister park, Oceans of Fun, next door. They’ve since merged, and admission grants access to both parks. We’ll talk more about how people used to hop the fence between WOF and OOF later.

Okay, I think that’s enough background. Onto the memories…

Before high-school, I went to WOF at least twice a year—once with my classmates at the end of summer school, and once with my family before the school year began. You see, I didn’t go on vacations as a kid—I’ve still never been to Disneyland, Disneyworld, or Universal Studios (unless you count the free areas I went to as an adult), but my mom wanted to make sure we had as much summer fun as possible.

So despite WOF being open through October/November, I usually only went in the summer; I wouldn’t go in the fall until young adulthood. I wanted to participate in their Halloween festivities and would often see commercials about Oktoberfest, but momma said it was “too cold to be on a roller coaster.” But anyway…

My introduction to the park was in ‘91/’92, putting me at 4 or 5 years old. I know, I know, no one would dare take a 4 or 5-year-old to an amusement park now, but, as Action Park-goers stated, that was normal then.  When you have older siblings who want to go to the park (and the parents did too) there isn’t much your parents can do but to bring you along for the ride. Of course, I was too short to ride anything without an adult, but there were lots of games, and thank God for Pandamonium!.

Notice how I said, “ride anything without an adult…”. That’s right since the Wacky Worm wouldn’t open until 1993, my first ride on a coaster was the Zambezi Zinger, in Africa…where the Boomerang now stands, with my mom in 1992. For two people who were afraid of heights, we sure loved our coasters. My mom would always tell me to raise my hands and go “whee” right before the first drop. From her mind’s eye, she realizes how dangerous it was to have small children on a roller coaster because “the sheer force could’ve broken limbs,” but laughs because it was fun. And it was. Again, it was the early 90s.

Older Millennials are also the ones who were fed Kid Cuisine, Sunny D, and Lunchables. We were the test rabbits. You’re welcome, Gen Z.

I also think that after the bumper cars and several rides on the Octopus, she wanted to have a little fun herself while also giving me a go at a “big kids’ ride.”

Because anything Sean could do, I should’ve been able to do. (a mentality I developed at an early age)

Our family’s favorite and usually last ride of the day was the Fury of the Nile. “The Fury” as we liked to call it, was a river raft ride, and it may be one of WOF’s oldest rides. As those on “Class Action Park” recalled Roaring Rapids, I immediately thought about “The Fury,” even with stories of rafts being flipped and stuck on rocks. Don’t get me wrong, “The Fury” seemed to be much safer than their ride (after all, WOF did hire actual engineers to construct its rides), and usually went off without a hitch.  Personally, I never saw a raft actually flipped though I heard stories. I can recall however, several times when my raft was pushed onto the rocks by another, stuck on the ramp (workers had to push it themselves), and even a group of (seemingly) drunk white boys trying to use their weight to flip the raft (much to the horror of their girlfriends). Some of my best memories were of us trying to turn the raft so the “big wave” could soak someone. You either left that ride dry or completely soaked, there was no in-between.

The Viking Voyager. This was another boat ride, though it was milder than “The Fury.” I bring it up mostly because it was the only time I saw Granny go to Worlds of Fun. Momma said it was her favorite ride. I was probably around 7-ish, and her laugh stays with me.

“Why did the floor drop and I dropped with the floor? Everyone else is sucked to the wall, but I’m kinda like sitting and everyone else is standing up (as they’re supposed to).”

Ah, the Finnish Fling, affectionately known as “The Floor Drop.” Another instance of AAVE taking over. It was so intense a ride that you had to wear closed-toe shoes or else they wouldn’t let you on. Seriously. That was a rule. Legend has it that someone had on flip flops, and they flipped and flopped and popped someone in the face. But that could’ve just been an urban legend. There were no seatbelts or harnesses on this ride. It relied purely on physics. Force (or is it velocity…or something else?) stuck you to the wall as the tube spun round and round. And the magic trick? After several cycles, the floor drops from under you, leaving you suspended and stuck to the wall.

There weren’t too many people brave enough to ride it.

I am the weirdo who remembers when each ride was introduced to the park. That is, if it was introduced in the 90s. I used to treat it like a parlor trick of sorts. I’m still pretty good at it. Test me if you want.

The Mamba opened in 1998. At the time, I remember it being heralded as the “fastest, tallest, coaster with the highest hill” or something like that. What we knew it is as was the ride that was famously stuck. Seriously, if you didn’t get stuck on The Mamba, did you even ride it? I’ve been stuck right after it leaves the station, at the top of the first hill, at the end where the brakes hit, and right before you pull into the station. Despite this, The Mamba quickly grew to be my favorite ride in the park. I even have a favorite side/seat. Remember the height fear I said I had? Well, I needed to be on what I call the ”inside” seat because it’s cradled by your seatmate and the emergency stairs and railing (which I fortunately never needed to use). It got to the point that I’d ride it several times in one trip. I knew where all the cameras were located (it’s the second or third consecutive hill), and while I wish I had those pictures, this was the time in my life when I was sans parental supervision and only given enough money to get food. And the food at WOF was EXPENSIVE.

Funnel cakes, funnel cakes galore! Look, I haven’t been to WOF since 2008, yet I’m pretty sure the funnel cake prices are astronomical now. When we’d go as a school, they provided a packed lunch so everyone had something to eat. We’d leave the park for an hour or so, eat our lunch, and get back to the fun. With my family? Well, momma made sure we ate beforehand, but we didn’t leave without sharing a funnel cake. My favorite was plain. Just powdered sugar and fried dough. Don’t put syrup or fruit on mine…

There are so many other memories I have about WOF, and I’ll share more in bullet points because this has been long enough. But I cannot leave without first giving honor and glory to Oceans of Fun.  We barely knew one another; I can think of 2 times that I went. I wasn’t allowed to go that often because well, you had to pay a cost of admission to each park, but also because my momma didn’t think it was sanitary. Meanwhile, my feeble brain thought that if you could go to OOF, you were rich. Oceans of Fun, although a separate park, shared a few rides.

One of the rides they shared was the Python Plunge. I didn’t ride it much because it was always shut down, but I did get to ride once or twice. Much like another water slide mentioned on “Class Action Park,” I would fly up off the slide as I was coming down. In fact, the first time I rode, I surely thought I’d die because of that. Again, I’ve heard stories of people flying off it and getting hurt, but those were just stories…

That wave pool. That’s also something I recognized in the documentary. It’s also where I nearly drowned. After learning the mechanisms of a wave pool, I don’t know if the little boy was intentionally trying to drown me or if he was just trying to keep himself from drowning and I was the nearest target. But what I do know is that my cousin punched him so I could get up.

If you’re a person of a particular age, you’ll remember the opening credits to the TGIF show, “Step by Step.” And if you’re of a particular age and from Kansas City, you’ll recognize a ride similar to The Monsoon. When I was little, you couldn’t tell me that the bridge the parents were on wasn’t The Monsoon. At that age, I thought every roller coaster I saw in tv/film was filmed on location at Worlds of Fun.

(editor’s note: I also thought the zombie dance sequence in “Thriller” was filmed at the Linwood Shopping Center. KC was the center of my universe.)

I really can’t believe that they haven’t renamed the Orient area of the park to “Asia,” but at one time in my life, it was my favorite. The food was amazing; it was in the middle of the park so a great meeting point if you got separated from your party (in close proximity to everything not in “Africa”), and was home to my white whale, “The Orient Express.” I first rode “The Orient” as we called it (again, we liked to shorten names), in either ‘97 or ‘98.  “The Orient” was my first “big girl” coaster, and after years of holding my friends’ things because I wasn’t tall enough to ride, I had something to prove. At the time, it was the only roller coaster that went in a loop, thereby needing over-the-shoulder harnesses to keep you safe. MOST people were terrified of it—which only made my desire stronger. I don’t even think my roller coaster-loving, annual carnival/amusement park taking, mother has ever been on it (she can correct me if I’m wrong). I was with my classmates on my first trip, and though tried to seem cool, was terrified of what was to come.   I heard stories of people chipping teeth and/or being concussed because of the harnesses (I eventually realized the injury depended on your height), vomit..vomit everywhere, and the famed “Chicken Exit.” I’m not going to lie, when I got to the boarding area, I seriously considered exiting stage right, (and someone in my party who shall remain nameless) did, but I thought, “Nope. I’m going to do this.” Again I had something to prove. This proved to be another ride that I had to have been too small to ride. Tall enough, sure, but I wouldn’t feel that beaten up by a ride until I rode the Ninja at Six Flags St. Louis a few years later. Thank God for those harnesses though because I came apart from my seat several times while on it. Where would I be, for sure…

But that didn’t stop me. Each year, I would “take a trip on the Orient Express”—even if I didn’t have a riding buddy.

“Class Action Park” awakened a lot of these memories in me. Amusement parks are amusing, but they also, whether professionally engineered or not, come with a level of risk. Unless all you do is order food, you’ll never leave unscathed in one way or another.***

But you’ll also have a world of fun.

Worlds of Fun, I still remember every click, gear switch, scream…I even remember the smell. It was a distinct smell that only smells like you. I made sure to walk under the bridge coming out of Africa at night because that mist just hit differently than in Americana. You introduced me to Dippin’ Dots and Panda Express. You also let me live out my dreams of being on Star Search and gave me a personalized airbrushed purse that I know is in my momma’s garage somewhere. I went to the fireworks spectacular in summer ‘02, and teared up as I heard “Proud to be an American” (hate that song now—that post 9/11 trauma was real).

We’re in the age of ‘Rona right now, but I swear that if you’re alive for your 50th, just know I’m coming through. We’ll toast to our birthday.

Other Memories

-Omegatron. A ride I knew but never knew its name until today. It was another ride, though tall enough, wasn’t heavy enough, so I hit my head on the top of the cart a few times. I always left with a headache—was likely concussed. It’s actually why I stopped riding it.

-The Zulu. Enough said.

-Witnessing more than a few people get sick while riding “The Bamboozler.” This was also a ride that I was too small to ride alone, so my momma rode with me.

-The hunting game over by The Zulu and Python Plunge. No one else seems to remember this, but there was a game, I think it was called “Big Game Hunt” or something, where you’d take a toy rifle and try to kill as many animals as you could for a prize. Gotta love the 90s. It was always empty though, which is probably why no one remembers it.

-Speaking of games…shoutout to the guessing game where they attempted to either guess your birth month, weight (they had a scale), or age. I ALWAYS won because again, I was a smaller child who looked a lot younger than she was.

-The Cyclone Sam, which I stood in line for 2 hours to ride the first year it opened (1994), and made sure I rode every year after. If nothing else, you got a sweet reprieve from the heat as it was the only ride with A/C.

-WOF loved a spinning ride. Between the Cyclone Sam, the Bamboozler, the Finnish Fling (Floor Drop), Zulu, Octopus, Scrambler…need I go on? Stepping around, or smelling, vomit was not unusual.

-The Detonator opened in ‘96. I got stuck on it too. My mother was terrified. I was up in the air, feet dangling. Swore I could see my house from there. Another fond memory—hearing my cousin’s high pitched scream as the train shot up the tube. His identity is concealed to protect the innocent.

-The Ripcord—that same cousin I heard shoot up The Detonator is the same one who bravely flew over our heads on The Ripcord—a ride I still haven’t had the courage to ride.

-The Timberwolf. A great and classic rollercoaster. Someone did die while riding it though. I was either 7 or 8. I think she was 14. The park, witnesses, and media all said that she was trying to switch seats when she fell to her death, her family says it was a seatbelt malfunction. Either way, I was terrified to ride for years after that.

-Watching the big kids sneak into OOF from WOF before the cost granted you admission to both parks. There was some fence they’d hop, or they’d know the person working admission who’d let them in.

-EVERYONE, myself included, wanted to work at WOF. Coincidentally, everyone who worked there said that’s the worst job they ever had.

*Fairyland ultimately closed in the late 70s. I remember my mom driving by its ruins as a little girl, and telling me all her Fairyland tales. If she gives me permission, I’ll share…or better yet, have HER write them. You hear that, Janet Kay? YOU need to write!

**Pandamonium has since gone on to become Berenstain Bears Country (this happened a few years after I aged out), Camp Snoopy, and now, Planet Snoopy.

***What happened at Action Park was negligent. They should’ve paid for every injury, and certainly every death.

Centennial

I was 11 when I first performed it.  I took my place at the famed Gem Theater (pronounced “thee-a-tuhr” for the uninitiated..emphasis on the “a”) on 18th and Vine and spoke the words, 

“Ain’t I a woman?”

I would go on to perform it years after that, in different areas and for different reasons, but to the AME community in Kansas City, that particular performance became my signature.

My mother introduced me to this speech turned poem by Sojourner Truth in a women’s poetry compilation under the same name when I was around 7 or so.  You see, it was important to her that I not only be proud to be Black and a woman, but proud to be a Black woman.  

This is a woman y’all who didn’t let me have anything but Black dolls and would request the gift receipt if friends/family dared to purchase otherwise.  This is also the same woman who, as she tells it, drove to “hither and yon” to find the last Black talking family dollhouse in the KC area, and went to Toys ‘R Us’ stockroom to get it.  

*she tells this story way better than I do, and whenever she tells it. I imagine a sort of espionage thriller*

All that (and more) said I am unapologetically proud to be a Black woman.  And, as I grew older and dove into history and the social sciences, I learned more about the Suffragist Movement.   Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton fought for women! And won (us) the right to vote!  Though women who looked like me wouldn’t get that right until almost 50 years later.  Growing up, it wasn’t really something that was discussed in my house but, became familiar through TV/film and academic lessons.  Despite the “Ain’t I a Woman” performances, however, I didn’t think to critically engage the suffragists until college and then began to understand.

“How could women have gained the right to vote in 1920, when Black people (including women) weren’t able until 1965?” I would wonder, oftentimes to myself.  It just never made sense to me.  

Sojourner Truth gave her speech during the Women’s Convention in Akron in 1851, invited, I assume because she was a steadfast abolitionist and those in power wanted to keep up appearances.  Though Sojourner may not have been speaking directly to Elizabeth or Susan in giving her speech, she was speaking directly to their spirit.  You see, many white women, including Susan and Elizabeth, would give their lives before letting a Black person have the right to vote (at all) before they had it.  For this, they were portrayed as noble and brave.  And they were…for white women.  This rule didn’t apply to Black women or other women of color.  We’d see a repeat in 2nd wave feminism with Betty Friedan’s “Feminist Mystique” and the feminist movement of the time.  (It is why I wrote and am editing the “Womanist Mystique.”) Do not take this to mean that I am not a feminist or believe in its ideals. I do. I just believe that it should be inclusive of all women, and not hedged upon white women. Both not only centered but exclusively focused on the realities of, white women.  The Suffragists, however, actively worked against the progress of Black women—especially if it meant that we’d receive equal or better treatment than them—an issue that currently exists.

“Ain’t I a Woman” is not simply a poem about Black womanhood, it is a poem that demands you see us as women and acknowledge and fight for our experiences and truths.  It is also about men seeing and treating us as such (yes, that includes Black men), so we aren’t as Zora Neale Hurston would put it, “de Mule Uh de World.” I peep what y’all are doing with Michelle Obama’s DNC speech…we never asked to save you, and Kate Rushin already told y’all to stop trying to have us “mediate your worst self on behalf of your better selves.” 

So on today, which is a celebration for many women who will undoubtedly wear white and  (even if through their teeth) will support the orange cretin’s pardoning of Susan B. Anthony, I instead choose to uplift those women like me, who Susan didn’t consider as she fought for the rights of those who looked like her.  Women like Sojourner Truth, Jarena Lee, Ida B. Wells, and countless others, names both known and unknown, including my mother and hers.  I salute your work and struggle.  Because without YOU, I wouldn’t be where I am. 

Earth Day 2020

Writer’s note: I participated in a free-write session on Monday, April 20th, and we were coached to explore the following question. This was my contribution.

Where were you the first time you fell in love?

I fell in love with the written word at an age that I was too young to truly recall; I was an early reader.  I fell in love with writing however, when I was 7.  It was a sunny summer day outside and I was sitting on my family’s newly enclosed porch when I had my first “spark.”  The genesis, if you will.  I wrote a poem that I still remember to this day.  I never titled it, but it reflected my 7-year old anxieties about the planet and our future.  The poem was about the hole in the ozone layer.

I find it quite serendipitous to be reflecting on this during Earth Week while in the midst of a global pandemic—a time when I feel the earth needed us to chill and sit down for a minute so she could reset.    

I was a child who watched the news religiously.  Now, I can’t exactly say if it’s because I was truly interested in current events or that it was just because it always seemed to be on the tv, but I knew a lot about what was going on in the world for my age.  And that particular day, I heard a news report about the ozone layer, which was also probably when I first encountered “global warming,” and I was afraid.  The report said suggested that by the year 2020, it would be no more, and that we wouldn’t have protection from the sun—leading to our eventual demise.  

I don’t know why, and this may be something I need to unpack with my therapist, but I was preoccupied with death in a way that no 7-year-old should be.  There’s a reason Vada Sultenfuss was always one of my favorite characters.  

Anyway, as I sat on the newly purchased porch furniture, complete with that “new smell”, I began to write: 

“One day I had to move. 

So I lifted this big ‘hoove.’

The ‘hoove’ (went) so high

It touched the sky

And didn’t come back ’til the 4th of July.

It reached the ozone layer

Which was beginning to look grayer

Until we had a prayer.

When 4th of July rolls around

And you see a big ‘hoove’ touch the ground,

Don’t be surprised, believe your eyes. 

It was me who lifted the ‘hoove.’”

I don’t know why I’ve always remembered this poem, but I have.  Almost 26 years later, and I can still remember being the little girl, sitting in the front chair on my family’s front porch, discovering I have a talent for writing.

A Blessed Easter Morn

While I was always raised in the church, I wasn’t someone who had to go all-day, every day. First of all, I’m AME; we aren’t necessarily known for the all-day services (thank God). Secondly, my mom gave my brother and me some freedom on how we engaged outside the weekly gatherings. For me, that was not participating in Sunday School.

However…

One Sunday School activity I always had to participate in, was the Easter (later called “Resurrection Sunday”) program. Each year, I was sent home with a poem or some form of prose, and each year, I had to recite it in front of the congregation.

So Easter has always held some significance in my life.

—————-

As I’m writing this, the DMV, like most of the country, has been issued stay-at-home orders. Actually, today is exactly one month since I’ve been working at home, and exactly one month that I’ve gone without wearing a bra. But that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, along with these stay-at-home orders come the decision to cancel church. And cancelling church, during the Lenten season no less, is not something most devout Christians are willing to do.

Which is why I was so pleasantly surprised to see how many churches did. When my mother told me that Allen Chapel in KC not only decided to no longer hold physical service, but moved to an online platform, I about shouted.

And as we know, the last time I attended Sunday service was Easter 2018, at the behest of my mother who said it would be a birthday present to her.

Guilt trips work every time.

(narrator: Monica again attneded service at the very subtle encouragement of her mother this Easter morn. She was cooking while doing so, but the Zoom was on.)

So back to Easter 2020. Earlier this week, I considered logging on virtually, but I also didn’t want to be one of those EAC Christians*. Conditioning has taught me that it shows you aren’t truly loyal, and experience has shown me that those are the ones most harshly judged.

Still, the thought carried on. That is, until I received another idea.

“Let me go around DC (proper, not M or V), and take pictures of various churches on Easter Sunday.”

I imagined it would be powerful and impactful to see these churches that would normally be buzzing on Easter morning, empty. As a trained journalist and a historian, I had to capture these images.

At first, I thought maybe I should just photograph the Black churches in DC, considering how important Easter is to our community, but then I remembered that there aren’t as many Black churches in NW DC as there used to be, and, due to the orders, I didn’t want to venture too far outside my quadrant. I set two goals: Metropolitan AME (where I’m still on the roll) and the National Cathedral. I knew which route I’d take, and knew that I’d catch other churches along the way.

So I got out this morning around 9:45 ish. I wore my mask and told myself that I’d only get out the car if the street was close to, or completely, empty. I expected the city to resemble a ghost town as much as possible.

I was wrong.

————-

While I was able to secure my pictures of Metropolitan (a church I haven’t seen in almost 3 years), Asbury UMC, Mt. Vernon Place UMC, John Wesley AMEZ, and a few Episcopal and Catholic churches, I was unable to get the Cathedral.

Why? Because there were a ton of people there. I’m sure they were only sightseeing, but I had to honor the promise I made myself. I was not going to get out of the car unless the area was empty.

Now I’m kicking myself for not at least getting a picture of all the cars lined along Wisconsin Ave. That could’ve been a powerful picture.

I also passed by the farmer’s market at DuPont Circle. While the crowds weren’t as busy as they’d normally be on a Sunday, I had a feeling that my timing (and the weather) had an impact. Even given their small-ish crowd, no one was practicing social distancing. I wonder what the area looks like now that it’s 2 pm, the skies are blue, and sun is shining.

There were so. many. people. out.

Brief tangent: I know we’re supposed to all be in this together, but I couldn’t help but notice who had on a face covering or mask and who didn’t. Most of the white people I saw were bare-faced, while every POC, even those assumed direlect, wore either a mask or scarf. Perhaps it’s because we know that, no matter our station in life, we are still the most impacted, and despite what the AG thinks, it has nothing to do with us not wanting to make our “Big Mama/Abuela" or “Pop-Pop” proud.

And yes, I could be reprimanded for not staying at home myself. Afterall, I didn’t actually get the story that presented itself because I was in search of the story I wanted to tell. And while I did so to be cautious, my observations were more powerful than the pictures I took.

The idea is that we’ll be off lockdown in a couple of weeks, but from what I observed before 10:30 am, we’ll need at least a couple of weeks to determine how much of an impact this Easter holiday will have on the virus. This isn’t just the evangelical church-goers. I’m sure there will be family and friends gathering at each other’s houses because “they don’t have it,” and the loneliness that we have all experienced over the last few weeks is getting to be too much. There will be parents who host Easter egg hunts for neighborhood children and their families, in an effort to give the kids some sort semblance of normalcy and holiday fun. Neither of these things are done maliciously. My photo project wasn’t done maliciously.

We’re all just trying to find some normal. Some meaning in all this. Trying to find the beauty.***

I didn’t get the story I wanted; I’ll share the pictures anyway. As you view them however, just try to imagine what they would’ve been like on Easter 2019; how they’d be if our government responded in a way where we could actually have packed the pews this Easter: regular attendees, and EACs alike, all dressed in our finest—welcoming the unofficial beginning of spring.

That, despite all the words in between, is the story I wanted to tell.

*Those who know, know. Those who don’t, it means “Easter and Christmas only.”

**There are images that are forever burned in my mind, but I never got on film. One was the view from my office window at Manley HS in Chicago. The skyline in the background, standing so powerful and proud, and the extreme poverty right underneath it—it told the story of two Chicagos.

***Except for the man a couple days ago who, after the mayor said we had to shop with some form of face covering, smugly came into Safeway, and wouldn’t leave my personal space until I gave him “the look.” That man had malicious intent. You can’t convince me otherwise.

Auld Lang Syne

As I write this, I’m uncharacteristically sad considering the day. I woke up this morning, bought my usual balloons and prosecco and gin, excited for what the night had to offer. But as the day wore on, this cloud of gloom found its home with me.

I’m lonely.

Anyone who knows me knows that NYE is my favorite holiday. For all my Forrest Gump fans, “…you get to start all over.” It’s the time of the year for resolutions and redos; the season when old acquaintance are forgot, and never brought to mind. We each begin with a clean slate. It’s the only day of the year when, no matter how tired, drunk, or bored, I can’t go to bed before midnight.

Not marking the new year is a sin. Not marking a new decade? Well, I don’t want to tempt fate.

What you don't know is that this tradition, that has been embedded in your brains and social media, only began in 2016. I was supposed to attend a friend’s birthday party with my now ex-husband, and it was a couples’ party. Well, last minute, he decided he’d rather attend Watch Night services.

And I’ve never been a Watch Night type of gal.

To save myself the embarrassment, I chose to stay at home. I’m super grateful that, at the same time, there was another short, Black woman who was doing the same. That was the year the cold temperatures were actually able to silence Mariah.

In 2017, I needed to release an incredible amount of tension. In 2018, I needed to celebrate surviving the year that was.

This year? Call me ungrateful and bratty, but I’m finding a reason to toast and create a cocktail pretty difficult at this moment.

However, I know that this coming year will be one for the books. I got the initial vision around mid-spring/early summer, and I trust it. There are doors opening that I cannot yet see, so I’m believing that even this feeling is a way to purge so I’m ready to receive. I’ve committed to doing things differently this year (seriously, I haven’t even touched the bottle of very expensive gin), and instead choosing to focus inward.

In the spirit of that, I’m going to do something else I don’t normally do: make resolutions.

I previously thought that there was a weakness in resolving to change, especially when most changes were thrown to the side before the groundhog told us, once again, that we were in for 6 more weeks of winter. I would fight so hard against making resolutions, even saying, “Well, this is the habit I’m going to cultivate…”

I can be quite insufferable.

Which is the perfect segue into my resolutions.

So, here goes:

In 2020, I resolve—

  • To speak to myself in the way that I’d speak to a friend.

This self-deprecating speech has brought nothing but a sense of depression. I think I’m being “snarky and cute,” not realizing the actual mental and emotional anguish I’m causing myself.

  • To kick perfectionism to the curb.

A wise person once told me that “perfect is the enemy of good.” Another wise person told me, “Done is better than perfect.” My brand of perfectionism has crippled me, and I refuse to let it have a hold over me.

  • To fall in love with my hobbies.

Earlier this morning, I mentioned to my mother how applying for graduate school encapsulated my life, to the point that even if I wasn’t actively working on it, I knew I should be so nothing else mattered. As a result, I stopped engaging my hobbies. I stopped being as adventurous with my cooking and put down my knitting needle. I have plans to visit my closest yarn studio, maybe even one that I haven’t seen since 2010 before the end of the weekend to get started on the black scarf that was requested of me. The writing is currently happening. :)

  • To diversify my input.

For the last couple of years, I’ve surrounded myself with words and works of people who look like me. ONLY people who look like me. And well frankly, my creativity has suffered. It’s not that the pieces weren’t quality (they were), but, for me, when I do that, I’m less able to fully critique society. Being a “live and let live” kind of person, I never thought I’d be someone like this, but it’s easy to do especially when you’re in a space of healing and growth. It’s okay for me to branch out now. My writing will thank me for it.

  • Embrace confidence.

In every way. Even in my speech. I’m resolving to strike “I think…” unless I am about to explain an actual thought instead of using it to make what I’m saying more palatable.

  • Keep me up.

Vanity be damned. It is important to me to make sure that I continue keeping up with my regular haircuts, and eyebrow appointments. I am empowering myself to play with my look and do what I need to make sure I look the best I can look. Not what anyone else thinks.

  • Deeply engage my spirituality.

  • Love deeply.

  • Reconnect with the outdoors.

  • To travel more.

Come on, you need at least one cliche. ;)

  • Being a better friend, girlfriend, loved one…

This decade, especially the last half, has been quite selfish. It was needed for my growth, but I am in a space where I can finally share my love with those who love me.

  • To make this a living, breathing list.

I don’t believe that this list should end. There should always be something that I think, “Shoot! I should’ve added…” or, better yet, “Wow, I didn’t realize this…”

I resolve to grow, continuously and without shame.

To 2020, I’m feeling better and ready for you. Let’s have a ball.

Diagnosis

Anyone who knows me knows I love a good self-diagnosis.
My mother would say it’s my missed calling in medicine. She loves me.
Others roll their eyes and entertain my new theory.
They also love me.

Here goes.

I’ve always been petite. Not just short, but petite. And while that may be the accepted standard of beauty for white folks, it didn’t quite fly in my culture.

I’ve been told that I look like I need a burger. That it hurts to look at me because it must hurt to be so petite. That my wrists look like they’d break at any moment. I’ve been told I need to gain weight.

When I’ve never been underweight.

But that’s where it began. I was in middle school the first time I wanted to be thicker. I was sick of being mistaken for someone at least 5 years my junior. I’d look at the girls in my school who had dimpled thighs, and think that, what I know now to be cellulite, was what I needed to be mature. To me, I still had a little girl’s body.

Did I mention I was only in middle school? I understand now that Black girls are expected to mature faster, our bodies shaped like a woman’s when we are still playing with our baby dolls. Our childhood is limited. (There’s a thesis in there, and it will be mine so…)

Anyway, that’s how I felt. And while I did feel my (lack of) body protected me from preying eyes, I couldn’t help but also wish I had a bigger chest (I wouldn’t become a D cup until my mid-20s), thicker thighs, and a rounder, more profound, ass.

That was, after all, what the guys wanted.

I went to high school with these issues. I was the smallest of my friend-group. Although I wanted that experience, especially since I didn’t have sisters, there wasn’t anyone I could swap clothes with. I had to have my homecoming dresses and uniform skirts taken in. Tailors would joke about having to cut half the dress for it to fit me. My mother would joke about how it cost more to tailor the dress or skirt than it did to buy it.

While I’m not 100% sure, I think my choice to be sexually active was, to me, how I could validate my maturity. You know, since my body wouldn’t do it. But that’s a topic for another day, and several therapy sessions.

Okay, so back to the self-diagnosis. I believe that I’ve always had, to one extent or another, a form of body dismorphia. This would lead to me checking an eating disorder later in life before it got out of control, but we’ll get there.

Weight was always an issue in my family. We all grew up petite, with a little but of a butt, but, after kids and age, put on a little weight. And, to many of the women in my family, gaining weight was one of the worst things that could happen. So I tried to fight against that. I told myself that any weight I’d gain would be welcome, even writing a Tumblr post to celebrate my acceptance.

But whenever I went home, it seeped through. Even being teased about how, although smaller than the size I am now, I was gaining weight because I had the nerve to enjoy Panda Express after work one day. I screamed at my granny, “People starve themselves to be my size, and you call me fat?!”

Not realizing that I was taking in what was being served.

I’d be the heaviest I’ve been the day I got married. After a summer of pizza and Chinese food, after being in a relationship with someone who loved to cook (I love to eat) and would expect me to eat his serving size (although he was at least twice my size), I was 140 lbs. To many, that’s not a lot. However, to someone who was 94 lbs all through high school, and didn’t go beyond 110 until after college, it was massive. I thought I was bigger than I was.

However, I knew I wasn’t healthy and wanted to be healthier. I also didn’t have the money to replace clothes at the drop of the hat. I was already doing that for someone else. So I had to gain control.

I began eating healthier, cleaner. I learned how good food was supposed to give me energy, not deplete me of it, and how to properly feed my body. As a result, I began losing weight.

That time was the healthiest I’ve been.

In the time since, I’ve moved cities, started a new job, gone through a divorce…so much was out of my control that I found myself unhealthy again. My scale was tipping back toward 125. And once it hit 125, it would undoubtedly hit 130, and it would all be downhill from there.

So I kicked the healthy eating into overdrive. I noticed how when I had something with cheese or wheat or a sodium content higher than 10% I’d bloat.

I looked in the mirror and saw the puffy chipmunk cheeks. I noticed how I could no longer feel my bones touching at night when I was curled up in my bed, and I used those as indicators on how often, and what, I should eat. Not to mention, the scale. The scale is a stern mistress.

But no, I didn’t have an eating disorder. Dear God, no. I loved to cook, and eat. Besides, I couldn’t make myself throw up if I wanted to. Also, it wasn’t like I was eating salads or something. I was finding things that “worked” with my body.

“Perhaps I have a gluten sensitivity.”
“Maybe I should stop eating so much sodium.” *

I managed to get back down to 114.

But, that little butt i had, all but went away.

He asked me to “fat” with him a couple of months ago at Sbarro’s. I was so scared. Because I knew that, although I wanted to, that one slice of pizza after a day of Chinese food and brunch meant 3-5 lbs on the scale. It meant that, although happy, I would look like the person in the pictures from earlier that year with her chipmunk cheeks.

I secretly agonized over whether to choose the cheese (which I really wanted) or veggie slice. Because he encouraged me to get pizza, not one of the veggie appetizers. I think he knew it too, because when the sbarro workers seemingly forgot my order, (cue my relief) there he was to remind them.

And it hit me.

Honestly, mothers, at least mine, are always right. They know when something is wrong.

I had been starving myself. Just so I could keep a certain number. My recipes have sucked as of late because of the fear of the unhealthy. And I learned a name for it:

Orthorexia

So now, although I do think everyone is entitled to their happy weight/size range, you shouldn’t have to go overboard to maintain it. My happy range is 115-117. Even before I really started gaining weight, it’s where I feel the most energetic, the most fit. This is where I am.

I remind myself, daily, to check in with how I’m feeling more so than the number on the scale. It isn’t easy to not fight through the feelings of hunger knowing that if dared eat lunch then I won’t be hungry for dinner, and the timing of dinner vs when I go to sleep matters. This is hard.

There will be days when I slip. Times when I go to Giant and struggle to buy cheese, or choose to eat ramen noodles instead of the juicy impossible burger I’m actually craving.

I’m still learning. And getting better.

And no, momma, this isn’t grounds for you to call me at lunchtime everyday to make sure I’m eating (although I know you will lol).

I’m regaining my love for cooking. And not simply for the sake of health and a particular body size.

Bloat happens. And I don’t need to pop gas-x multiple times a day to keep it at bay.

Be kind to your bodies, and I promise I’ll be kind to mine.

*As your body ages, your system changes. Tomatoes, although one of my favorites, give me crazy heartburn although they didn’t just two years ago. Cheese will stop me up like no one’s business. You must learn to change with your developing body, but don’t deprive yourself of the things you crave. At the end of the day, moderation is key.

Giving Myself Permission

“Life moves in seasons…”

I should know this. I do know this. After all, I love “Turn! Turn! Turn!” (fun fact: I’m a big 50s-60s folk music fan), as well as the chapter in Ecclesiastes on which it’s based. I tend to preach this mantra to my friends, so why was it that when it was said to me, I felt as if I’d never heard it before?

If your answer was, “because you don’t practice what you preach", then you’d be correct. And a jerk. Don’t you recognize a rhetorical question when you see one?

The saying, “You are your biggest critic” is an understatement when it comes to me. Boy, I am hard on myself! What people may not know about me is that I’m a perfectionist. That perfectionism works in tandem with my anxiety, thus creating my procrastination. Procrastination then leads to incompletion, causing frustration, doubt, and disappointment.

When you’re like me, you think you should be able to get everything done at the same time, and you feel like a failure when you don’t. But even multiple spinning plates come down one after the other.

After beating myself up about not committing to my blog and writing as often as I said I would, my mentor reminded me that life moves in seasons and that it’s okay for ….

Despite what I said on here, to myself, or to others, I thought I had to post at the frequency of “x”, figure out how I could speak on every current event, and be published regularly to be considered a writer. What no one knows, well now you do, is that lately, I’ve been in the doubt portion of my cycle because I let so much time go between posts. Thinking that maybe I’m not taking it seriously enough. Not realizing that, in addition to my day job (where July-mid-September are the busiest months), I’ve been focused on GRE prep and PhD applications (I’m getting into somebody’s school, dammit), and had a medical issue I had to deal with.

I can’t lie, even just typing all that gave me anxiety. And as I’m typing, I’m looking over at my planner that I haven’t filled out today, the budget planner that needs to be completed, thinking about when I’m going to study…that I broke my morning routine by sitting down to write. Thinking I should be doing everything but what I’m being led to do in this moment. However, there’s still another voice that’s reminding me that she’s proud that I broke from normal routine, and that sometimes it’s okay to do so. “How many times”, she asks, “how many times have you had an idea but it never materialized because you stuck to routine instead of getting it out?”

Okay, I’m rambling…

While I was so stressed about writing, or the lack thereof, I didn’t realize that it wasn’t the season for that. It’s not always a block. Writing just wasn’t the spinning plate that needed my immediate attention. I am a writer because I write. And right now, my life may not allow me the luxury of posting every week, or even every month, but certainly not every day. Life does, in fact, move in seasons. So I have to move with it. I have to lead with compassion and give myself permission to do so.

Finally, in my quest to battle perfectionism, I’m going to post this, unedited. Because what I’ve also been told is that “done is better than perfect.”

On Setting Boundaries

I’ve been reading Bassey Ikpi’s book, “I’m Lying but I’m Telling the Truth.” Anyone who follows me on social media knows that I was initially taken by the title—thinking it would be about the lies Bassey told herself to survive. This got to me because it is one of the writing ideas I’ve held in my head for at least a year now, but have yet to put on paper or screen.

Thing is, Bassey’s book is actually about that; she says so within the first few pages. However, it’s also much darker than I anticipated, and yesterday, I realized that I may have to put it down for a beat. After a conversation I had with one of my trusted advisors, I was encouraged to go with my gut and manage my input.

Me: “But I feel it’s insensitive to not be able to read something that she actually went through.”

HIm: “It’s okay for you to put the book down. It’s okay to not finish something (editor’s note: not finishing is something I frequently beat myself up about). Sometimes you have to step away for your mental health. Especially when you’re like you are and want to feel everything—it’s like you want to feel the hurt.”

Me: “I’m an empath. It’s what we do.”

Him: “That’s a cop-out. Empaths are emotional junkies…”

Now while I don’t necessarily agree with what he said, I also don’t think he’s wrong. Empaths can be emotional junkies when we don’t learn to protect our energy, and set emotional boundaries. We do feel deeper than others and it’s because of that that it’s important we are mindful of what we allow in. Boundary setting and protecting myself is a point that he’d go on to make, and he’d end the conversation by, once again, encouraging me to put the book down.

So, I did.

I’m sure I’ll pick it back up because it is a fantastic book about a woman’s mental health journey (I encourage everyone, especially Black women, to read it), but I can’t in this moment.

And that’s okay.

Labor Day

Yesterday, as I was talking to one of my best friends, I was telling her about my recent dreams. They all, in their own way, had to do with me being trapped or stuck. Silenced.

(There was one where my mom and I were trapped in R. Kelly’s house…remind me to tell you about that one. In short, I kicked his ass—and found out he’s a eunuch.)

The issue with those dreams, I told my friend, is that I don’t “feel” trapped or stuck. I don’t feel constrained, so it’s confusing.

Writer’s note: I suppose now’s a good time to tell you that God, my creator, the universe, speaks to me through dreams. I think it’s because that’s the only time I’m completely still. It’s been proven many times over. That’s my spiritual gift. It’s equally terrifying and exciting.

Anyway, I asked my friend to pray for me (and you better do it), and told her that I’ve been praying for an explanation…clarity. I also told her that I often tell God to make it clear because I can be slow or question the message I’m receiving.

Who knew that it would come through an app?

This Pattern app is so spot on sometimes it’s scary.

Just this morning, I wondered what it meant that when I don’t have to work I can wake up with no issue, but lately, when I do have to work, I sleep in (which has never been me). 

Then, when I prayed, I asked my creator to let today be quiet and peaceful. 

I thought about re-examining my passions and my contribution to the world—ways in which I can do better. 

I watched “The Last Word” with Shirley MacLaine and Amanda Seyfried, and although the dealings with the “Black intern from the projects” had its cringey moments, I gained inspiration.

I also finally made the decision to go back to short hair. Longer hair is fun, but I miss my carefree curls and it better suits my personality. As my granny, who would be 91 tomorrow would say, it made me look “like a million bucks.” 

This was all before reading what Pattern had in store for me today. I swear I should be Catholic, because I’ve always believed in signs and this was a big one.

I’ve been asked what I plan to do this weekend, this glorious, 5-day weekend, and I finally have an answer—intention setting. 

And by God, I will grab my scissors and cut my own hair if I have to. 

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Obsession

Interesting fact (because “fun” just doesn’t seem appropriate): I am way more morbid than I appear.

Despite the smile and sunny disposition, I have always had a flair for the macabre.

I’m not sure if it’s because I felt more like Wednesday Addams or because Anna Paquin made it look all too cool to grow up in a funeral home, but, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with death.

The hows, the what’s, the why, when, and sometimes, but rarely, the who.

(editor’s note: I wonder if this is why it’s hard for me to move forward…something to work out in therapy)

Not wanting to die myself, of course. Oh no, I’m actually afraid of death. But, if last year’s spider post teaches us anything, it’s that I work through my fears by trying to understand them.

I inspect. Inquire. I was curious.

I’d read Rotten on a daily. Shoutout to my cousin who, because I didn’t ask his permission, will remain anonymous, but he introduced me to the blog. Trust, it’s not for the faint of heart.

You may be wondering why, on Sunday of all days (I can hear my momma know), I’d choose to write about something so dark. Well, the last week, and the last 18 hours especially, has made me confront mortality in a way I haven’t before. In a society where you never know if you’re next, I think it’s best that people have, in writing, my wishes should the unimaginable happen.

I want to be cremated. And I want my services, regardless of how the death comes, to be a celebration. Make sure you charter a bus or call an Uber because I want you to indulge in bottomless mimosas and Bloody Marias (tequila instead of vodka…it’s better, trust me) til you’re silly. I used to want my ashes spread, but I don’t want that anymore. Find some decorative way to use them then put me in a place where I can overhear conversations—I’m nothing if not nosy. And pass me down, generation to generation, whilst telling my story. This is incredibly self-indulgent, I’ll admit, but I think that I’m owed something that I didn’t have in life.

——————————————————

I’m processing.

Processing what has happened. And it seems nothing is going to be done to fix it. This is my therapy.

Out of respect for the many lives lost in Gilroy, CA; San Jose, TX; and Dayton, OH; I won’t post this to social media.

If you’re in the know, you’ll read it.

I think speakeasies are cool anyway.

The One Where She Writes About Size

(and admittedly not the best…I’m getting better)

(insert blush here…after all, I’m more a Carrie than a Samantha.)

So I know that my blog is supposed to be primarily for Black women and our experiences (specifically mine), but if you’ll allow me, I want to divert from the path a bit for this topic and discuss men’s body issues.  

Especially Black men. 

I think we know what I’m talking about.  

Yes, I am talking about the stereotype of Black men and their penises.  

Yes, I am talking about dick size.

For some time now, I’ve been front row, center (stage, field, and court) to the damage that that stereotype has had on someone incredibly important to me.  Someone I love and who also loves me.  Sadly, I can’t always say that I’ve been the most sensitive to this issue, even asking, several times, why it’s such a big deal.  I haven’t been supportive in the way that someone who claims to love another person, especially when they’re hurting, should.  And while I’m grateful that he has been patient with me on this journey, I know I need to sincerely apologize for taking so long to fully understand.  And before I get into the thick of this post, I want to do that—publicly.  

I’m sorry for the times that I didn’t hear what you said, for the times I got defensive, or tried to smooth things over.  I’m sorry for the times that my discomfort was more important to me than your very real pain.  Thank you for being patient with me, and revealing a blind spot that I had.  Furthermore, I’m sorry it took me watching an Asian woman demean Black men under the guise of a joke to get it. 

_________________________

Our society doesn’t take men’s body image issues seriously, especially not in the way that we do for women.  We don’t discuss how some stereotypes, while considered complimentary, can be incredibly damaging to a man’s psyche.  Larger penises sizes are praised, but at what cost?    I’ve borne witness to someone watching a movie, tv show, or comedy special, enjoying every second but immediately defeated once the dick jokes start flying. His pain was palpable.  And in those moments, I can honestly say I didn’t know what to do.  It felt like we’re back in elementary school, but instead, this time, I can’t yell back at the bully.  Because the bully is inside the screen, the bully is society.  The bully, may have even been me.  And he certainly can’t say anything.

The assumption that men, especially Black men, are supposed to be tough, brute, and “real” encourages them to withhold their feelings.  We tell our boys not to cry, because they “don’t”, then wonder why they don’t know how to appropriately process and understand emotion as they age.  We have a hand in creating the toxic masculinity (for lack of a better term because I feel this one is overused) that we say we hate.  And no, we don’t acknowledge that. We don’t hold ourselves accountable. We don’t say it enough, and yes, it’s perfectly alright to say.   

It’s very easy to think that loved one should seek therapy, and believe me, I have suggested it and he agrees that he should.  However, his therapy is for him to help heal himself—not the world.  That’s on us.  Suggesting therapy then doing nothing about what actually created the pain in the first place is dismissive, demeaning, and removes all accountability.  It is not on the person being hurt to fix society.  That’s our responsibility.  

I can think about how I used to be self-conscious when I was growing up because I wasn’t curvy like Black girls are “supposed” to be.  As I grew into my womanhood, I still didn’t have the shape, the hips, the butt that Black women are “supposed to” have.  I wanted to be thicker.  I didn’t want to be as petite as I was.  Fortunately for me however, I had a family and support system that affirmed me so my body image didn’t impact me in the way it could have (e.g. people dying to achieve their desired body aesthetic).  Not everyone is as fortunate.  Especially when you’re a man.  The idea that all Black men are supposed to have animalistic penises (the average size is around 5-6 inches erect, race be damned) robs them of their humanity.  What’s most insidious is that this isn’t even a stereotype we created ourselves.  It was created for us, to demean Black men and justify the abuse brought upon them.  While I don’t have the space or time to do a deep dive into that point (it’s a topic that deserves its own post) please research “Mandingo” or read this journal article if you want historical context…it ain’t pretty. And it isn’t something we should want to perpetuate.

While I hope it isn’t too late for my loved one to experience a full life free from self-doubt, the reality is, it could very well be a struggle that he battles for the rest of his life.  And even if he’s able to heal to the point where a joke on a movie or tv show wouldn’t make him question his level of desirability, he will have some days that are worse than others.  It isn’t too late, however, for society, and our future. Just imagine how better life would be for the adults 30 years from now who were taught that they were worthy because of, not despite, who they are and how they look. 

——————————————

“Preference? Please.  More like conditioning…Do you really think your ‘preferences’ aren’t influenced at all by what you see on TV and magazines?  By what you’ve been told is beautiful and desirable…” (Welteroth, 2019).

I’ve been in many a sister circle where the topic of size comes up and most, if not all, admit we don’t want what we consider to be a large penis because of the pain.  “Larger” men, because of this stereotype, have never learned how to adequately please and pleasure; most men (in general) learn about sex through pornography (perhaps I’ll discuss how pornography has ruined our generation one day), and porn oftentimes is directed from the male gaze…reflecting both size insecurity and desire to dominate a woman in order to prove to himself that he’s worthy.  No, simply having a certain size does not pleasure give.  You’re not getting a gold star because you hit my cervix.  That hurts, I’m done.  Get off.

Look, I get it.  Different strokes (giggity) for different folks, right?  Sure.  But as the quote above suggests, we should be interrogating why we hold the preferences we do.  Is it true pleasure you’re feeling or were you just told you should so you in turn convince yourself you do?  Or are you truly a “size queen” (another term I wish we’d do away with)?  Preferences are fine as long as they’re rooted in truth, not what society says you should want, and certainly not at the expense of another person.  Penises, like vulvas, come in all shapes and sizes and are not based on height, race, hand, finger, or shoe size.  Relegating a man’s manhood or ability to please you to the size of his member, or laughing when others do it, is ill-informed and, more times than not, a lie.   

And ladies, it’s time we’re honest about that.  


More men need to actually be honest about their size as well.  Men run around using Magnums for what they think is clout.  When, in fact, studies have proven that a very small population actually needs that size.  And honestly, it seems that Black men had that problem  bad.  I went to a predominately white high-school, and while I’ve never personally bedded a white boy, I would sometimes hear conversations or see the Durex or regular Trojan package in their wallets as I stood behind them at the lunch counter.  Whereas every Black man I’ve been with believed he needed that gold package.  Because having that gold package means that they have something especially special, when it’s really an improper fit.  Not because you have an unusually small penis, but because Trojan created Magnums to play to the male ego by tapping into size insecurity.  

We all buy into this “bigger is better” BS, and despite my “its not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean” stance (swear I’ve had this for years), I didn’t really feel comfortable in my pleasure until I was approaching 30.  So it is possible that at some point I may have also unconsciously believed that Black men were supposed to be the largest, or that they would somehow be better in bed.  In truth, I actually prefer an average size; my experiences with larger have frankly been painful and don’t allow me to fully experience pleasure. So honestly, I don’t like them, and that’s okay. I guess that’s the lone beauty of having been active for 17 years: you see and learn a lot.  And where I am at 32 is here— no longer laughing at or allowing dick jokes to be told in my presence, not believing the myth, not giving energy towards false damaging stereotypes, speaking up for what pleases me instead of faking it to satisfy an ego, and celebrating others because of what they offer.  

  • Welteroth, Elaine. 2019. More than Enough: Claiming Space for Who You Are (No Matter What They Say). New York, NY: Viking

True Life: I'm a Liar

Hi, my name is Monica, and I lie.  

Okay, before I barrel down a spiral of self-degradation, yes, I tend to lie, but, when I do, it’s usually to lessen hurt or disappointment.  It’s what we in society call, “white lies.”  I, like most people (particularly women) were taught to offer a white lie in order to be polite.  

This is a problem.  Not only does it encourage lying, but it assumes that honesty is rude and impolite.  

Please don’t take this as an admittance that I lie about everything, because I absolutely do not.  Important things (meaning things that are important to me as well as things that are important to loved ones), no.  But some little things, sure.  In my quest to protect the feelings of others, I also carefully choose what and how I should say things. This isn’t necessarily bad, but I can do it to a fault.  My over-explaining tends to make me look deceptive—like I have something to hide, when in truth, I really just want to ensure I don’t hurt someone I care about.  Or I just want to make sure that the other person understands exactly what I’m saying.  

Over-explaining has caused me much grief.  

Over the last 8 weeks, I’ve been working out of “My Next 90 Days”, a goal-setting planner that guides you into a more deliberate life.  It’s perfect for people like me who take the time to create a vision board whenever I feel my life is off.  Before diving in and writing your to-do lists and calendar invites however, you must create a vision for your next 90 days, made up of activities you plan to do to help reach it.  One of my activities is: “lie less (gotta be practical here lol) or not at all.”  While I’ve stumbled at times—I still tell people I’m awake when I’m really asleep—I have been intentional about being honest about my feelings and what I do/don’t want to do.  

I’m making progress. 

I know that lying is part of the human condition, and no one is completely honest all of the time (seriously, if they say they are—little girl, RUN), but I’m choosing to work on myself because my lack of total honesty about small things has negatively affected relationships that are incredibly important to me.  I’ve never wanted to be someone considered untrustworthy, but, for the first time in my life, I’ve been called out.  And I took notice.  If I’m engaging with someone who already has trust issues*, being unintentionally deceptive or telling white lies makes them think I’m lying about the bigger, more important things as well.  And although I know that given their trust issues, they’ll automatically be skeptical of everything I do or say, I do want to make sure I’m not doing things that would cause a reason to wonder.

At the core of it, white lies assume that the other person cannot handle the truth, and so instead, you try to control the outcome.  Your intentions may be pure, but the impact can be potentially irreparable.  Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t take others’ feelings into consideration—remember, honesty isn’t impolite—or even that I’m never going to lie again—that requires a level of perfection that not even Jesus had—but I am dedicated to being more straightforward and deliberate with my actions and my words.

 

I may even get to a point where I can freely tell someone I’m asleep when they call.      


*this is something that I understand I can’t fix, and can only be fixed through therapy.   

Season 5: Episode 9

But this time

as the vertical line 

Divided the horizontal

I let out a loud and expressive breath.


I washed my hands


And the mirror, 

as real as Snow White’s

Told me what I needed to do

That I needed to tell my story

That mine would help another


Still, I cried.

I thought my soul would forever be damned

Because that’s what I’d been taught.

Despite my pro affiliation

I just knew I couldn’t 

Because if I did

I’d burn for all eternity. 


I listened to the mirror

Made an appointment

And swore to them that they’d be back. 

Our bond was real. 


True to form

I researched

The results of which proved that 

Lobbies and interest groups

Were more powerful 

More important.

Than a woman and her choice. 


The day came

I walked past the protestors

My head held high 

Because I knew my rights. 


Phase 1: 

A pain reliever


This drug I never had 

Made me giggle

As those around me

Cried. 


Phase 2:

Screenshot 


8 weeks

I wasn’t allowed to hear the heartbeat

Not that it would change my mind 

But the bond was real. 


Phase 3: 

Turn the music up


I was asked if I had something to listen to

Being an urbanite, I kept my iPod charged 


I sang

To drown out the sound 

The machine, 

To me, similar to what tests/treats ear infections

What wouldn’t be seen again until 


I saw Olivia

Exercising her right.

What was best 

Same as I did


I sang.


Then, just like that, 

I was told it was over 

And I was to go to recovery. 


I stayed for the mandatory time. 

I just wanted to be home

Under my covers. 


It has been 8 years

And there is no regret

Yet this is my first public admission 


Because part of me

Despite my conversation that suggested otherwise

Felt that others would think 

I’d forever burn. 


This person

Whoever they are

Never left me

Forgave me

(if I needed forgiveness) 

And I welcome them

But this is MY experience. 


Each woman is entitled to her own

Or not

And that’s the point. 

It’s hers.

Not yours

Not mine

Not theirs. 


Hers. 

And that shouldn’t be trifled with.

Nostalgia

The best way to learn is from the past

It is our best teacher.

Sitting here

Listening to the music of my youth

Reminds me of lessons yet unlearned

What would 15-year-old Monica say

About your life now…

Any guy you’re seeing…

As you listened to Ashanti’s debut album?  City High?

How about 11 year old Monica

Who named her DARE speech after Left Eye’s  verse?

Have you believed in yourself?

You used to openly get so weak

Six-year-old Monica who had enough mind to wear her jumper without a shirt 

Because she wasn’t allowed to wear shorts under her skirt

And disagreed with the rules

What would she think?

Are you listening?