The Velvet Rope (Oct. 7)

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

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?  

Is Church Really Necessary?

Fun fact: I haven't attended a church service in almost 3 months.  

Funner fact: I've only missed the rituals.

Funnest fact: I'm getting closer to God.  I think.

Backstory--

I was raised in the church.  

I've been a member of the African Methodist Episcopal Church since I was in the womb.  I was in the children's choir, held YPD offices on both local and conference levels, part of the praise dance team, and participated in the Christmas and Easter programs.  For several years, I was even the official greeter of our church.  

(Imagining a 16-year-old-me saying cheerfully, "Good morning, Allen!")

Truth is, although I was heavily involved, there was only about a year or two before 22 when I truly felt connected to God.  Crazy, right?  I mean, I even attended a Catholic school!  You'd think I'd feel saved, sanctified and all that...

...but I didn't.

First of all, I was scared into salvation.  I was 7 when I first gave my life to Christ.  Although I'm not Baptist, I am from an area where conservative Christianity thrives, and conservative Christians often use fear as a way to create "disciples."  My family was no different.  I was 7 when my aunt showed me A Thief in the Night.  I'm going to spare the synopsis, but if you're curious, I linked the film's wiki page.  Spoiler alert: it's about the rapture.  

Anyway, I was 7.

And all I was told was that this was something that would eventually happen.  In exactly the way the movie depicts.  Author's note: Having been seminary-adjacent since 2015, I now understand that most of what I was taught as a child was chock full of bad theology, but I was 7.  I didn't have the knowledge I have now.  

Okay, where was I?  That's right, being scared into salvation...  I watched the movie and was left terrified, and this is coming from someone who lives for horror films.  No one thought to provide context or explain in a way that a 7-year-old would truly be able to comprehend (my family often took my high intelligence and maturity levels for granted), thus creating my fear of the second coming.  

That was a Saturday.  The next morning, we went to church.  I fell asleep during the sermon, as most small children do, and was awaken by my cousin (my aunt's youngest son) during The Invitation to Christian Discipleship.  I can't remember what all was said, but I do clearly remember him asking me, "Remember the movie we saw last night?  You don't want that to happen to you, do you?" To which a sleepy and now worried me said, "No..."  "Well then," he replied, "You need to go up to the front of the church or else you'll be like those people." Author's note: This was also the cousin who loved seeing me uncomfortable and upset. He wasn't worried about my salvation, he just wanted to scare me. 

Because I was afraid, I started to cry.  I started to cry and walk to the front of the church.  I am told that when the adults of the church saw little Monica in tears, walking to the altar to "give her life to Christ," they were enamored and impressed.  

I remember sobbing.  As an adult, it worries me that not one person stopped me or inquired about my emotional state.  But again--Missouri...conservative Christianity.  The only explanation for my tears, of course, was the Holy Spirit.

Five years later, I would be sitting at Sheffield Family Life waiting for  their annual play, "Tribulation Christmas", to begin when a shotgun (albeit fake) is shoved in my face and the person on the other end is screaming, "Do you believe?!"

It was the most wonderful time of the year.  

I was scared into salvation.    

Sure, I truly enjoyed singing in the choir and praise dancing with my friends.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't truly grateful for the opportunities that being part of the Young People's Department (now Division) afforded me during middle and high-school, but I wasn't crafting a relationship with God.  I was crafting and nurturing a relationship with religion.  Foolishly thinking that it would be what saved me from experiencing the disappearance of the faithful and the 7 years of hell that would follow.  

Once I entered college, as most of us do, I stopped going to church as often.  I would go occasionally and go home for the holidays, but my Sundays were mostly spent watching television and writing papers.    God re-emerged in my life Senior year.  I still wasn't attending church regularly, but God and I began having our real conversations.  "My" God (as "The Shack" teaches us, we all have an image of God that works for us) was created.  God and I became friends.  I spoke to God how I speak to my closest friends, and God would respond in turn.  I was no longer just a Christian.  In fact, I entered the "I'm more spiritual than religious phase."  Now that God and I were developing our relationship, I decided that I should delve deeper into "God's book." 

Now, let me point out that I've always been a bit skeptical of the Bible, and I've never been the one to truly believe that the word was all God's.  At a young age, I noticed the contradictions, wondered what was going on in other parts of the world while it was written, and knew it was written by man.  In short, I didn't really trust it.  Still, it was time to pick a devotional.

I used my newfound relationship and semi-understanding of the Bible to guide my devotion options.  I knew I didn't want the Joyce Meyer type devotional that my granny and mom read.  I wanted something that was interactive and spoke to me.  Something that could deepen my relationship with God.

And I found it.  I purchased a devotional using the MSG translation that encouraged my questioning of the Bible...and God.  

REALLY?!?!  I get to question??? (the doors have opened and the light has poured through)

For the next few months, I studied from that devotional and became even closer to God.  I started to understand God and God's many decisions.  I became less and less afraid of death and the second coming.

Did I mention how I still wasn't in church?

This relationship continued until March 2013 when I actually missed being part of a church that I returned.  I continued my nightly devotionals for a while after I started attending regularly but after the weekly Bible studies and Sunday schools, I started to drift.  I was spending so much time in the church that I would be tired when I was out.  The last thing I wanted to do was spend even more time in "the Word."  I also began dating, and eventually married, someone who was discerning his calling, so I was inundated by theology and religion.

Church and church activities became a crutch.  Religion became an idol, my god.  As for me and capital letter "G"?  Well, we started to drift.  I was no longer actively pursuing a relationship with God because I believed that all the church-going and participating would handle that for me.  I mean, I was attending service regularly, going to bible study and Sunday school, I had even met and married a man of God!  I was set, right?    

I was wrong.  

Still, I kept on trucking.  I'd have spurts when I'd decide to return to my nightly devotions, but it never lasted more than a couple of weeks, and sometimes those Bible app plans just aren't enough.  I've found myself reading those just to say I did it.  The big homie and I were growing apart.  Again, I'd continue this pattern of picking our relationship up when I "needed" it and putting it back down when I didn't for another couple of years or so.  

Bringing us to this summer.  As you all know, turning 30 sent me on a journey of self-discovery and relearning.  I've returned to investing in myself and finding Monica again.  I've also started to find God and we're starting to get our groove back.  The difference between Monica last year and now?  As I stated above, I stopped attending church, and I don't plan on returning until I feel like my relationship is strong enough to handle my church-going.  I also became slightly disillusioned with the church, even my beloved AME church, but that's a story for another day.  Hint: it has to do with my experiences seeing the ordination process up close and personal and how I feel the church doesn't offer support to married (prospective) clergy and their spouses.      

Now I know that many of you will poo-poo my decision, and that's your right, but what I have discovered is that I use the church as a crutch.  It's especially easier to do now since I both live and work at a Seminary.  I'm constantly surrounded by religion.  

I have to set some boundaries.

What I know is that I feel closest to God and most at peace Sunday morning (or any morning really) sitting in the quiet with the curtains drawn so I can gaze at God's creation.  That's when I can hear God speaking to me.  Not that I don't enjoy the singing and some sermons have the ability to move me to tears, but again, for me, that's "doing church" not developing a relationship with God.

Until both can have a healthy co-existence in my life, I'm sticking with God and not religion.  I think I'll fare better with God.  

Kay

Since global warming is a hot-button topic right now (peace and love to those affected by Jose, Maria, Harvey and Irma as well as the recent earthquakes), and I have had a week that hasn't allowed much time to write, I decided to post my very first poem.  

I wrote this when I was 7...and I memorized it.  Enjoy.

"One day, I had to move.

So I lifted this big 'hoove' (don't ask me what a 'hoove' is, I was 7...)

The hoove so high, it reached the sky 

and didn't come back 'til the 4th of July.

It reached the ozone layer

which was beginning to look grayer (Kay was a deep 7 year old, already knew about global warming)

Til 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."

What was this poem about?  The world may never know.  This was my foray into writing.  Shoutout to 7-year-old me, Kay, the most creative and imaginative little girl in the world.  

The Address

Hey. 

if you're reading this, then you're likely someone who has read at least 1-2 posts before.  I'd like to provide some rationale for my stories.  

My posts usually have a larger point that goes deeper than surface level, and, while I make my writing as accessible as possible, I trust that those who are reading have the skills to comprehend meaning.

Because I am an extrovert, and a people-person, many of my personal experiences involve others. Because I try to be a good person, I will either provide anonymity or at the very least, handle your "character" with care. You have my word.  

I do apologize if I have been careless with anyone's feelings. Please be patient with me as I navigate the ethics of writing, and I thank you in advance for allowing me the chance to be vulnerable and transparent with my audience.  

Peace and Love, 

monica

Fault

This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write.  To some, this is a detailed account of a skeleton I provided, to others, a reaccounting, but to many...

This is a story I've never before told.  

I was 12, in the 7th grade.

That was the year I discovered my sexuality, and I can't decide if it was my choice or if it was forced (that's what therapy is for), but I did.

The year started with a letter.  I only include this because it'll provide context for what I'll later reveal.  I wrote a letter.  A sexually explicit letter.  One that would rival Zane's best work.  I honestly didn't know what I was writing--I was still a virgin.  I mean, I had a basic understanding, but I didn't know.  His mother found it, told my mother and soon the entire school knew.  

and with that, I was dubbed the school "ho."  An unearned title.  That was what the students called me.  The teachers?  They began to look at me, this little girl who they watched grow up, turn into the bad girl.  I was fast.  I'd probably end up pregnant before I graduated high-school.

"Such a shame, that one."

"She had so much going for her."

So it should come as no surprise that I had it coming, right?  

One afternoon, I was laughing with friends in after-school care.  My school was Preschool-8th grade, and I attended from the time I was 3, so my friends were like family.  In fact, so were my teachers...and so were they.  2 and 5 years older, so they were already in high-school, but like me, St. Monica's was family.  Their mother was my teacher.

Anyway, we were all in the gym when I realized I left something in my classroom that I'd need to complete my homework.  They had the key, so they escorted me.  

Again...they were like my brothers.  

Everything was fine until....until it wasn't.  I don't remember how or what was said (if anything), but I remember being pinned down.  I was on the floor, outside the boy's bathroom, right above the stairwell.  The older brother pinned me down while the younger one began to explore.  I tried to kick, but I couldn't do much.  I wanted it to be over.  I was terrified.  

But I tried to be tough.  I didn't scream, I didn't cry.  I shut down.  

The younger one put his hand down my blouse.  What he was feeling, I don't know because I was flat-chested until 9th grade (maybe), but I felt him.  His hands.  

And then he started heading south...

And then the janitor's keys started jingling.

I was so embarrassed.  I didn't want the janitor, who had known me since I was a toddler, to see me in this position.  I guess they didn't either, because they let me up.

...and we went back to the gym like nothing happened. 

Except it did.  

Shortly afterward, my grandmother came to pick me up.  She was someone I could trust, so I told her.  

"Well, you didn't have any business being alone with boys in the first place."  

"But granny, it's (names redacted)!  I've known them my whole life, they're my friends!"

"It doesn't matter.  You put yourself in that position."

It was my fault.  I was 12, and they were 14 and 17.  But I should've known better.  That message was loud and clear.

The next person I told was my friend, (name redacted).  She was one of the strongest people I knew, and I also knew she could keep a secret.  Until she said,

"Monica, if you don't tell, I will."  

So then I was forced to share my shame.  I believed her.  I knew she'd tell.  So I started with my mom.

Who then talked to their mom.

Who talked to her sons (and likely the entire school).

Who denied it.

I was called a liar by most.  This happened so much that I began to think that I made it all up.  The others who did believe me, said that given my behavior earlier that year, I shouldn't be surprised that it would happen.

Again, it was my fault.

...and this was a Christian school.

What's worse?  I still wanted them to be "my friends."  I apologized for making trouble for them.

Soon, the school year ended, the summer passed and life continued as normal.  The rumors died down and everyone moved on.

Except me. 

I knew what happened.

I knew I was ignored, and they were believed.

Nothing happened.  

I don't know if they ever abused someone again.  I don't know if/how they were affected.  I was talking to a friend recently about this and it was suggested that perhaps this incident was what urged me to take control of my sexuality and sex life...so that I'd never be a victim again.

It makes sense.  But I don't know.

That's what therapy is for.

Afternoon Words

Sometimes inspiration strikes unexpectedly. 

"My life is not an accident

Nor is it happenstance

Every success

And yes, every failure

I earned.

Give credit where its due.

I am brilliant.

I am resilient and resourceful.

I am determined.

I am hard headed.

I am stubborn.

I am demanding.

I am many things, but stupid is not one of them.

Give me the credit I deserve.

I earned it." 

-Me

#DMV

DC, do you love me?  I mean really, do you love me?  

Each time we meet, we’re met with heartbreak…and it always happens in August.  Hurricane season.  Irene and Harvey.  Maybe if I have children, I’ll name them in your honor.  

Yet, I’m drawn to you.  The bad, worse, and ugly.  I cannot get enough.  Am I a masochist?  You send an energy, a sense of energy and purpose through me.  Your only rival?  Chicago’s academia.  When we met, I was enamored by your historic buildings and wealthy neighborhoods of my people.  I was also taken by U Street (RIP) where I would spend hours in Starbucks—people watching.  That was 2009.  

I yearn for the stress you cause.  I only feel “at home” when I’m truly in your energy.  Be that walking around downtown during the afternoon or hanging out with our people in one of the quadrants…I. want. you.  

Maybe I am a masochist.

You took this Midwestern girl and showed her she could believe in herself.  You presented an encourager, motivator.  Boy did I know that you’d soon change your mind.

It never fails…

As I start to find myself, and truly develop…you throw a wrench.  You cause something to tear me down.  Last time, you used politics.  This time, the church.  

Why do you hate me?  Perhaps you pull out my best side, and I’m still terrified.  

Free write (Prayer)

I’m tired.

I’m tired of pouring my heart out once a week.  I’m tired of being vulnerable with every post.  Why can’t something I write be what I really want as opposed to what I really need?

Why am I not being the culture writer that I’d like to be?  

Instead, I’m writing as if this is my diary.  

damn….

You said that one day my story will be used to help others.  That’s the reason for all the pain.  The reason for all the times I touched the stove because I needed to see if it was hot.  The experiences….

So what’s next?  A memoir?  Who wants to listen to me though?  Who am I?  Why would anyone buy it?

Is this the clarity I prayed for?  The purpose?  Man, you work quick.  So show me how.  Open those doors.  And windows.  Focus my writing so that the final piece isn’t all over the place.

Unless that’s what it’s supposed to be…me.  All over the place and often times messy.  But has a purpose, a reason for being.  

You really do have a weird sense of humor.  I suppose that’s who I get it from.  

I need your help.  I’m finally admitting it.  I cannot do this alone.  

Here goes nothing, I guess…

You promise to make sure I don’t fall too hard?

Shout Outs: Underestimated

"Hey how ya doin', yeah I'm doin' mighty fine
Last time I seen ya, it's been a long time
Stop smilin' at me, get that look off your face
Please don't even front, stop bein' so fake
I know you do not like me and you made it very clear
You're always talkin' about me from what I hear
Always put me down when you thought that you could
I want you to know that I'm doin' so good

[Hook: Kelly]

Wasn't it you that said
Thought I was all that and you said I didn't have a clue
Wasn't it you that said
That I wouldn't make it through
And wasn't it you that said
That I didn't look too good, that I wouldn't do too good
I'd never make it out the 'hood
I want you to know that I'm doin' so good"

-Destiny's Child

To all those who underestimated me.  To those who assumed that I'd be another statistic because my father was an addict and my mother was a single mom (not counting the fact that my father is actually a fucking muscial genius).  I was born in '87.  Use your deductive reasoning skills.

To those who were afraid to send their kids to my neighborhood after dark.  Fuck you.  It was okay for me I guess, but not for your little princes and princesses.  

Finally, this goes out to those who somehow think that just because I understood and didn't fear my sexuality, that somehow I was a problem...it's YOUR kids who are now out here as adults with warped ideas and opinions.  

All in all, I did just fine. 

90's R&B

Baby Girl, 

Find your sexuality--before it finds you.  It's there.  I know what we're taught, but don't be afraid of it.  God gave it to you. Your body is truly a wonder.  Don't wait until you're 29-30 and experiencing your second "awakening" to realize that.  Take as many pictures as you can.  You won't have this body forever.

I don't want you to "wait until you're married", I want you to wait, like my mother taught me, until you find someone who you're truly in love with and you don't need to be convinced to do it.  No matter when it happens.

Do not feel ashamed.

Your sexuality is your own. Not mine, your father's (whoever that may be), aunts, uncles, cousins...it's YOURS.  Have the confidence to stand in your truth in front of your family,

be who I could never.  

The Conversation

While I'm busy forming another post, I decided to pull something I posted to Facebook last week.  This is in response to the comments on Proctor and Gamble's "Conversation" commercial.  

My first memory of racism was watching my mom get pulled over because she was turned around in the "wrong neighborhood" and someone called the cops. What I took from that experience was that, as a Black person, you can't afford to get lost. 

You. can't. afford. to. get. lost.  
I wasn't any older than 8. 

I was 15 when I had the safe driving conversation with my mother. She was stern in her correction when I suggested that she was being paranoid since I'm a girl, and a petite one at that, so police couldn't possibly be intimidated by me. She made sure that I knew that yes, they (the police) pull women from their cars and slam them on the ground just as they would a man. Oh, and since you're a woman, you may encounter sexual abuse as well. 

Don't talk back. Say, "Yes sir, no sir." Please dear God keep your hands on the steering wheel at all times. If it is nighttime when you are pulled over, drive to the closest well-lit and populated area before doing so...and apologize for doing it when they come to the car. Let the officer know where your license and registration are before reaching for it, and ask for permission to get it. Show remorse. Even if you're being wronged, just make a mental note of their name and badge number so you can call later.

Do what you have to make it home. 

This was my reality. I am only 30. It will unfortunately be my children's realities as well. And guess what--we didn't create the problem. So we can't fix it. 

The ball is in your court. You want us to stop bringing up racism, then stop being racist. It begins with you.

The Confrontation

[SCENE]

Dimly lit room.  Two chairs, but no other furniture.  The perfect place for a conversation.

Monica Kay Petty: (to Monica Kay Sharp) It's about time you showed up.

Monica Kay Sharp: (defensive posture) Wait, what?  It's about time that I showed up?

MKP: I've been waiting for you for (looks down at watch) almost four years.

MKS: Oh...I see.  You mean around the time you forgot about me?

MKP: I didn't forget.  I had to grow up.

MKS: Oh yeah, you forgot.  You forgot our plans.  You forgot our interests, our friends.  You forgot us.

MKP:  (smug) Well, that's what happens when you get married.

MKS:  Don't feed me that bullshit.  Remember when you told me that...you know what...I'm not even going to bring that up, because I'm sure you can't forget.  No matter how hard you try.

MKP: I had to grow up.  What do you know about that?  You're stuck in 2013.  

MKS: (getting incensed) BECAUSE YOU SMOTHERED ME!  You didn't let me grow up...  

MKP:  (interrupting) I am you.  You as an adult!  You needed me!  

MKS:  Me?  As an adult?  Girl, bye!  You are who you thought your husband needed.  Don't put that on me.  I wanted to travel...see the world.  If you hadn't have forgotten about me, WE'D be well on our way to becoming Dr. Monica.  Or Monica...PhD.  We couldn't decide.  Whatever.  Point is, you are not me.  I am fearless.  I am adventurous.  I know who I am.  Not this domestic who is actually overcompensating in order to keep up appearances...to cover her true feelings.

MKP: Now wait one got damn min...

MKS: No!  It's my turn now.  You had four years.  FOUR YEARS!  It's obvious you don't know what you're doing.   So what, now that you're 30, you finally came to your senses?  What did it take, huh?  The pregnancy "scare"?  Or was it just age that told you that you should wake up?  That wrinkle behind your eye got you, didn't it?  That's why you've been using that eye serum. (laughs)

MKP:  (scoffs) Fuck you.

MKS:  You can't take it?  When did you get so soft?  

MKP:  Maybe 2011's earthquake did it?  Or the hurricane?  (sarcastically) No...wait...wait, don't tell me!  It was when your heart was broken and you ran your ass back to the midwest.  

(MKS glares) 

Yeah, that was it.  Even after you escaped your dream...remember you had those ideas on the El of you finally living out your "Sex and the City" fantasies?  Remember Logan Square?  That cute little 2 bedroom you had with your LS?  Why again did you spend so many nights away from it?  You got back on track in 2012--gave everyone who knew you hope.  Hope that you'd actually make something of yourself.  Remember the trip to Dallas, and conversation with Patrice.  You should've listened.  But you didn't.  

You were always more spiritual than religious.  What happened to that?  You started attending church again, and forgot about your relationship with the one who truly matters.  I guess church was a crutch for you.  Practiced idolatry.  Put all your faith in man and not God.  

Don't blame me.  I wasn't created yet.

MKS:  You talk a good game, but why didn't you protect me?  Labor Day, you could've gone.  You chose your husband, convincing yourself that you were choosing your job.  When your professor, your favorite professor, your advisor, advised you against waiting to apply for doctoral studies, why did you wait?  Oh, and furthermore, why again did you not go to Egypt?  Again, you changed your name and forgot.  Who would've known that a simple visit to some government offices in Chicago would change your whole persona?  And what about that bogus move back home?  

Before we moved from carnivores to herbivores, you knew.  Don't we deserve happiness too?  

MKP: Watch it.  I did what was best.  I did what a woman would do.  I took my hits, licked my wounds and what happened?  Families grew closer.  I should at least get that credit.  We got back to your dream, didn't we?  You didn't do that.  I did.  I supported, encouraged, and did what I could to achieve what I truly thought was our happiness.

MKS: To which "our" would you be referring? 

(Silence)

MKS: Exactly. 

I just want to know why.  Maybe that would make things easier.  Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't cry at night.  If I just knew why.  Why did you drop me?  I'm glad you're coming around but I still have questions.  

(More silence)

(After a long breath) 

MKP: I get your point.  I forgot about the "we" that mattered.  I'm sorry.    

I'm sorry.

[END SCENE]

To everyone who has been hurt.  I'm sorry.  I realize that it's too many of y'all to list.  I'm sorry.  

ISO: A Muse

I am in search of a new muse.  My old one quit.  Without two week's notice, might I add.  Said it was a family emergency.

I need to feel invigorated...impassioned.  I need you to make me desire my true self.  Stay on top of me, muse, because I will backslide if you let me.  

I need to feel comfortable enough with you to be vulnerable, and I need you to be able to effectively pull that vulnerability out of me.  You will be responsible for helping me clear my mind and focus my thoughts, so it is imperative that you know me well enough to know where my mind is going so you can stop my spirals.    

I need you to be comfortable.  You must be willing to contribute to this relationship because it won't always be easy, but I promise I won't try to make it difficult.  Most of all, I need you to be committed and find joy in your service.  

No need to apply, instinct will be our affirmation.  If you're interested, you'll find me, with my face in my computer and 4 unfinished posts in the queue...struggling to write.  

love, glove, dove...*

*For the unititiated masses, this is a line from an episode of "Sex and the City" where Carrie is struggling to write about committed love because her lover wasn't committed.   

A Love Unrequited

Blog Post: 

Fun fact: I love museums.  I love them!  Museums are a visual representation of the relationship between history and culture.  

My love for museums runs so deep that it's usually the determining factor for whether or not I'll visit a certain place.  I've been to every type of museum imaginable: the Museum of Sex in NYC, the National Museum of Toys & Miniatures in KC (formerly the Toy and Miniatures Museum), American Indian Museums in NYC and DC, Museum of African Art (I've been to every museum in the Smithsonian so I'll spare the list), Museum of Crime and Punishment (DC has some heavy hitters), Field Museum in Chicago, Museum of Science and Industry, Science City and Science Center (KC and STL, respectively), and the list goes on and on and on.  

Until September 2016 (when the museum opened, our museum) one museum always stood out.  It was #1: The National Museum of American History.  It was the first museum I visited when I moved to Washington in 2010 and remains a place that I show off to family and friends who visit.  Of the many exhibits that have graced its floors in the time since we were first introduced, there was one that left me completely awestruck.  "The Star-Spangled Banner: The Flag That Inspired the National Anthem" is an exhibit dedicated (obviously) to the American flag.  As someone who loves my country (more on this in a second), as well as history, I can remember how I felt when I first saw the massive flag lying in its case.  It was tattered and was more: red, beige, and blue, but my heart swelled with pride and my eyes welled with tears.  I was incredulous.  As I approached the end of the exhibit, I saw the original transcript of the song and the pictures of the musical icons who recreated it.  Hearing Jimi Hendrix's rendition mixed with Whitney's voice was the perfect end to an incredible exhibit.  I remember proudly thinking, 

"We (Black people) did that!  We always make things better."

Fast forward to May 2, 2017.  My thirtieth birthday.  THE museum was still handing out timed passes and I didn't get them in time, so I went to my second favorite.  I revisited the Museum of American History.  There were some new exhibits on display, so I was pleased.  I marveled at Ella Fitzgerald's musical accomplishments and saw the china that most of the first ladies had during their time at the White House*.  I stood behind the presidential podium and smiled brightly when another guest remarked, "That looks like the perfect fit for you!"

Then I went back to see the grand ole flag.  That high-flying flag.  I've been back several times since my first so I wasn't expecting the same tear-producing feeling, but I certainly didn't expect the feeling I felt this time: disgust.  As I stared at the flag, still red, beige and blue, I thought about what it truly stood for.  What our country truly stands for, and became enraged.  

In the time since 2010, sure we reelected President Obama, but this country also elected Donald Trump four years later.  In the time since 2010, #blacklivesmatter became a demand and in turn, so did the disrespect of #alllives and #bluelives.  Since 2010, this country has done more to show me that it hates me, despite my love for it.  

You see, I love my country.  Not in some, "God bless the USA and no place but" kind of way, but it is mine.  I love the US in the same way that Black Southerners loved the south despite the centuries of degradation and hate.  It has been said before, but my ancestors built this country.  Others were here before Columbus.  This land is my land.  My homeland.  

So then the question becomes, "What do you do when the love and pride you feel isn't returned?” Patriotic Black Americans are in an emotionally, mentally and sometimes physically abusive relationship with our country.  One day she says she loves us by embracing our culture and electing officials who look like us, the next, she’s wining and dining our murderers, turning a blind eye to justice, and reinforcing the systems created to prevent our growth.  

America is one controlling lover.  

But like all abusive relationships, America’s main problem is insecurity and a lack of self-respect. “I’m afraid they’ll leave…” she wonders as she stares in the mirror.  “Who would I be without them?”  “They’ve given me so much; they’ve shaped my identity.”  

See, America won’t acknowledge the horrors and evils of slavery, the dehumanization of Blacks through Jim Crow laws, intentional mass-incarceration, poor education, food deserts, etc. because she’s afraid of what will happen when she does.   Accountability.  And with accountability comes a true reflection in the mirror.  America’s insecurities will be on full-display and for the first time, she’ll be forced to confront them.  

America's not there yet.  She's not that emotionally mature.  

Nevertheless, we persist.  

We fight.  We contribute.  We create.  And like Beyonce', we'll be damned if we see someone else benefitting from our struggle.  However, unlike Bey, we have no one else to turn to.  All we have is America.

This is our home...our land.

So again, what do you do when the one you love doesn't love you?  

I write.

Dear America,

This is one last plea.  We love you in spite of yourself.  No matter how you try to sabotage our relationship, we truly believe that you actually have what it takes to be great for the first time in 241 years.  We never forget your birthday, although you always seem to forget ours (it's June 19th, by the way).  We need you to change.  For us and our children, but most importantly, for yourself.      

I leave you with the words of one our greats, Langston Hughes: "Negroes, sweet and docile, meek, humble and kind.  Beware the day, they change their mind!"  

Get your shit together.  

Xoxo,

Black America

*The curators move quickly.  I could've gone without seeing Melania and Donald Trump's faces for at least a year.  It's like rubbing salt in a wound.   

Father's Day

[SCENE]

(A young woman, early 20's, sitting on the edge of her bed and on the brink of tears.  She feels she has no sense of direction.  Ironically, it's in these moments that she calls the most unlikely character.)

Him: "Boo-boo, out of all my children, you're the most like me."

Me: (stunned)

[END SCENE]

What was probably one of the proudest moments of his life, was one of the scariest of mine.  To me, it confirmed my doubts and fears.  Instead of seeing the good in my father, I focused on the bad.  

Alexander Sharp begat Chester Sharp, who begat Chester, who begat Chester, who begat Chester Theodore, Cheryl, and Carroll.  Carroll begat Alex, Justin, Richard, Sean, and me.  

Carroll Alexander Sharp.  C. Alexander Sharp.  Alex.  My daddy.

Anyone who knows me is familiar with the contentious relationship I have with my father.  Well apparently, it wasn't always that way.  Legend says that, until 4-5ish, I was quite the daddy's girl.  In fact, one of my favorite pictures is when Momma left me in his care for the day.  I couldn't have been older than 18 months, sitting at the table with my snack cake (I was a very fat baby) all over the table, my clothes and face.  Daddy was sitting at the head of the table, and I don't know if he said something funny or I did, but we were both happy--and it showed.  At night, I would sneak downstairs to watch tv with him because I (still do) woke up in the middle of the night.  I still can't watch M*A*S*H because Daddy would turn it on to make me go back to sleep.

My resentment runs deep.

I was about 5 when I found out about my father's addiction.  In the early 90's, kids would oftentimes call one another a "crackhead" where a "silly" "stupid" or "crazy" would suffice.  (Remember, this was the early 1990's: a time that wasn't as politically correct as 2017)  Sean and I were bickering about something, I can't rememeber what, when one of us called the other a crackhead.  Momma heard, and promptly corrected us.  

"Do you know what you're saying?" "You know your father's 'on crack', right?" 

From that day forward, I was sensitive towards crack jokes.  You see, I knew that before we moved to my granny's house that Momma had to start hiding our more expensive toys in the trunk, or at granny's house.  I also know that it felt like one day we lived in one house and then, the next thing I knew, we lived in another.  But I was 4-5.  I wouldn't understand until I was much older, that what my mother was really leaving was a toxic situation for all involved--including, but not limited to, my father.  

Anyway, once I realized what was really going on, I lost all faith and trust in Daddy.  The laughter, sugar toast, stories and pickles I shared with him were quickly replaced with deception, distrust, lies and anger.  

I began to resent him.  Especially after I learned that he could've been a musician and we could've lived in LA.  I didn't know then that the 80's LA music scene was his introduction to what tore our family apart.  

For the next 13 or so years, our relationship went in and out.  I'd go from talking to him every day, to not hearing from him for months.  At one point, I remarked to my then-boyfriend, "I don't know whether my father is dead or alive."  Begrudgingly, I invited him to my high-school graduation (undergrad soon followed).  You see, I didn't feel like he had done anything to deserve to celebrate with me.  Needless to say, I wasn't too disappointed when he showed up at my house that morning to tell me congratulations.  I looked at it as another reason why I shouldn't have faith in him.  My mother, however, knew better.  She knew he backslid, and simply didn't want to embarrass me.

She could always see the good in him.

If you were to ask me now, I wouldn't be able to tell you how long my father has been clean.  I know it has been at least 10 years, but since he was in and out, I can't pinpoint the exact date.  All I knew was that, all of a sudden, he was taking care of himself.  He seemed lighter--happier.  We'd laugh more when we spoke.  

But I was still holding onto that resentment...

I knew that of the 5 Sharp children, I was the most creative.  Sure, Sean could draw (and draw his ass off), but I actually had a passion for arts.  And that scared the hell out of me.  Instead of chasing my dreams of acting, filmmaking, writing and production, I chose "safer" avenues like journalism.  Something that allowed me to walk the circumference of my house, but not travel the whole yard.  My father was my cautionary tale.  The reasons of which, I won't understand without therapy, but he was.  Art=addiction.  It was simple.  Like Lauryn's mother in "Sister Act 2", I believed that truly following my passion would lead to nothing but destruction.

So back to the original conversation.  

It was 2010.  I had just moved to the DC area, and could breathe--really breathe--for the first time ever.  That pull towards something creative scared me, and I called the only person I believed would understand.  

Then he confirmed my fears.  I'm like him.  

And then I spiraled.

Well, what does this mean?  Will I end up on drugs?  Will I forever chase an elusive high?  

It took a day of processing before I realized that being like my father wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  I mean, my mother, who's a pretty good judge of character, saw some good in him.  And I had some good memories, didn't I?  

My father is an artist.  He's a musician.  That's where he's happiest.  He's only recently found an outlet for his creativity.  

It's time I do the same.  

Bringing us here.  Over this last month, I've given myself permission.  I refuse to play it safe, wasting years of my life wondering "what if?"  I'm fully embracing my creative and not running away.  

I will write.

I will produce.

I will create.

...and I will succeed.  For him and me.  

Stepping into 30

As I write this, I'm soaking in a nice, warm bubble bath, drawn by my amazing husband. I'm enjoying wine and brie, and also writing this on my phone (super risky), so excuse all formatting errors.  

I have a little less than 2 1/2 hours left in this decade, and taking inventory. Am I where I thought I'd be this time 10 years ago? Maybe not, but I have many experiences, lessons and gifts that I didn't think I'd have. 

My 20s were all about me taking control of my life. Let's see, after a huge wake up call, I took control of my education, went back to Mizzou (after being accepted by Tenn. State),  and completed my degree by 09. I put myself out there and created opportunities (MO Senate, KOMU, Take Two Productions, 2010's move to D.C., Jon, City Year..)...I took risks.  

I moved to Chicago in 2011, met and married my husband in 2013, became a Master of Sociology in 2014, picked up and spent time with my family for 2014-2015, then moved back to D.C. in 2015. 

I have a hustler's mentality, even if I don't always show it.  Sometimes y'all, I can be lazy. I'm working on that.  

Out of deference to my husband, I won't detail my adventures in love, but I'd like to thank each of them for the lessons, love, laughs and even tears.  You helped me prepare to be the best wife I can be, so thank you.  

Faith....boy, that was one heck of a recurring theme in my 20s. I took steps of faith left and right. In fact, most (if not all) of my life-changing decisions were those huge leaps of faith that I trusted God with.

So yeah, my faith went through a major makeover, and I'm better for it. My "I'm more spiritual than religious" phase (which, to be honest, I still am), taught me how to truly talk to God. I've fought with my Creator, I've yelled and even cursed...but, like any good friendship, God never turned away. God let me have my spells, looked at me and then asked, "You done?  We have work to do."  

I'm rambling...

Anyway, so who am I now?

I'm still perfecting, and I doubt I'll ever stop growing.  Which, to me, is exciting.  I am a woman (can't call myself young woman anymore lol) who is more sure of herself.  More comfortable with herself.  I genuinely love every inch of my body (even the parts I wish could get smaller), and know how to dress every curve of my frame.  I've also stopped caring.  I care a lot less about what people think or what they'll say.  I've stopped living for others, and I live for me (and God).  I love music, I love film.  I love politics.  I love a good heel and nice dress. I now, almost exclusively, shop in the Petites section of stores.  I love to read.  I LOVE museums.  I love my curly hair.  I curse--like a sailor.  I drink whiskey and wine, but I've also developed a taste for water.  I have a flair for the dramatic.  I've learned how to care for myself, inside and out.  

The most important of these: I've accepted myself.  

I'm excited for all that this next decade has in store.  Every sky-is-falling-the-roof-is-on-fire-oh-lawd-what-is-i-gon-do moment, the shout "hallelujah" at the top of my lungs, and even the "Eh, I suppose I'll be here for a while." moments. 

Now I'm really rambling...I'm going to bed now.  But first, I have to thank my husband.  

Nite.

"That's right, those degrees..."

My grandmother, my granny, Natalie Eloise (Thomas) Freemon left this planet on Friday, March 31, 2017.  She was born on a hot August day in 1928 in Foreman, Arkansas to Mable and John Thomas.  Her father, mother, husband, son and grandson would precede her in death.

I stare at the degrees on my wall.

And think about how she couldn't achieve what was rightfully hers.  I mean, her maternal uncles both graduated from Howard U and were attorneys.

B.A. University of Missouri

She moved to the KC area, 17 years old, fresh out of high school, and ready to conquer the world.  Madame C.J. Walker's student.  A hustler....homie.  Regretting that she couldn't go to college to become the teacher she wanted to be.  Resenting the full academic scholarship she received because she couldn't afford the books.  But she knew she had to make it...

...and nevertheless, she persisted.

She met a man, let's call him "Ed."  With Ed she bore 6 children.  One went on to create me.  Most went on to earn that bachelor's degree.  You see, education wasn't a luxury, but a right.  No, a necessity.  As essential as the air we breathe.  Nat and Ed, made sure they agreed...then came me.

M.A., Roosevelt University

I was encouraged, empow'red to be the best me I could be.  For she'd accept no less.  No, she would, but she wouldn't be too pleased.  She helped raise me.  She taught me my worth.  Helped her daughter, our mom, with the expenses to raise us.  Dropped $900 like it was nothing so I could wear pearls.  Assisted with Catholic tuition when God knows we were A.M.E..  

Ph.D Unwritten...

She'll never get the chance to see me published.  To see her dreams realized.  But I'll keep fighting...keep working in her name.  Natalie Eloise.  I owe it all.

xoxo,

your spirit, your soul, Kay