On Learning the Lessons

The good thing about being in (close to) complete solitude is that I have time to think.  To process.  Lunchtime is the best.  I'm in my apartment, alone, with nothing but my pen/pad (by pen/pad I mean the "notes" app on my phone) as my companion.  I've written a lot during lunch, and it's amazing what my brain thinks of during that hour.  

This is something I originally wanted to write last year when I turned 30.  You know all the "30 lessons to learn before 30" published articles/posts?  Yeah, I wanted to lend my voice to that topic.  The universe had other plans.  May 2, 2017-May 2, 2018 showed me more than I expected, and now I understand why I was forced to wait.

Here are my lessons to learn: 

"Lessons on love that 31 years of living have taught me"

1. Choose yourself first.

Those who are for you will encourage that because they will understand that, in order for you to give the love and support they need, you need to be complete. You cannot be complete without first choosing yourself and your happiness. I promise you won't regret it. 

Addendum: Take time to learn yourself and what you truly like/dislike.  Don’t base it off what others say you should like/dislike.  You know yourself better than anyone, trust your instincts.  

2. Love. Hard. 

Although this leads to more devastating heartbreaks, it also makes you a stronger and more empowered FULL human being. You won’t notice it through your tears, but when the sun reappears (and I’ve found that it’s shortly thereafter), you will feel better knowing you gave your all. 

3. Good times do not a good relationship make. 

Good relationships, STRONG relationships, are made during the bad. It’s how you go through the bad and come out that truly builds your relationship. You can have good times with anyone (just ask me, I can give you examples from all my exes), but as Jessica Lange’s character said to Halle Berry’s in “Losing Isaiah” (as weak as this comparison may be), “Any animal can give birth, that doesn’t make it a mother.” You can have good times with anyone, that doesn’t make them your soulmate. 

    3a.  It took my marriage and subsequent divorce to finally learn that I shouldn’t get caught up in the "good." (Did we not learn anything from Childish Gambino’s “This is America”?) When you allow yourself to be distracted by the good, you ignore the chaos, sirens, and signals going on in the background. 

    3b.  Don’t ignore the red flags.  They’re there for a reason.

Leading me to my next point...

4. Band-aids only work on human skin.

Shortly after undergrad, I worked in an office (identifying information withheld to protect the innocent).  On the carpet of said office sat a big bleach stain. The person whose office in which I worked, instead of replacing the carpet, simply covered it with a rug (it wasn’t a money issue...before you ask).  The problem with this “solution” was that after a while, given the office traffic, the rug would begin to shift, and the stain would show itself. 

Fix your problems, don’t apply a band-aid.  You're only prolonging the inevitable.  Say it with me, "Band-aids only work on human skin."

5. Don’t turn bitter. It’s not cute, and it’ll give you ulcers. 

6. Find someone who matches your “fly.” And no, “fly” is not just limited to physical attributes. 

7. Compatibility cannot be learned. It either is or isn’t.

8. Take your time. This is one that I’ve struggled with; I’m willing to admit my flaws... but I’m learning the beauty in patience.

9. In telling my brother, who can behave more like a father at times, that I was getting married, one of his first questions was, “Who are his people?”  He didn't mean this in an elitist way at all, he just wanted to know what kind of family I'd be marrying into.  If you’re thinking about marriage or just getting serious, make sure you know their family and its dynamics.  No matter how different they may seem, these are the people who shaped the one you love, and the similarities, despite how few, will eventually show themselves.  The question you have to answer is...

Can you deal with that?

10.  My paternal grandmother said it best, “You can’t re-raise him.”

Sure, she was talking to my mother, her then daughter-in-law at the time, but the advice is still solid.  No matter what you think of how your partner’s parents raised them, you cannot redo or undo their job.  

11.  It’s not about what others can handle, but what you can handle.  This has the potential to get murky, and I’m not advising anyone to remain in an abusive or toxic relationship (reminder: abuse comes in MANY forms, not just physical), this is only relevant to the basic quirks that your partner may have that your friends’ partners don’t.  It’s not about your friends and what they can handle.  Know YOUR dealbreakers.  That’s what matters.

12.  Shoutout to my brother, Sean (the one from above), who gave me this gem more than 10 years ago—  Do not fixate on whether or not someone is cheating on you.  They either are or aren’t, and you worrying about it won’t change a damn thing.  

Addendum: Unless you are prone to paranoia, if you feel that there’s something to question, there usually is.  Don’t ignore that feeling.  

13.  Old-school advice*: To my cis-hetero ladies, study the relationship your man has with his mother.  He will NEVER treat you better than he treats her.  He may treat you worse, but will never treat you better.  

14.  Old-school advice*:  Never love a man more than he loves you.  This, although told to me about 15 years ago when I first started really dating, I’m still struggling with (see point 2 for the reason).  But ladies, no matter how feminist we may want to be and no matter how feminist HE may say he is, this is still true.  They love the chase, it’s an unfortunate truth, but one all the same.  Until society changes, protect your heart.

And finally...

15.  Learn the lessons.  As philosopher Carrie Bradshaw once said (I’m paraphrasing), “Your 20s are to enjoy yourself, your 30s are to learn the lessons, and your 40s are to pay for the drinks.”  

I’ve learned the lessons and I'm discovering there’s more to learn.  I’m looking forward to being able to pay for the drinks.

Keep in mind that outliers exist, and you may be one of the lucky ones to find them.  If you do, kudos and congratulations to you.  Also, keep in mind that these lessons are based off my life experiences, and what I've learned.  They may not all be relevant to your life.  That's fine.  We all have our hills, our valleys, our laughs to laugh and our crosses to bear.  My purpose in life is to share my story in hopes that someone will learn from it and not fall down the same rabbit hole.  

Consider me your Jay-Z.   

*This isn’t inclusive, sorry, but still good advice.

Ode to 127

Hey girl, hey.

So I used to hate you. 

I'd see the scale tipping in your favor and go into panic mode.

Dulcolax and Gas-X cocktails.

Detox smoothies.

Nothing but greens.

Anything that would beat you into submission.

"You're supposed to be 123!" 

While I'm still not fond of what you've done to my cheeks,

I mean, I would still like to look like I at least have some semblance of a cheekbone sheesh, 

I am proud of what you've done to my breasts

my ass

my legs

and even the additional skin on my tummy. 

I love how I fill out my clothes. 

This lingerie I'm wearing, 

While purchased at 122, 

I've never felt sexier.

Is this what loving yourself feels like?

Artist Insecurities

Disclosure: It is my hope that by getting these out into the open, I can finally release the associated feelings, much like with my divorce piece.  Hopefully, it works.  Prayerfully, it works.

You ever feel so passionately about something that seems so elusive?  No matter how hard you push, how many pieces you write, you still feel like a fraud?  

That's me and my creativity.  My creativity and me?  Whatever.

We've been in a lifelong battle.  Well actually, we've only been battling for about 13 years.  Yeah, that sounds about right, 13 years...when I officially entered adulthood.  Still, considering that I'm only 30, that's almost half my life, so let's round up and say that we've been battling for half my life.  Why?

Because I never felt good enough.

My trusted advisor once told me (and this person knows who they are, and will undoubtedly text me when reading this so let me get my eye roll ready) that DC gave me a fish out of water experience.  Well, more like a "fish in an ocean when she once lived in a river" experience.  DC is com-pet-i-tive.  I'm surrounded by the best and the brightest, so whoever I thought I was previously doesn't matter.  I have to work harder.  The problem?

DC didn't do this.  Columbia did.  

The other problem?  I can be lazy.  Really, I'm not 100% certain that it's laziness and not sheer fear of myself and my abilities, but either way, I act like I don't have the discipline to accomplish.  When I, and many others, know full well that I do.  

Anyway, back to Columbia.  Going to Mizzou was the first time in my life when I had to work hard for what I wanted.  (shoutout to my former roommate who would try, despite her best efforts, to pull my ass out of bed and into the library--to get me to be the person she knew me to be.  #hatch622 #forevergrateful)  I was surrounded by the best and the brightest: at the time, Mizzou had the top Journalism school in the country, not to mention solid Engineering and B-schools.  And because we were also a Big 12 school, people came from across the country to attend.

I quickly realized that my papers and poems, my performances in KC would only get me but so far here.  Because my classmates were getting the same pat on the head from their circle that I was.  

I was competing with thousands of Monicas.  And some bigger and better Monicas, I'm big enough to admit that.  Competing against your strongest and best self is terrifying.  I fought.

But I also let doubt seep in.

"What were their ACT scores?" I wondered.  "What did they get in Anthropology 101?"  Monica, maybe you should choose something safer.

So I did.  And instead of graduating with a BS in Journalism, I graduated with a BA in Interdisciplinary Studies (Communication, Black Studies, Psychology).  Sure, I can use that degree now to emphasize my ability to think out of the box, and devotion to myself and my varied passions, but that wasn't why I chose it.  I chose it to get out.  

I was worried what others would say if it took me (gasp) 5 years to graduate from undergrad instead of the requisite 4.  They'd question my level of intelligence (some still do because they don't understand my degree--more on that another day...hint it's not the same as a Gen Ed degree).  They'd say I wasn't focused (I was, but only so much).  

Looking back, I think I should've gone out of state.  Perhaps that would've kept those voices at bay, or at least far enough away where I didn't have to listen.  It's not easy to ignore the voices when your brother graduates WITH a job offer in hand (a very well paying job--almost 10 years after my graduation, I still haven't made his starting salary).  But again, that's an aside, a rabbit hole that I don't feel like plummeting down today.  

Anyway, I say all this to say that those insecurities I had then, I still have now.  I often find myself asking these questions:

1. Can a Black woman writer who didn't go to an Ivy or Howard succeed?  More specifically, can one who went to a PWI succeed?  
   1. No dig on the current Black woman intellectuals, but after reading a lot of their writing, it appears that many of them came from a place of privilege pre-college, and either went to Howard in search of their Blackness (something I never needed to find) or to an Ivy because they were brilliant (I could never--and I don't say that self-deprecatingly--I actually could never.  I didn't have the grades).  
2. Every.body.is.a.writer!  Will people just think that I'm joining a trend?  
   1. This one bugs me.  To the young lady at Columbia College in Chicago who berated me when I told her I wanted to get an MA in Journalism because I missed my chance in undergrad, sis, I get it now.  
      1. I am not a journalist.  At least not yet.  But I am a writer.  I bleed for writing.  I don't bleed for journalism.  There's a difference.

The root of those questions being: Am I good enough?  

Y'all seriously, when I get texts or messages from you telling me how good a post was, and I respond with "Really?" It's not because I'm giving my best impersonation of Taylor Swift.  I am truly astounded that some of my pieces resonate with you.  Thank you so much.  

So, I guess that's it.  I've gotten it all out.  Hopefully, with this I can continue to write.  I can silence the voices in my head that tell me I'm not good enough, because it's damn hard to fight those and the outside voices as well.   

The Journey....

Okay, so I’m finally writing this, and I think it’s inspired by my anxiety of my first trip home since the divorce.  Maybe it’ll help me process that anxiety.  Still, I’m finally writing.  

This is a compilation of 4-5 unfinished and unedited pieces surrounding the topic of divorce, and I only feel one is REALLY good.  Maybe I’ll finish them, maybe I’ll eventually combine them…then again, maybe not. 

Divorce, like marriage, is not easy.  It is not a decision you come to easily.  Sadly, I feel I must put that out there because, from responses I received from others, it’s viewed as a selfish decision, a rushed decision, giving up.

That is not the case.  

I did not mention the specifics of what went wrong in our marriage or what kind of a husband he was because everything is still fresh, and I still respect him and his right to privacy.  I also don’t believe in publicly bashing your ex.  There are lessons that I may eventually share, you know, to help others, but when/if that happens, it will be a very long time from now. 

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Disclaimer: I began writing this last October (2017).  In the time since, my opinions have slightly changed, but I felt it was still a good topic to explore. I hope you enjoy.

This is hard.  

I am a firm believer in signs, and it seems that lately, all around me, I’ve been surrounded by divorce.  And not because of infidelity or abuse, but because women are choosing themselves.  It may sound silly, but even Mindy Lahiri, eternal romantic, chose to embrace her happiness and herself after spending 5 seasons chasing the idea of marriage.  And now—Jeannie Mai.  

Last weekend, the news broke that Jeannie Mai and her husband, Frankie Harteis, were getting a divorce.  Immediate speculation was that the reason behind the split was due to Jeannie’s lack of desire to have children (something Frankie has known since the beginning), which Jeannie confirmed yesterday as The Real opened its show.  “Frankie is the best man I’ll ever know!” Jeannie proclaimed through her tears, and in her face, I saw myself—much like when Mindy made the decision to leave “good, kind, and decent Ben.”

Divorce is never easy, but I think there’s an additional layer of difficulty when you know you’re walking away from a good person.  A person who other people believe they would love to have.  Someone who’s great on paper—someone safe.  You feel ungrateful.  You feel guilty, and there’s even a point where you feel like you are the crappiest person in the world for this decision.  

Why?

Because you’re breaking the heart of someone whom you truly love.  You know that your happiness is to their detriment.  And you know they didn’t do anything to “deserve” it.  

You married for the right reasons, you fell in love with a great, God-fearing (if that’s your jam), man, and he checked most, if not all of your boxes.  He was the man you were told to marry.  He loves you.  You can see the kids and growing old—you even know you could be happy…ish.        

We’re taught to compromise ourselves for the sake of a ring.  If someone loves you enough to marry you, you should love them enough to forego your independence—changing who you are.  That’s called being a good wife.

—

(January 2018)

There’s this pressure to get married in your 20’s, that no matter how hard you try to avoid, still seeps in.  And unless you’ve poured yourself into your career as a distraction, it is something you will eventually succumb to.  I am not saying that everyone who gets married in their 20s is doomed or even that if you decide to get married post-30 that you will live happily ever after, but I do think there’s something behind why many women are “choosing their happy” over marriage..just look at the comments under Demetria Lucas’ post on her divorce.   

What I’ve learned since I’ve turned 30, is that people usually don’t really get a good hold on who they are until 30.  The desire to be married before 30 is real.  But it’s not always good.  

Especially for the generation raised by Disney movies.   

__

(February 2018)

Charlotte: “What’s worse than being 34 and divorced?”

Miranda:  “I can tell you what’s worse: being 34 and trapped in a marriage that doesn’t work.”

SATC sisters, I can do you one better: being 30 and divorced OR trapped in a marriage that doesn’t work.

I know, it’s passe’, but I felt relieved as the court clerk processed the payment.  I exhaled.  With that exhalation went all the stress and tension I had stored inside me for too many years to count.  It didn’t help that this was my second time in 1 hour at the courthouse (I didn’t have a document that apparently we needed), but I just felt free.

I felt like Monica again.  

Yet, as I saw yet another pregnancy announcement, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Am I falling behind?”  “Is this a failure?”  Don’t get me wrong, I know that things are not always as they seem (no one knows it better), but it’s something that’s innate. By now, I’m supposed to be working on my first kid at least, right?  If this were a race, I sometimes felt as though I tripped and fell and had to go all the way to the start line.  Remember playing “Red Light, Green Light” as a kid?  Yeah, I seemed to always be the one who flinched and had to start all over.  I rarely won.  This is no different.

I have it on good authority that it is normal to have these conflicting feelings, even when your divorce is “acceptable”.*

Unlike Charlotte, who tried to hold onto every vestige of she and Trey’s marriage, I quickly worked to make what was now my apartment, my own. It began with my bedding.

But the sheer sense of relief and joy Charlotte felt as she changed the name on her apartment from MacDougall to York, I felt it.  When I can officially return to Sharp, I know I’ll be able to breathe a sigh of relief.

*”Acceptable” means being physically abused (as if that’s the only form of abuse that happens) or infidelity.  Y’all idolize extreme struggle, believing that there’s a pot of gold at the end of the storm clouds, and that’s not always the case.    

__

(early March 2018)

“What is in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Monica Sharp.  The name given to me by my parents.  A name that, when I was a child, others felt was a big name for “such a little girl.”  According to my prospective acting agent (yes, I had one of those), was a “strong name.”  “You wouldn’t even need to change your name!” he exclaimed during our first meeting.  

I loved my name.  I even figured out that it fit perfectly with the Mickey Mouse Club’s theme song. (I bet you’re singing it now, and thinking about whether or not your name fits.  Go ahead, I won’t judge you)

So, when the time came for me to decide whether or not I’d change my name or hyphenate, I decided that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’d take on being “Petty”.   I changed 6 months after I got married.  Why it took so long?  Well, I was in graduate school and, from what I was told, the name change process can be pretty time-consuming.  Admittedly, there may have been a bit of spite thrown in there as well.  I was sick of folks asking, “So when are you changing your name?” and looking like I kicked their puppy when I answered apathetically.      

Still, when the time came to change my name, I did so proudly.  I was glad to “honor my husband.”  It was the act of changing my name that solidified our marriage and made us official (as if the marriage license wasn’t enough).  “Petty” proved I was chosen.  I was a little hesitant, however, to change my name with my then-current school, because I felt “Monica Sharp” earned that degree, not “Monica Petty”.  And, as we’ve already discussed, I wanted to add prestige to the “Sharp” name.  Yet, when I was asked, I was okay with hyphenating the name to be called as I walked across the stage.  

I didn’t need to mourn “Monica Sharp”—or at least, I didn’t think I did.  However, I secretly missed my former name, and no matter how much I told myself that, “I’ll always be a Sharp,” I didn’t quite feel like it.

I was conflicted.  I also quickly took to the “Petty” moniker, even updating my social media usernames to reflect “the new me.”  

I definitely didn’t expect the emotional toll that returning to my birth name would take—especially after beginning the process.  I’m not sure if it’s simply the tediousness of the name change process, but with every “submit” button or signature—with every payment processed, I feel something.  Not regret, no, but a sadness.  Sad that what I was so desperately hoping for when I underwent this change in 2014 didn’t fully materialize.  Disappointment. So while I’m excited to return to the name who made me—regaining my identity— I’m going to take time to mourn “Petty”, because although short-lived, we had a connection.  

__

(Late March 2018)

What do you do when you realize that the life you thought you wanted, just isn’t?

I mean, I should’ve seen this coming. I am the same person who has, in her lifetime, wanted to be a chemist, doctor, lawyer, writer, meteorologist, professor, politician, policy analyst, journalist, secretary, and documentarian, just to name a few. 

But the one thing that remained constant was my dream of being a wife and a mother.  I just knew that, if I wasn’t good at anything else, I’d be good at that. I am nothing if not supportive, loving, and nurturing.

Exactly a month after my divorce was finalized, I’m realizing that what I imagined marriage to be, just wasn’t.  I’ve also grown comfortable with the possibility of never being married again, and never having children.  

I can hear you thinking already, “Awww, it’s okay, Monica.  You’ll find someone someday!” and I know you mean well, but get this: it is okay.  I am okay.  It’s hard to believe since I’m a recovering serial monogamist, the idealistic person who seemed to always be waiting for her prince.  But, I am.  

Now, what I know I want is to be satisfied—with me.  I want to make sure I accomplish my dreams and goals, I want to see the world.  I have finally, FINALLY, fallen in love with me and that feeling is insurmountable.  As long as that continues, partner and children, or not at all, I’ll be okay.  

I’m thirty plus, I’m cute.  (Sorry, I know I just combined two Jigga lyrics but I had to…) But really, as I enter the time of the year where I become mega-focused on Monica (3/31-5/2), I think of what I’ve been through this past year and I’m so glad I can breathe again.  I’m blessed.  And that little girl with the wide, bright eyes and big dreams, will have a reason to be proud—at long last.  

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If you’re still here, you’re the real MVP.  Thank you for rocking with me.  

Washington Is For Lovers?

I’m convinced that DC is a place you live when you still need to find yourself, discover and develop yourself.  

DC is not about love.

Washington, as we locals call (guess I can actually call myself that now) it, is beautiful, don’t get me wrong.  I’m in love with its architecture, culture, and history.  From time to time, I’m even in love with its proximity to power, but it is not the best place for a formerly hopeless, now realistic, romantic.

I think it’s the hustler’s mentality that exists.  Yes, similar to NYC, just without the laidback-ness that the nation’s first capital possesses, Washington is overrun by hustlers: both native and imported.  The city, the DMV area, has something that forces you to constantly be “on."  There is no one, and I mean no one, I know in the area who does not have at least 1-2 side hustles in addition to their main job.  

We. work. hard.  We also tend to play hard.  Each one of us has a vice.

Want to stop to smell the flowers?  Okay, that’s fine, just make sure you step to the side before you do because we are busy and will undoubtedly be too busy looking at our phones, checking texts, and responding to emails while listening to the latest podcast, to not run you over if you get in our way.  

Don’t get me started on the traffic.

High intensity.  High energy.  Twenty-four hours a day.  My mind works, constantly—even when I’m asleep.  We’re continuously building, working to make our lives better.  Because someone can and will take your spot if you’re caught slipping.  The competition is real.

Washington is a place you go if you want a crash course on who you really are.  It will come out, trust me.  Therapists are balling out ‘chea!  

We have made "Sex and the City" a reality.  In this "me" town, there's not much time for "us."  So what do you do when you’ve found yourself, you've discovered yourself, but still, crave something that the city can’t give?

Most leave.  This is why the city is so transient.  After years of the noise, you yearn for some form of peace and quiet.  For me, that’s where the romantic resides: peace amidst chaos.  She offers balance to her sometimes-ruthless, ambitious, type-a controlling counterpart.  She brings the creativity, the art.  She stops to marvel at the flowers and the trees.  

She falls in love.  

I've learned that in Washington, my twins are in an ongoing power struggle.  Last year, the Washingtonian won.  This year, I’m giving the Romantic more rule so they can finally learn to co-exist.  I'm entering my Reconstruction and I’m eager to see what will happen next.

Washington has taken as much as he has given, but one thing I won’t allow him to take is my ability to love.  

I haven’t given up.  I don’t go down that easily.    

Madonna Lied to Us...

Time does not go "by so slowly." (writer's note: admittedly, I should've read the lyrics to what is actually a pretty dope song before posting, but I'm committed so I'm going with it)

Time, in fact, actually zooms by.  I'd say Ferris was more accurate.  I cannot believe it has been over a month since I've last posted.  

March was...well, March.  It came in like a lion, and praise God, is going out like a lamb.  A well-coiffed, self-assured, confident little lamb, but a lamb all the same.  

The fog has lifted.

I will write again!  

What Are You?

Admittedly, I am still riding my Wakanda high, but that doesn't make this post any less relevant.

I can't remember the first time I got this question (considering my complexion and more "European" features, I'm sure I got it much earlier...I mean, the man who came to tune our piano thought my grandmother was "Mexican" so..) but I remember the first time I responded.  It was to an African man (at the time, I assumed he was Ethiopian or Eritrean based on his features but I've since learned how those can be misleading) who followed me off the bus at the Ballston metro station.

"Excuse me, but what are you?"

"Pardon?"

He adjusted himself.  Perhaps he realized the familiarity in my response.

"I mean, where are you from?"

"Missouri."

He chuckled.  "No, I mean...where are you REALLY from?"

Now, I knew what he was getting at.  At the time, I lived in the DMV for about 6 months and had been confronted by several people speaking Amharic.  In fact, almost 8 years later, I still get it.

I smiled.  "You know, a little thing called "slavery" happened, preventing me from knowing where I'm from."

"Okay, well you're one of us."

I didn't know if by "us" he meant his tribe or African, but it sparked a fire in me.  I began to study genealogy.  I was always curious.  I mean, I knew I descended from Africans (duh), my father spoke of our Irish heritage, and my mother spoke of our Native heritage, but I always wanted to know where our African-ness came from.  Blame it on the many Nigerian friends I had growing up and their rich cultures, but I always wanted that.

Anyway, I started searching.  I got pretty far too but eventually hit a wall.  At the time I was too broke to pay for the full Ancestry membership...despite my researching at the Library of Congress and National Archives.

Fast forward to 2017, and I still didn't know.  By then, I lived in DC and Chicago (where they swore I was Puerto Rican), but it took me passing by a store owned by a man who was my father's twin, to make me purchase my ancestry test.

I had to know "what" I was.

In addition to the European (but this ain't about them right now...) results, I found out that my African ancestry came from Benin/Togo and Cameroon.  I was geeked.  I could finally answer the question.  

I began discovering these people, the tribes, and cultures that they consist of.  I saw their dress, and the foods, and I felt a kinship.  

I was proud.  

This doesn't go to say that I'm not proud of my other ancestral lines (btw, DNA results show that I am not Native American), but I finally feel like my puzzle is complete.  The people with whom I most closely identify, have been identified.  I am whole.  

Full disclosure: yes, I yelped a bit when I heard Michael Bae Jordan discuss Beninese art last night.  But hey, that's what I do when I'm proud.  I still smile when I see "Sharp" electronics.      

Self-love, The Purge and Valentine's Day

When I woke this morning, I prayed.  I thanked God for God’s undying love (as shown through the Resurrection), I thanked God for the ability to love myself, despite myself, and for placing people in my life who love me too.  I then began my practice of self-love.  I decided that, although this is my first Valentine’s Day as an unmarried woman, I’d still celebrate.  I put on my romantic, burgundy colored, lace dress, my tights and boots, and even upped my daily makeup game (meaning: I threw on eyeliner).  I was excited to face the day.    

It is not lost on me the significance of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday occurring on the same day.  Celebrating a day of love, that also ushers in the season where we focus on God’s love…while we spend the next 40 days dying to our former selves in order to fully appreciate that love. 

As I stood in Ash Wednesday service, my ears perked when the pastor discussed that last part: dying to our former selves.  This past week, I’ve been having intense conversations that have forced me to think introspectively and admit truths about myself that I’ve often avoided out of comfort.  In the spirit of transparency, I was frustrated by these conversations, and desperately wanted the person with whom I was having them to leave me alone.  Seriously, I even begged, y’all.  But as I heard the pastor say, “…dying to our former selves…” I heard God giving me the reason for those conversations. 

In order to die to ourselves, we must first face ourselves.  And that is never easy.

But God wasn’t finished.

“You said you wanted to grow, right?” “You said you wanted to change.” “Well, in order to experience that change, you have to go through the tears, the difficult conversations, the heartbreaking realizations, forgive yourself, and then you must purge yourself of your past.”  “You know that stuck feeling you’ve been having lately?”  

Yeah…

“That’s your past; it’s holding you back.  Your future is much brighter, but you can’t get to it if you don’t let go.” "You detox everything else, why not try your soul this time?"

That friend, I realized, was right.  And here God was affirming it.  I could feel the joy, and a sense of freedom, bubbling inside me.  My prayers were being answered, my life begging me to start anew.  Finally, I am ready.

So what’s next?

Well, tonight I continue loving self as I dine on my favorite risotto dish, and watch Chris Rock’s Netflix special.  Then I'll get a good night's rest.  As for my bright future?  I'll tackle it tomorrow.  

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Frequently Asked Questions

What is your name?

-My name is Monica.

What is your height?

-I grew an inch last year!  I'm now 5'1.  

How much do you weigh?

-I fluctuate between 123-125.  Working on making that 123 more consistent though.

How old are you?

-I am 30 years, 8 months and 3 weeks old.  I'm 30.  

Are you okay?

-I’m fine.  Why wouldn’t I be?  What else have you heard? Haha no, I'm good.  Really.

Are you going through a major change in your life?

-Yes.    

Would you care to expound?

-Nope.  

What's the reasoning behind last night's post?

-Which one?  The one where I was lip-synching  "MacArthur Park"?  Well let's see, I was in a music mood.  I was listening to music and dancing all night.  If you followed me on Twitter, you would’ve seen a pretty comical life hack about not listening to OutKast’s "BOB" while chopping vegetables. 

No, Monica.  The other one.

-Oh, the one where I told everyone to mind their business?

Yes, that one.

-Oh. Well, ever so often, I get messages from people who were questioned by “well-intentioned” folks about my mental and emotional state.  I was even told that I have sad eyes and looked crazy last night (sidenote: that is the craziest part of the song, have you heard Donna Summer’s cackle?).  It’s funny because those questions also always come at a time in my life where I’m actually okay and happy.  No one notices when I don’t use certain platforms for two weeks, but as soon as I’m posting a video of me counting down to the new year, all of a sudden, I must be going through something.  I really just want everyone to mind their business, and let me live my life.  

Well, you do understand that what you post on social media is viewed as a reflection of your life, right?

-Yes, I get that people have that perception, and, to quote last night’s post, “I think it’s stupid as all shit.”  There are occasional posts that reflect what I’m feeling at the moment, but they’re captioned as such.  If I posted a picture of a bird I saw, it’s because I think the bird is pretty, there isn’t some deep, underlying reason for me posting the bird.  What frustrates me is that people often read too much into things, and especially the wrong things.  I was thinking about leaving social media altogether, but then I thought, “Why should I have to change my life because other people are ignorant?”  And decided against it.  

Well, don’t you think that these people just care?

-The ones who actually care are those who reach out to me directly.  The ones who don’t are just nosy and looking for something to gossip about.  

So, if they’re nosy and insignificant, why do you care?

-Because they’re like gnats, or better yet, mosquitoes.  Because if they land, they’ll take from you and only leave you with an irritated bump.  I have O+ blood, mosquitoes love me.

Do you have anything left to add?

-Sure.  

Hello, world!  Again I ask you, for my sanity and the sanity of my friends and family, if you are truly concerned about me, please, PLEASE, contact me directly.  Clearly, you have at least one way to get in touch with me, so use it.  Otherwise, leave it alone.  This is the last time I’ll address it.  

Oh, and to my loved ones, please tell anyone who contacts you to contact me.  Do not contact me because of someone else.  If they don’t like your response, tell them I said to go jump off something tall.  

As for me, I’m going to keep on living.  I am human.  Sometimes I laugh, actually I laugh a lot.  Sometimes, I cry.  I feel emotion, and as a living being, I am entitled to do so.  Please treat me as you’d want someone to treat you.  What I’m not going to do is live how you think I should, no matter what I am or am not going through in my life at the time.  This life is mine.  Go live yours.  And if you happen to post a video of you counting down to the new year or singing disco music, know I’ll be rocking out with you.  

That’s all.  

The Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand and Eighteen

Well, here we are.  The year of our Lord, two thousand eighteen.  Never could imagine this year, and for some reason despite the growing pains I endured in the year prior, I am incredibly optimistic about this one.

Back in July, I wrote about finding a muse.  Finding someone to encourage me, motivate me, inspire me…to keep doing what I know I was born to do.

In the time since however, I’ve learned something.  

You can be your own muse.

..and that makes things sweeter.

I’ve learned to find, craft and use my own voice.  To write my truth, and hopefully inspire others.  Now, that doesn’t go to say that I don’t have friends, loved ones and even foes (yes, sometimes they’re the best to learn from) who inspire me, and I know we could all use a little encouragement from outside sources, but when it first comes from you—well, that’s the best feeling in the world.  

Because you know you’re being true.  Being honest.  Being genuine.  

So make yourself your muse.  This way, you’ll never be alone—even when you’re riding (or, writing) solo.

You see, that’s what this whole “Choosing Monica” thing has been about.  Getting comfortable with me, being comfortable in my own skin.  Becoming a grown woman.

2017 was about choosing myself.  2018 will be about remaining committed.  

So here we go… #committedtomoni

Dear, Angela...thank you.

As soon as I open my mouth, one can immediately tell that I’m a Black woman from a southern or midwestern state and that I grew up in the hood.    

Growing up, this was something I tried to change.  I was embarrassed*.  I tried my hardest to “code switch”, but despite my best efforts, it never quite felt authentic.  I didn’t code switch because I didn’t want people to know I’m Black—I’ve always been taught to love my Blackness, and have never wanted to be anything else—I wanted people to know I had an education, that I was intelligent.**  You see, I, like most little Black kids (especially those of us who grew up in the hood), was also taught that in order to get a job, for others to feel comfortable, to get respect, we had to have what journalists call, a “universal accent” so that the masses would accept us.  You know, treat us like the human beings we are.  

So we adapted.  Or at least tried.  I’ve never been good at accents—ask my high school Forensics coach.  

Then I heard Angela.  The first time she came into my life was when she called Joe Walsh “playboy” on national tv.  

Wait, what?!?  

Slang—on Cable News Network? 

I felt as represented as when I discovered that Misty Copeland also has a nice thicket of fur on her arms.  

I immediately began researching Angela, and, while she's considered everyone else's "little sister", she's been my big sis ever since.

Angela Rye, an accomplished, intelligent, influential Black woman was not afraid of her “Blaccent”.  I’m not sure if she’s ever had insecurities about it, or if she was ever told she needed to “sound more white”, but hearing the ease in how she navigated the media without slipping into her “professional voice” made me more comfortable with my own.  

Now, I understand that I do not have the accolades that Angela has, and while I’ve been on the radio (shout out to Hot 103 and KPRT 1590 in KC), I haven’t had the pleasure of being on CNN or The Breakfast Club, so I’m certain that there are things she can get away with that I cannot.  Still, being able to see and hear someone who sounds like me and still deemed intelligent in the public sphere means the world.  

Representation comes in many ways.  For me, it’s deeper than a Black face and natural hair.  Hearing Angela speak, and knowing she knows she doesn’t need to use “SAT words” to articulate herself, gives me the confidence to be me.  Unapologetically.

But I never felt more seen than when Angela gave the disclaimer she did before loudly cackling, with her mouth wide open, about Omarosa's "departure" from the White House.  Sometimes, a diplomatic, "proper" critique of Omarosa, or any of the other cretins of society, doesn’t quite cut it, and it takes an eloquent, "Bye, girl, bye!  Good riddance!” to adequately express how you feel.  

So dear Angela, thank you.  Thank you for allowing this Black woman the space to authentically use my voice, despite who it may make uncomfortable.  

*You’d think this embarrassment would prevent me from pursuing public speaking opportunities, but I think my personality won that fight.  I have always loved to share my voice.  I just didn’t like to hear it.

**As we know, society automatically deems those of us who are from the hood as uneducated, unprofessional, and undeserving of humanity.

My Life is My Own

Lately, I've become acutely aware of society's unwillingness to accept a woman's agency.  Perhaps my senses have been heightened due to the current state of my personal affairs,  but it seems that whenever a woman decides to truly live for herself, she is suddenly the subject of scrutiny.

...and everyone has an opinion or a "helpful suggestion."

Are we so conditioned to believe, even if only at a subconscious level, that women are not capable of taking care of themselves?  And yes ladies, I'm talking to some of you too.  Internalized chauvinism is real.

I cannot count how many times since I've started this whole "Choosing Monica" business that someone has suggested I "tone it down" or reminded me to be aware of the consequences my words and actions may have.  I am 30 years old, and growing up in a household where you were held accountable for your actions and words taught me at an early age what consequences were.  I also attended Catholic schools from ages 3-18, so yeah, there's that too.    

So, save it.  After a while, it comes off as condescending.  It suggests that I don't know what I'm doing, that there's a right (read: proper) way to choose myself.

And the cycle of women's oppression continues.  

I'm honestly perplexed.  Why do we figuratively clutch our pearls when a woman decides to go her own way?  Are we so afraid that she'll fall and smack her pretty little head on the pavement?  Or is it envy because she's decided to shake the securities of social tethers and craft her own life, choosing (there's that word again) not to live the one crafted for her?  How dare she seek personal fulfillment unless it is within the frame that we've built for her!  

Take Kim Kardashian, for example.  Now I'm sure this is where many of you will decide to stop reading and write me off, but I ask that you stick around for a bit longer, because yes--Kim Kardashian is the perfect example.  

When Kim's sex tape was leaked 10-11 years ago, you know the one that featured only her and her boyfriend, she was automatically labeled everything synonymous with "whore."  Why?  Because she didn't tuck her tail and hide in shame.  After she went on her brief "apology tour" (she really had nothing to apologize for since she was actually the victim), she owned her sexuality and decided that if anyone would profit off it, it would be her.  She has since built an empire.  To me, Kim's decision, her choice, was badass.  

But because our puritanical society hates women who aren't ashamed of their sexuality and who dare to embrace it, Kim, and anyone similar, continues to be considered less than ladylike.  And, most importantly, undeserving of respect.  I venture to guess that if Kim had been ashamed of what she "had done," and asked society for forgiveness, she wouldn't be the polarizing figure she is today.  

She also likely wouldn't be the successful entrepreneur she is either.  As Laurel Thatcher Ulrich once said, "Well-behaved women seldom make history."

Sexuality, while a very strong example, is sadly not the only way in which society tells women that we cannot be masters of our own fate.  Take Tracee Ellis Ross' empowering speech (which is where I derived the inspiration for this piece) on owning our lives.  In it, she discusses how, despite her many professional accomplishments, the fact that she is 45, single and childless makes others uncomfortable.  They pity her because she doesn't fit in the box that was created for her.  A box that she, admittedly, says she once tried to fit in.  However, one day, she woke up and realized she deserved more.  

She deserved the agency to define happiness on her own terms because her life--is hers. We as women are constantly reminded that somehow, our lives are not our own to live, rather they're our parents', spouse's, children's, church's, employer's, etc.

I recently changed the tagline of my blog to: "Controlling my own narrative."  This was not done impulsively.   It was, as Oprah puts it, an "aha" moment stemming from a conversation I had with my mother last week.  During this conversation, she mentioned how a family member was analyzing particular posts on my Facebook page, thereby drawing her own conclusions about my life.  As I detailed why I find this all too common practice annoying, I said, "I've always controlled my own narrative.  I don't like when people try to control it for me."

Lightbulb!  

I control my own narrative.  This sentence, while incredibly simple, was profound.  Like Tracee, I then felt I had permission to unapologetically own my life and go my own way.

So here I sit, just a small-town girl, who has not only given herself permission to truly live but is no longer asking you to stop drawing your conclusions.  Because my life--is my own.  I control my own narrative, and the ones you create for me are no longer relevant.  

*turns up Journey's "Don't Stop Believing"*   

Free Write

My back hurts.

I’m sick of being used.

Being YOUR muse.

I’m tired of you needing me only when you need emotional support

or your ego stroked

I’m done.  

My back hurts.

You’ve used me as a stepping stool

Taking advantage of my tendency to encourage

Because I actually want to see you do better

And they say Black women don’t support our men.

My back hurts.

When you lay atop me

I cringe

And a piece of me dies.

Knowing…

Knowing…that all this support

The cushion I give you

The grace I afford you

The excuses I create

Will never be returned.  

Beating the Block

“Well, why do you think you can’t write?”  

This is a question both my best friend and my therapist asked recently, and I couldn’t think of an answer.  

“I don’t know, honestly.  I know I’ve been stressed, and my apartment could stand to be tidied up a bit, so maybe that’s it.”  “Maybe I need to focus on some other project in order to get my juices flowing…”

Maybe...

So, in true Monica fashion, I ran tests on myself… I tidied both my office and apartment.  I tried to lessen my stress, and I even played a game to beat writer’s block and rediscovered old hobbies.

Still—nothing.  

Then I prayed, sat with that prayer for a while…and listened.  And this was my answer:

“You’ve been so confused and jumbled because you are no longer allowing yourself to be honest.”  

And I couldn’t argue.  I haven’t been honest—or actually, I’ve been afraid to allow myself the same vulnerability I showed just a month prior.

And I realized why.  I let a conversation I had earlier last month get into my head.  As I write this, I currently have 5 posts that will likely never see the light of day.  One is incredibly personal, the others are only slightly so.  What they share in common is a line of demarcation, a detour.  In each piece, as I wrote, I became concerned with how it would be received, whose feelings “may” (and I’m using that term loosely—I take pride in handling the identity of others with care) be hurt, or what someone may infer from a sentence of a post, and would edit.  I’d edit so much, that I’d edit the soul and passion right out of the piece.  

...and therein lies the problem.

Writing, for me, is therapeutic.  And if that means that I have to get bare-assed naked in front of the world in order for me to feel peace, then I will.  Yes, sometimes my private and personal become public, yet there are many things I keep to myself, so if I am sharing, then I have processed enough to be comfortable.  If I am not allowed the freedom and the space to be vulnerable and honest, then I’ll be who I was for the last month: physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually ill.  

Writing is also my way of helping others.  If just one person can relate to something I’ve written or experienced, then it is worth the speculation and misinterpretation of others.  What I won’t do again, however, is allow those speculations and questions to censor me or my work.  It's too important.  My sanity is at risk.  

So I'm course-correcting.  I'm returning to the vulnerable, sometimes uncomfortable, yet always honest art of writing your truth.    

I don’t believe in revisionist history.  

Pushing Through the Clutter

I was reminded that I need to do fall cleaning when I realized that I haven't really written--actually written, for a couple of weeks.  And, as a writer (which is what I call myself now), that is not okay.  

I looked in my office, my home, my life, and saw...clutter.   I'm drowning in books and paper, yet wondering why although there's so much on my mind to write about, I can never seem to put the pen to paper (or in my case, fingers to keyboard).  

Girl, it's time to clean up!

This is a season of renewal.  Get rid of the old, embrace Marie Kondo's tidying technique and clean!  Today, I'm starting with my office.  This evening, my bedroom.  One day, I'll get to my storage unit.  

Did I mention that I'm also thinking about cutting my hair?  

One Time for the Sex-Positive Woman

Especially if she is Black.

For many of us, our bodies belong to our fathers, brothers, cousins, uncles, pastors, religion---

Everyone except us.

I want to change that.

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?