April Challenge

In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m going to take part in a challenge.  I’m going to write a poem a day for each day of the month. What many don’t know is that poetry was my first foray into writing. I was about 6 or 7, and wrote about the ozone layer and pollution.

Baby Kay, environmentalist.

For years after, I wrote and performed, but as I got older, I turned my back on it. 

So, I’m going to exercise that muscle. Rediscover my first love. Being that it has spent years unnoticed, I’m sure the muscle is very weak. 

I cannot promise that every poem will be good.  But they’ll be posted. 

And I’ll be writing.  Again.

Happy Birthday Aaliyah

I’ve been an Aaliyah fan for years—before she died.  Let’s be honest, she is more popular in her death than when she was alive. I remember the jokes about how she couldn’t sing or dance, her lazy eye and how “this singer and that singer” were sooo much better than her.

I looked up to Aaliyah, because she was “street, but sweet.” I wore the swoop bang for God knows how long. She was my Selena.  

Anyway, I was listening to Spotify recently when “Age Ain’t Nothing But a Number” came on.  While I’ve heard it countless times over the years, for whatever reason, this was the first time that her diary entry really hit me. 

 ”May 5, 1993, Aaliyah’s diary...”

I stopped brushing my teeth.

“She was 14. FOUR TEEN.” I said aloud. And to no one in particular.

“That sick fuck..” I said, referring to Robert Kelly.

I quickly changed the song.

Aaliyah was born on January 16, 1979, meaning she had only been 14 for a few months when recording this song. Any other girl that age is finishing 8th grade and preparing for high school*. I saw myself at 14: bespectacled with smaller frames than my first pair (which are actually back in style now), sad to be leaving my friends whom I’d known for most of my life, but excited about a new journey at a school I wanted to go to since 6th grade. I tweezed my eyebrows for the first time that spring (what a disaster that was), and began experimenting with eyeshadow. I was worried about whether or not I’d find a high school sweetheart, if I’d be able to memorize my locker combination (this caused more anxiety than you’d ever know), how I’d be able to keep up with changing class periods, excited about going to my first real school dance that fall—I had plenty of worries. What I wasn’t worried about however, was a man at least 10 years my senior, grooming me and writing lyrics for me to sing about how “throwing down (presumably with him) ain’t nothing but a thang.”*

Aaliyah, did.

As a kid, I remember playing on the blacktop in front of St. Monica’s shortly after Aaliyah came out. One day, she was the topic of discussion. At least one of us overheard on the radio that she and R. Kelly were married. Knowing she was young, we were surprised. I couldn’t have been any older than 7, maybe 8, but even then, we knew that their marriage wasn’t okay.

She was fourteen. A child.

And we shouldn’t have let it happen. It shouldn’t have become Def Jam and ComicView fodder.

Every laugh, every joke, normalized Aaliyah’s abuse and caused us to unwittingly watch child porn (featuring another girl) 10 years later to see “if it was really him.” Our community was, and in some ways still, complicit in their abuse.

I chose to #muterkelly years ago, and will not willingly listen to any of his songs. Depending on who you are, I may even ask you to change the station or song if he comes on, despite how you feel. But last Saturday, I realized that I could no longer even listen to “Age Ain’t Nothing But a Number”, a childhood favorite that I often sang, in good conscience.  

I began writing this a month ago. Since then, the screening for tonight’s documentary was threatened, and a witness’ account of Aaliyah’s "alleged” rape has come out. Being fair to the family, Diane Haughton, Aaliyah’s mother, has spoken against the allegations made in the documentary, and while it’s true that we’ll never know for sure what went on between Aaliyah and Robert, what’s undeniable is what’s on wax.

She was fourteen. A child. It shouldn’t have happened. That song shouldn’t have been written, much less performed.

If it were not for her untimely death in 2001, Aaliyah would be getting ready to celebrate her 40th birthday in a couple of weeks. Let’s honor her legacy not just through MAC beauty lines and Halloween costumes, but by protecting Black girls the way she should’ve been.

I don’t know if Dream Hampton and the rest of the production team chose this release date intentionally or if it’s some beautiful coincidence gifted to us by the universe, but remembering Aaliyah’s short life contextualizes the age at which R. Kelly began grooming and “allegedly” raping her. The world hearing from brave women he abused or who witnessed his abuse will hopefully help to mute R. Kelly for good, and also inspire other girls and women to come forward with stories about men in their lives. Because this problem, I’m afraid, is much larger than R. Kelly. I’m hoping that society will begin to believe Black girls when they say they’ve been abused, and protect them the way they should always be.

The way Aaliyah should’ve been.

We cannot continue to look the other way.

Happy Birthday, Aaliyah.

Note: Using quotations around “alleged” is intentional. He did it. He’s a monster.

*I understand that she and I came from different worlds. Both midwesterners, but unlike Aaliyah, I didn’t grow up with Gladys Knight as my aunt and the environment that likely comes with that level of access.

**Having lived in Chicago for several years, I heard stories from other women my age who said that he would often come to local middle schools to bait girls in the schools’ choir. The pied piper led children away with music—-.

Whew Chile, the 2018 of it All!

I had so much written.  Much like my Masters’ thesis, it was scrapped to make way for what my heart wanted. 

RIP to the study about the inequitable civic engagement lessons in K-12 schools.

Whew chile, the 2018 of it all!  Before I get too far, let me get this gem out—

“2018 was one long ass Mercury retrograde.  Mercury needs to (said in auntie voice) SAT STILL and stop running around this house.”

2018 kicked me in the ass—hard, but I prayed for that—hard.  Doesn’t the Bible teach us something about being careful for what we ask for?  Seriously, I think that’s what Matthew was trying to say when (one of them) wrote, “Ask, and it will be given.”  This year forced me, sometimes kicking and screaming, to #committomoni.  

And on December 31st?  I can finally say that I’m a whole person.  I sincerely apologize to those who were hurt in the process of my journey.  

While I was cleaning and listening to my 2018 list on Spotify*, I got the idea to write about what I’ve been through this year.  Some y’all know, but not everything.  

I can be private, reclusive even, when I want to be.  You see, New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday—it always has been.  It’s the one night a year when I can actually stay up til, and sometimes past, midnight (those who know me know how much of a struggle that is), and represents a celebratory end to the year that was.  That’s why I never really liked Watch Night services.  Personally, I believe that our ancestors would be looking at us crazy for sitting, watching and waiting instead of celebrating.  To me, New Years’ Eve is a home-going.  Per the woman in the bar yelling in Forrest Gump’s ear, “It’s a time for second chances.”

So here we go.  These are the things I’ve gone through this year:

-Divorce 

Y’all already know about this one.  Some think it’s easier for the “filer”, but it’s no easier to file and stand in the courtroom alone than it is to have papers served against you.  Shoutout to my momma who spoke about her experience months later.  I needed that.  

Still, never in my life did I think I’d be standing in a courtroom for anything, much less as a plaintiff, but that happened this year. 

The paperwork is kinda dope though.  

-Knee Problems

You know that accident I talk about every year that makes you sick?  Yeah, it finally reared its ugly head.  I swear it was my camel pose that did it, but I pulled something in my knee.  Because I’m Natalie’s granddaughter, Brenda, Sharon, Debbie, and Pam’s niece, and Janet’s daughter, I fought through.  I applied superficial treatment to something that was much deeper.  It’s the reason I couldn’t dip it low for 6-7 months later.  

I now have the orthotics that I’ve needed since ’95.  Been finding reasons to get my eagle on ever since.

-Mental/Emotional

pt. 1:  I went to a therapist twice a month until July when she moved back home.  I’m grateful for therapy, and until I can find a Black woman who is accepting clients and accepts my insurance, I’lll keep searching.  Anyway, there was some time after when I called the suicide hotline.  It may have worked for others, so please don’t take this as a negative review, but my friends were much better outlets.  There were times when I know I was immediately more damaged than helped, but I’ve come to so many realizations about myself and my past, that I wouldn’t trade that.  I had to first learn to be vulnerable.  

I learned to open up.

Something I thought I was doing.  

But wasn’t.  I showed people who I wanted them to see.  I saw who I wanted to see.

That’s crippling.

pt. 2:  I let others steal my voice.  I knew what I wanted to say, but fell into the trap of worrying about what others would think.  I was told that I should stop talking about my divorce, what I went through—and I BELIEVED IT!  Y’all, it hasn’t even been a year yet.  

Oddly enough, I draw some inspiration from my ex-sister-in-law, who always speaks her mind.      

I decided to start listening to y’all about my writing.  It took forever, and I fought it, but I am truly thankful for those who kept reminding me (sometimes not nicely) of my voice.  I cried a mighty cry to our Creator a month ago, and finally gave myself over.  Trust that everything I write, every word, God is cool with.  So chill.  

pt. 3:  I rushed.  True to character, I rushed to get back to Monica.  I spent way more time than I should have and smiled when I shouldn’t have.  I rushed my healing.  Physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. 

pt. 4:  I let another hurt me.  I don’t even think it was intentional—it was learned.  But that’s not something that I have the time or energy to unpack. 

My empath is healthy.  She knows how to protect herself.

-Professional

In my 9-5, my god the year!  For the first time in my professional life, I felt powerless.  I was told not to say anything to people who were clearly disrespectful because I’d be “subordinate” (intentional quotes—one person is a peer, the other is like the sibling of my supervisor.  Neither are my superior).  She wouldn’t want me to call her out, but I’m truly grateful for the one who would see my face, sense my energy, and start a casual conversation.  Actually, I’m grateful for the two who’d do that.  It got me through the attacks felt from my other co-workers who, when I decided to put my foot down, felt they could snitch to my boss.  I’m still enduring that.  

Still, I’m more assertive, and sure of my voice.  

I’m not tap dancing for anyone.  But myself.  And Savion Glover.  

-Spiritually

All you need to know, is that I am firmly solid with my Creator.  I don’t have to perform religious traditions to do so.  At the risk of being cliche, I’m more spiritual than religious, it’s just that this time I know what that means. 

I saw a tweet earlier that said that 2018 was the initiation.  2018 was my initiation to Monica.  

I’m sure you’ll get more details at a later date, but I want to get up and dance.  And celebrate the death of 2018.

*I would really love to have a licensed psychologist analyze this list for me.  I have my theories and want to see if they’re accurate.

Saved by the (wait for it) Belle!

When I started this “Elf on the Shelf” journey, I did it to be cheeky.  I did it to have fun.  I’m a festive person who has always wanted to participate in the fun of the Elf on the Shelf.  I had no idea Belle would have the impact on me that she has.

I’m coming off the biggest block I’ve had, and I realized that I actually lost the voice I spent so much time finding.  Belle fixed that.  Creating a personality for her and coming up with poses has helped me rediscover my voice.  It’s funny what can exercise your mind. 

Every comment, every like—man, that social media validation is real.  Seriously, every message was encouragement.  Thank you.

I am back.  While I’ve put the merriment of Christmas away, Ive kept Belle around to remind me...to never forget myself again.

Stay tuned for our future adventures.

Monica’s Box: A Freewrite

The problem with vulnerability is when the one who asked for it gets scared.  

You opened the box

the flood came pouring out  

and you ran. 

where does that leave me?  

Emotionally raw and open without salve.  

I’ve  processed emotions

articulated events 

that I’ve never before faced.   

You had the key,  

turned it,  

then was surprised by what came out.  

You cannot expect me to be emotionless 

That’s just not human.  

I was classically trained in keeping my emotions and feelings bottled up.  

At that, I excelled. 

But you told me I was safe.  

Showed me that my growth was being stunted.  

Drug me from that fluorescent light to darkness so I could find real light.  

Because it was good for me  (it was).

 Then ran. (Who knew I’d be on this journey alone?)  

Because I was no longer just your peace.  

I became human, and you saw I had a hell. 

Why seek what you don’t really want? 

Guest Post: “Thoughts on the Last Eight Months”

 Editor’s note: Yesterday, as my niece sat in my lap, I felt she had something to say.  She began to type furiously on my notes app.  Her thoughts are below, and are valid.  If you read, you just may learn something.

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Prayer Works

When I tell y’all that I’m certain God speaks to me using these cards!!! Whew! 

I prayed a prayer of removal a few days ago, and told God however it needs to get done, it’ll be done, and God has been doing it.  The hurricane wasn’t the only storm I was experiencing, and I’m better for it. It’s funny, because you’d think that I would be down and depressed today, but I feel freer than I have in a very long time. For me, today’s sunshine and clear skies represented a clear head and bright outlook.

Blast from the Past

There’s nothing like reading the Tumblr page you haven’t updated in 5 years to remind you of who and where you’ve been.  While not in tune with today’s sensibilities, my posts were well constructed, well thought out, and honest. 

I was a better writer. 

So I’m thinking of who she was.  What she’d do.  She didn’t have the constant noise.  Lived in NoVA, then Chicago—took the train in both, so she listened to music, but didn’t have white noise.  

There’s not many moments in the day when I’m alone with my thoughts.  I listen to podcasts mostly—voices of talking heads who tend to intimidate me by their intellectual and pop culture prowess.  That’s different.  I didn’t know what a podcast was towards the end of the first Obama administration.  

I know that current Monica loves the nights when she turns on Pandora or Spotify and just jams out—

you’ve seen the videos.

I want to be a better writer.  I need to rediscover my voice.  I will stumble while doing so, I’m not going to lie.  Stick with me.  What’s this, the second post in one week?  And I have two more to go.

I’m on my way.  

17

I wrote this on the 10th anniversary of 9/11. To realize that it has been almost 20 years since a wound that most of us in DC and NYC still haven’t healed is amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what I was doing that day, and I doubt I’ll forget the difference between life before and after 9/11. I can’t remember September 10 other than the fact that it was my best friend’s birthday. But I don’t remember what we said or did. I remember however, every detail of September 11th.

I Cannot Believe It Has Been 10 Years 

And of course I mean since that fateful September morning in 2001.  I cannot believe it has been that long.  Where has time gone? 

Bear with me as I share my “what were you doing on that day” story…

Just a few weeks prior, I began my freshman year at Archbishop O'Hara High School in Kansas City, Missouri, and the week before the attacks, my mother was laid off from her job due to cut backs.  Sorry, just setting the scene.  

(2018 edit): I often hear how beautiful it was that day, and I believe it must’ve been beautiful across the country. Our skies were blue, the temperature was perfect; no one could expect what would come shortly after opening our eyes.

Well, when I found out, I was sitting in my 2nd hour class, Spanish 1, and Mr. Edinger (a football coach) was our substitute.  We had a sub because the sophomores were on their annual retreat and my regular teacher was with them.  Anyway, I remember talking to my best friend (whose birthday is Sept. 10) Patrice when Mr. Edinger told us the news.  We then went across the hall to the American History class and watched with them as the events unfolded.  

I know everyone says this, but I really felt like I was watching some Hollywood disaster movie.  This could not possibly be real.  Then, the second plane hit, and I remember everyone in the classroom shrieking.  Professor Johnson, the American History teacher, kept sternly telling us to be quiet so he could hear the newscast, but were were teenagers.  And we were scared.  What does this mean?  Then, the second tower fell, and we were outdone.  I remember transitioning from 2nd to 3rd hour in a dazed state.  Two girls were hysterically crying, and I later found out that their uncle worked in one of the towers and was killed in the attack.

The rest of the school day was a blur, and soon it was time to go home.  I met my brother, who was a senior at the time, at his locker, and he showed me something he’d purchased earlier that morning.  Jay-Z’s “The Blueprint” came out on September 11, 2001, and my brother left school to buy it from the Best Buy that was in the neighborhood.

I just read an article on CNN earlier this week about that album and how his sales didn’t waver due to the attacks the way others’ did.  

Driving home, Kansas City was a ghost town.  Malls were closed, and in fact the only things open were gas stations.  My mother and I went to a local gas station, and sat in the line for two hours out of fear that prices would skyrocket overnight.

I am an avid CBS Early Show fan, and I remember that it seemed like for months, the towers were replaced by the hazy, gray cloud of debris left behind in their collapse.  Watching the news, and various NY-based television stations, I knew life in America would never be the same.

Ten years later, and the wound is still fresh.  We are never to forget the lives that were lost not only in the Twin Towers but the Pentagon and the brave souls of United Flight 93. 

I wish I could find the poem I wrote that I read at Sunday service after that fateful day. “United we stand, and together we cry.”

Our country will never be the same. I’m unsure as to whether or not Gen Z pauses the same way their predecessors do when we hear a loud crash or hear planes flying too close to the ground. One day, 9/11 will be a distant memory, just something in the history books. It won’t elicit the same emotion, but the aftereffects will remain. Having to look over our shoulders throughout the day has become the norm. Soon, it’ll be natural and people won’t truly understand why they’re even doing it.

Remembering and Embracing Gratitude

First, I'd like to thank the Creator for blessing me with this spark.

Disclaimer: I am okay.  It is important that you all know that.  I am okay.

I am an anxious person.  Lately, I don't know if it was because Mercury was retrograding its behind off, other personal issues or a combination of both, but August has been a hellish month for me.  The month's stressors caused me to be more anxious than normal and to the point that I wondered if my therapist was right last month when she said that I don't suffer from anxiety.  

I needed to check myself.  So I began processing (both internally and externally) to determine what was causing the stress.  I read more, prayed more, practiced crystal therapy, did yoga more than usual and started an "overcoming anxiety" plan on my Bible app.  Bringing me to today and the reason for this post.  

I'm on Day 5 of 7 of this plan, and today's topic was on "remembering gratitude."  There was a little exercise that involved scanning my room to locate 5 red things.  This proved to be quite difficult since I don't really own anything that's red, but I powered through.  Next, the exercise instructed you to not look away from the phone and try to recall the yellow things that were around the red items.  

Impossible. 

The point of the exercise was to illustrate what happens when you focus on the red (stressors, anxiety triggers) and not the yellow (faith).  What gets your focus is who you become.  If you're praying to God to remove your worry, but then leave your meditation only to worry about what you just asked God to take care of, you're focusing on the red and not the yellow.  You have to relinquish control.  The idea is so simplistic, but it got to me.  I think I finally listened.  

The final exercise was to list 10 things that we are grateful for.  You would think this would be an easy task, I mean, it's only 10 things, right?  Wrong.  It took me a solid 2 minutes to come up with 10 things I'm grateful for--and that's a long time.  So I took that to my prayer.  I admitted to God that I was so focused on what was causing the stress this last month and trying to control it, that I wasn't looking at what good was occurring.  I wasn't being grateful for what I was being given.  Doors are opening in my life in ways I didn't think possible, I was taking myself out on dates again, making new friends, etc.  I apologized to the Creator for that and asked for help with the reset.  Refocusing on the good in my life.  I'm a firm believer in energy, and I realize that one of the reasons I was so stressed was because I was spending so much time with it instead of focusing on the good and embracing gratitude for it.  Also being grateful for the stress.  There are  GOOD lessons to learn from situations that stress you out and cause anxiety.  You'll learn them if you allow for stillness and quiet instead of trying to control.  

This is a glass half empty/half full situation, people.  It's all in how you look at things.  Last month, I was grateful for what was happening in my life, this month I could only focus on what wasn't happening.  And some pretty great things happened!  I understand that the red will happen, I'm not naive or trying to bury my head in the proverbial sand.  The red will happen, and that's fine.  But I can choose whether or not I want to wallow in it, and I can decide HOW I let it impact me.  Remembering to be grateful will keep the anxiety at bay.  I'm returning to her.   

I don't think I have some grand message or opinion for you today, I just wanted to share my thoughts.  I had a breakthrough moment and I felt like writing.  Thanks for reading.         

Dear Heather

Dear Heather,  

I’m sorry. I am sorry that I am not courageous enough to march on your behalf, as you did mine.  I’m sorry for not being able to see the pictures from Charlottesville because they trigger an emotion I didn’t know existed.  I am sorry that your mother’s face and voice reminds me of what mine would’ve been had I not survived the same “accident.”

Still, I thank you. For being a true ally.

For your humanity.  Your murder will not be in vain. 

Rest

I’ve never quite understood the, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” mentality.  

For me, sleep and peace are when my best ideas come to me.  For ages, I despised the quiet, but now I revel in it.  Although single, I still wake up an hour before I get ready for work, so I can meditate, workout, and read.  If I’m feeling really fancy, I may even have a bit a tea while I read.  It's when I’m at my most creative, and it only comes after a night of rest. 

I’m not yet great at it, but I will sometimes wake myself from my dream to write something I saw or learned—an idea I believe was given to me by the Higher One.  It is my personal belief that God speaking to me through dreams is my spiritual gift, but until I fully commit to tapping into it, the world may never know. 

Anyway, I suppose the message behind the above mentality is that you shouldn’t waste time in going after what you want, which I can’t say that I disagree with. However, what it glamourizes is this idea that somehow working all day and night leads to success.  A wise man once told me (and tells me repeatedly actually) that life is a game of chess, not checkers.  I'm sure there's some historical reasoning behind this, and one day I'll do the not-so-difficult work, but ours is a society that encourages being "on" constantly, and all it has done is create stressed, robotic, anxiety-ridden creatures seemingly incapable of repair.

Sleep isn't the cousin of death.  Exhaustion is.  Exhaustion kills your focus, in turn, killing your dreams.  Instead, be strategic.  When are you most productive?  For those out there, like myself, who have a 9-5 (or 8:30-4:30 in my case) in addition to your avocation, ask yourself, "When is my attention required the least?"  Then go from there.  

You never know what you'll accomplish.

(Writer's note: I understand that I am writing from a place of privilege.  Not only am I no longer married, but I do not have children or others depending on me for survival.  To those people, I am no expert, but I still stress that you find some time to carve out for yourself.  It'll prevent burnout, if nothing else.  Remember, you can't take care of anyone else if you aren't taken care of.)    

Journey in Branding

Initially, I didn't want to establish a brand.  "I'm a writer!" I said.  "No one will take me seriously."  "Who am I supposed to be, an "influencer"?"  

Yeah, I was THAT girl.  The one who thought that having a social media "brand" was one step above being an IG model*.  I refused to believe that it could actually help me.

Standing in the shower this morning, I realized something.  I realized that I needed to do more branding.  If I plan to take myself seriously, I need the marketing.  

Then it hit me.  

I didn't take myself seriously...

AND

I was afraid of branding because it requires a level of accountability.

A level I wasn't quite ready for.  On the Fourth, I was hanging out with one of my good friends and his friends at a gathering.  I didn't tell him, but I felt like a poseur.  Here I am, the higher ed professional, trying to hold conversation with those who hold conversations, be they verbal or written, for a living.  Still, I was inspired and impressed by this crowd.  "I'll never break in," I thought.  I wondered what they did that I didn't.

They committed.  I didn't.  Unlike the Honey Comb Moms, I treated my writing as a hobby, not a business.     

So here I am.  If you've noticed today, I created a new IG account: @monicakaysharp (that's easy enough, right?), and locked my personal account.  I'll still post my writing on my personal account, but I have a permanent home for them.  @forever.sharp will just be a fan.  

*Yes, I understand that not wanting to be an IG model is steeped in respectability and internalized misogyny--I never said I was perfect.  But I am working on it.  

Discovering a New Inspiration

Me: "I don't know why I've been so blocked this year.  Last year, I was able to churn out 2-3 pieces a week if I wanted.  This year, I'm lucky to write once a month."

Him: "Yeah, but you were going through things last year that served as your inspiration.  You have to find a new source of inspiration."

Still working to find that new source of inspiration.  While the block isn't quite as big as it was, it's still present.  There are currently 3 unfinished pieces sitting in the queue, including one that was pretty much lost yesterday when I had to reset my computer.  Then again, that tends to be my MO.    

Perhaps I shouldn't try to fight it.  

On Phobias

Although I've always been pretty independent (thanks mom, Granny, Aunts Brenda, Sharon, Debbie, Pam), I've noticed the ways in which this divorce has made me more independent--beginning with (pause for effect) my arachnophobia!

Well, almost.

You see, he (names are removed to protect the innocent) was the spider-killer in the family (I think witnessing my full-blown panic attack, complete with hyperventilation, because of a spider bite, did this) even waking up at 3 am on election day to kill a spider that somehow found its way onto my face.  Looking back, I should've known that would be an omen for the day.  Now that he's gone, the spiders think they've won and have seemingly multiplied.  It's them or me...

And it ain't gonna be me.

Let's take it back to the beginning, shall we?  Kay was the little girl who wasn't afraid of snakes, but the idea of a spider completely mortified her.  Seriously, I couldn't even look at a picture in my science book (spiders killed my interest in science, not the education system).  And if one were to get to close to me???  Let's just say that when I was around 7 or 8, I almost caused a wreck because I climbed from the back to the front seat where my mom was driving, all while screaming in her ear.  

My arachnophobia evolved into a different kind as I got older.  We'll call this "the brown recluse era".  No longer was I afraid to look at them, I had to look at them in order to figure out what species they were and whether or not they could kill me.  This brand of phobia began while I was at the beauty shop one Saturday morn.  Instead of watching "One Saturday Morning" like any good 'tween, I was watching a show on the Discovery channel.  The show was about people who died from spider bites.  Many didn't even know they were bitten until it was too late.  The culprit: brown recluse spiders.  After watching that show, suddenly it seemed like brown recluse spiders were EVERYWHERE!  I would hear about them on the news and the radio and how they're prevalent in the Kansas City area (mainly Raytown and Lee's Summit), and like to hide in closets.  

To this day, I am panicked when going into my closet for anything.  Especially if it's been undisturbed for a while.  

Fast forward to adulthood.  My interaction with the eight-legged freaks became minimal.  That, or I was undergoing some freaky kind of exposure therapy.  Either way, they began to bother me a little less.  Shoutout to the high rise spiders of Chicago (another gang terrorizing the Windy City) who taunted me from outside my apartment window, when all I wanted to do was make a sandwich, and the spider in my childhood home that held up his end of the bargain and left me alone because I was too drunk and tired, to deal with him.  

After The Great Panic Attack of 2014, we relocated to DC and found a home at Wesley Seminary.  This house is a very, very, very old house and faces a backyard of sorts, so frequently seeing spiders, bugs, and other wildlife became more the norm.  I still get a kick out of the fact that a seminary has parson spiders all around, but no one else really understands why that's so funny until I offer a lengthy explanation and by then, the moment has passed.

#dorklife I have no shame in my game.

Anyway, back to the topic.  Because my day job requires it, I still reside in the same building post-divorce.  This means that the spider killing now falls on my shoulders, and mine alone.  I recently emptied a bottle of Raid that I bought not even a month ago because I began treating the perimeter, and doorways of my apartment on a weekly basis after failing to kill a spider (a brown one no less) on Father's Day.  Seriously y'all, I've been spraying Raid like I'm pouring brick dust to keep my enemies at bay.  

Fun fact: the day I purchased the Raid I was so delirious that I referred to it as "spider killing spray".  The sales associate rightfully stared at me in bewilderment.

My sincerest apologies to my colleague who would be absolutely offended by my new role as Monica: Spider Hunter, but in addition to the Raid treatments, I happily vacuumed one who found his creepy little way underneath my bucket of cleaning supplies, and refused to go to the office until I killed one who ventured onto my welcome mat (I have since added the welcome mat to the treatment list).  Needless to say, I'm getting pretty good at this thing.  

Am I cured?  No.  I would still prefer minimal interaction, but, as I said, this evolved independence has required me to face my fears--literally and figuratively.  So whenever I start to get down on myself, I remember that the 3-year-old who lost her shit when a daddy long legs had the nerve to crawl on her (now that I think about it, this may have been the catalyst for my phobia...and yes, I know daddy long legs are not spiders), is now a badass spider killer.  So she can do anything.  

Including purchasing a new can of Raid.  Did I mention that it's empty?     

In Defense of Charlotte York-Goldenblatt

The cultural icon that is “Sex and the City" celebrated the 20th anniversary of its premiere last week and the blogs were all over it.  Like many other women, I raised my glass and toasted to Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha for 20 years of fabulousness, friendship, fashion, and love.  

Later that week, while perusing Buzzfeed, I saw a quiz honoring the anniversary.  This quiz is meant to tell us, once and for all, which one of the girls we are.  Admittedly, I've always been keen to Carrie's free-spiritedness and her ability to hide from herself, but, according to the quiz, I am most like Charlotte.  Of the four girls, Charlotte is the one least praised.  

And I couldn't help but wonder, "Why?"

Charlotte York, the quintessential WASP, "Park Avenue Pollyanna", "Daddy's little Episcopalian Princess", has always been, at least to me, the best of the four.  Before going into detail, I want to acknowledge the time during which "Sex and the City" first aired.  Second-wave feminism wasn’t yet dead, and anything traditional, traditionally feminine, “soft” or “pink” was frowned upon by most “woke" women...of any color (see Regine Hunter as the Black equivalent).  Girly girls were not accepted.  So Charlotte’s character often found herself on the wrong side of mockery.  Although I couldn’t watch during its original airing (I was 11 in 1998), I did catch a few episodes before graduating high-school, and in the time since, I’ve realized that the show’s premise wasn’t actually a battle of feminism.  “Sex and the City”, and other shows of its ilk, were meant to humanize your everyday woman.  Each character had it all together, while still being somewhat of a mess.  I would like to point out that these women were equally feminist and anti-feminist.  There were other issues (racism, homophobia, transphobia, classism) that kept the show from being unproblematic, but that’s from a post-2008 analysis.  And, as quiet as it's kept, we're all a little problematic, no matter how hard we try.  Just dig deep enough.  

Anyway, back to Charlotte.  Charlotte was cast as the anti-feminist.  This was due to her open desire to be married and have children.  Again, this was the late-90s.  We were still in an era where you had to choose.  You couldn't have it all, and what you should choose is a career.  Charlotte always chose love.  She was a hopeless romantic.  Nothing about being so is inherently wrong, but again, it was viewed as Charlotte ascribing to patriarchy and participating in her own oppression.  Miranda, the "textbook feminist" of the group once threatened Charlotte if she "went Pollyanna" on her.  The issue with this thinking is the assertion that being vulnerable and open, as Charlotte was, and as one must be to find real love (as the other three came to find...well, maybe not Carrie), is weak.  The opposite is actually true.  Strength is found in the ability to be vulnerable.   

I contend that Charlotte was actually the one, the only one, who knew who she was and what she wanted from the beginning.  Charlotte was just not confident enough to be unapologetic with it, and that confidence would take 6 seasons to develop.  Much to her friends' chagrin, when Charlotte decided to quit her job at the art gallery to dedicate herself to her passion of motherhood and homemaking, Charlotte stood strong and persisted.  There were actually many times during the series and subsequent movies when Charlotte was the lone wolf amongst her friends.  I'd even venture to say that, despite her flair for the traditional, she was the most progressive.  Charlotte frequently called her co-stars out on their lack of decorum and political correctness.  Charlotte was not perfect, but she did have a pulse on society and where it was headed--much more than her more liberal friends who, in truth, were cozy in their privilege.  Charlotte was never afraid to learn and grow.  She was open to new things, without compromising her integrity. 

Still, Charlotte, like the other stars, was not without flaw.  At the beginning of the series, Charlotte had a knack for finding the most available bachelors.  Those who would be "best suited" for what she was raised to believe was for her.  You see, this is where she and I also relate.  Charlotte, not unlike myself, spent most of her life living up to the expectations set for her.  Considering that she would not turn 36 until season 5, Charlotte was right around my present age at the series opener.  For those raised like we were, it oftentimes takes until our late 20's/early 30's to be able to start living up to our own expectations if it ever happens.  I'm not excusing Charlotte, or myself, for the behavior, just offering an explanation.  However, through maturation, Charlotte comes to find that the guys who look good on paper are not always the best guys.  She rose above her superficiality, realized what she really wanted (most importantly, what she didn’t), and in the end, found real love (and great sex) in Harry.  It only took a divorce (*cough cough*) to get there.  We romantics sometimes have to endure that.  You know what though?  We come out better and stronger on the other side. 

Charlotte was a great friend, perhaps the most supportive of the four, and her loyalty should be praised.  She was a true sister.  Charlotte was able to navigate the art of holding her friends accountable while keeping them happy.  At the end of the day, Charlotte always knew how to act in her friends’ best interest (see the episodes where she saved the financially irresponsible Carrie from homelessness and gave the reluctant Miranda a baby shower that she wouldn’t forget).  

In my opinion, Charlotte was the definition of not judging a book by its cover.  There were so many misconceptions about her.  Charlotte was soft, but not a pushover.  Charlotte was strong, fearless, and vulnerable.  An avid self-help book nerd, Charlotte knew what she wanted, believed it would happen, and put herself out there so it would.  And it did.  I imagine that somewhere, Charlotte is creating vision boards and teaching Lily and Rose of their powers.  Her lack of drama may make her the least entertaining*, but she is not the worst.  We could all stand to be more like Charlotte.

Charlotte, my fellow “eternal optimist,” this drink is for you.  I'll make sure I even wipe the rim of the glass before drinking.  

*Personally, I disagree with this.  Charlotte’s comedic timing and facial expressions were on point.  She was probably the MOST entertaining.  

Lightbulb

I want to write for the Black women who never needed to find their Blackness.  I want to write for those of us who could, or did, not attend a (Black) Ivy.  I want to write for the Black women who cannot be saved by code-switching.  I want to write for the Black women like me.

It's really that simple.  But I tried to make it so hard.