I Ain’t Afraid of No Trump

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I don’t want to write about this. I resent writing about this. The goal was to live my merry life in a box of words related to mental health issues and the struggle of being a single mom in the 21st Century. Now I have to devote my time to this shit and I am not happy about it. That being said, let me just get right to it.

I spent part of election night eating $3 tacos with a friend, paying half attention to a large television monitor displaying the election results. I knew Hillary Clinton was not about to be the next President of the United States. I wasn’t shocked by the results, I wasn’t devastated, I was not hysterical or in tears about it. I know America, so I took my ass to sleep and was completely unphased waking up to learn that our shiny new President-elect is dear old Donald. I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise. What I felt deep in my soul was not disappointment or fear…to be honest, at the time I felt nothing. In my mind, I resolved to not speak to anyone at work about my thoughts on the election results. I work in Arlington, VA with the liberal yuppies who love to vote Dem but also love to treat me and racial and social injustice as if they don’t exist. The word “excuse me” doesn’t exist, nor does the common courtesy or general acknowledgment of me as a person. The yuppies laugh at the poignant race jokes on South Park and the Daily Show but that’s where it begins and ends.

Walls Closing In

It’s difficult to be black right now (or a person of color, or a member of the LGBTQ community, etc.—but because I am black I will speak to the black experience). I woke up the day after election day and I took notice of the silent white people on my social media timelines as much as I did the loud and outraged. I am on high alert but I am also doubting myself—have I become more paranoid? The more I watch videos of police brutality and observe reactions that range from apathy to “Black people should stop breaking the law…”, and listen to my Republican co-workers laugh at Donald Trump’s antics I feel it stockpiling on top of the regular ass racism and micro aggressions I deal with on a daily basis. I am a black girl, so I’ve had to sit and patiently explain my hair to white people, and at least once a week I am smiling uncomfortably as someone references the county I live in as the hood. NOT because it is the hood, but because black people live there. I remember years ago hanging out with some white friends at a venue that is known to be pretty multi-cultural and at one point, after leaving, my friend turns to me and says, “Oh I’m glad we left, I thought we were going to get beat up.” WHY? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT BLACK PEOPLE DO? NEVERMIND THE POINTLESS VICTORY RIOTS AT WHITE UNIVERSITIES WHEN THEIR FOOTBALL TEAM WINS A GAME—BUT IT’S BLACK PEOPLE WHO GET INTO GROUPS AND DECIDE TO JUST RANDOMLY BEAT UP WHITE PEOPLE.?WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK?

Those incidents tend to embed themselves in our memories. I am dealing with anger. Anger that I have to stuff down every.single.day so that I don’t explode this aggression that stems from years and years of dealing with white bullshit. No more apologies—it. is. bullshit to pretend you don’t see or are not aware of the DIFFERENCE living life as a person of color versus being white. It’s 2016—EVOLVE already! I have a friend that moved to the DMV area from Wyoming years ago. I remember explaining braids and weaves to her, why she couldn’t call my dread locs as worms and why it was just plain insulting for the American public to demand that Presidential hopeful Barack Obama display his long birth certificate. That was years ago. Recently, she has expressed interest in talking to me about the Black Lives Matter movement and has stated plainly that Trump is awful and she does not side with him. EVOLVE. If you have lived in a multi-cultural area all your life and are still in your thirties asking to touch people’s hair you are stupid and wrong and ignorant.

I don’t have time to be as patient as I have always been. I am becoming exasperated by ignorance and I refuse to enable it. Once you start spouting things like “Oh, but he was criminal,” in reference to the brutal murder of a black man by police I am done with you. Once you start spouting things like “All Lives Matter” I. AM. DONE. Because guess what? We know that your life matters! That’s why you are all over the television screen, in the history books and in religion. If you are white you are the shit—you are winning, and for just one second black people thought we could win, too. Now Trump is President. I don’t have time to explain to you your privilege, I am busy working on my mental health and controlling this anger. I am busy preparing for war. I don’t have time to be afraid!

It’s Not Fear, It’s Dread

white-againJust as the term homophobia is the greatest misnomer of all time, so is the concept or the thought that black people are somehow fearful of Trump. I will speak for myself here when I say that it’s not fear, it’s dread and disappointment. I am disappointed in white people because as much as our culture is appropriated I was optimistic that it somehow came from a good place and would lead to acceptance. I feel duped! How stupid am I? I have been patiently explaining the plight of the black person, practicing empathy and ke keeing it up with white people who marched their asses to the polls to vote Trump then lied about it to my face. It’s one thing to keep quiet about who you vote for (it is your right as a citizen) but to lie means that you know it’s a betrayal. It feels like sleeping with the enemy. Anyone with half a brain can see that Trump is not about racism per se—he is definitely about himself. But in his quest to rise to power he has incited the hatred and anger lying dormant (or even openly) in the white supremacists and used that to fuel his campaign. You don’t have to be a political pundit to know that “Make America Great Again” is a slogan for white people. IT WAS NEVER GREAT FOR ANYONE NOT WHITE! (Hell, it wasn’t even that great for poor white people but whatever makes you feel good at the end of the day.) White people came here and started killing niggas and taking land off the bat, built an entire country on the concept and as soon as the country tries to progress out of it the ignorant and the hateful rise from the sewer and proclaim what they have truly been thinking all along. This means that the progression of black people was an illusion. We let white people into the gates of our culture and it was a Trojan horse this whole time.

 

Our movement of #BlackGirlMagic #BlackLivesMatter #Melanin– all those things have been interrupted by the truth. I am not afraid of Trump I am dreading the next four years and beyond. I have had a handle on my anger for quite some time now. I am a pro, I can handle a micro aggression or two, a racist troll on my social media timeline but I am not my ancestors! I don’t know if I can be harassed on the street by a racist spouting Trump’s tagline and be able hold my tongue or place my hands behind my back without swinging. I don’t know that I can go back to a time where black people addressed everyone as “sir” and “ma’am” and avoided eye contact lest they be accosted or beaten in the street like an animal. The only thing I fear is death because I realize my anger might lead to it by the hands of some idiot that would cry for Harambe the gorilla but justify a black man’s brutal murder all in the same week. Don’t come to me to teach you how to Dougie if you don’t care how l live my life every day. No one is so afraid of your skin that they are shooting first and asking names later. Until you sit down and try to understand that I have no patience for you and your lack of humanity.

etc-iaant

Make yourself the victim so you won’t be seen as the enemy…

 

Let the Unfollowers UNFOLLOW

…because I’m not sugar coating my art anymore. I have conquered divorce and heartbreak; I am working out single motherhood and overcoming body issues. I’m DOING THAT—it is child’s play to me now. There are larger things that are starting to occupy my thoughts and keep me awake in the late night hours. As a writer, I cannot connect with you about women’s issues, about self-confidence and depression if I am not alive to make the connection. I have no desire to be a political artist (I barely even like labeling myself as an artist) but Nina Simone is 100% correct. “An artist’s duty…is to reflect the times.”

I am grateful for the white tears shed after the election results. I absolutely believe we have allies now—people who understand injustice and inequality and genuinely want to make things better. Now stop crying and assume your position. Make the decision to be an ally in word and deed and DECIDE who you are going to be when violence erupts and you have the choice to watch a lynching in the making or prevent it from happening. Understand that there’s no time for semantics and playing the victim. If you are not a racist don’t waste time pontificating about how you have black friends and you don’t see color, just support and stand up.  Let’s not be ignorant. Racism has been a volcano in this country for years—ignoring  the tremors does not mean an eruption is not about to happen.

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Random Thoughts of A Single Mom

​I don’t embarrass easily. I think it has something to do with being a complete nerd in high school. No one really paid attention to me unless it was for negative reasons– I felt like being myself every day was embarrassing enough in and of itself. So now, if and when I trip or fall I just laugh and keep it moving because that’s life. Everyone falls or miscalculates their period or farts during sex, what can you really do about it?
I wasn’t particularly embarrassed this morning, I was humiliated. I can’t bring myself to take my girl’s fathers to court for child support because there is stigma in that. I look like I’m trying to cash in on the system and they hate me for forever altering their financial lives. But, honestly, (and I only feel comfortable saying this here pseudo anonymously) I am waiting for them to man the fuck up and help me! I am waiting for them to recognize that I am stressed and I can’t do this alone. I suppose I can, I’ll just have to say goodbye to a long and healthy life. I can’t sleep over the sound  my heart beating too quickly and loudly worrying about bills and hectic schedule.
I spent my last $12 on gas to drive 4 hours back and forth to drop my youngest daughter off to her aunts to stay the weekend while I worked. Part of the reasoning for working this weekend is that my job will pay for all of my meals which will help me stretch my groceries a bit. I’m writing this on the metro now praying to be able to get to my destination because I had $3 to put on my fare card instead of the $6 I thought I had left in my account.  I texted, begging for a few bucks but I know no one was going to respond and I think the humiliation of having to ask has depleted my good cheer for today. I’m very tired.
I am unable to understand why the onus is on me to hold everything down, and why no one asks “are you and the kids OK?” I’m OK, sometimes. I am happy pursuing outside goals and activities but I am contemplating giving that up. I wonder if every time I appear at an a open mic or a show if they are thinking that I am living it up in luxury? I wonder if writing chapbooks and hosting events is just a dream I can’t afford? Is it the fate of all single mothers to place our individual identities on hold until kids turn 18 and leave the house? Am I not Whiskey or Naomi, am I Mommy only and I am doing too much?
I don’t know why I am writing this. Maybe to show that not all single mothers are gold diggers out for baby daddy revenge. Or maybe I’m just thinking out loud, plotting a better way for me to live so I will never have to deal with the humiliation of begging grown ups to be responsible. I need to push myself more, I don’t want to live like this.

Are You Stressed?

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I am a little upset with my father at the moment. I sat in two hours of traffic to travel across town to his house to pick up my two little girls after school—and I was fine with that. Tons of driving in traffic, never having money and scrambling for time is a part of my daily routine and who I am as a single mother. I was standing in his kitchen, thinking nothing of this when my Dad wanders into the room and asks, “…Are you stressed?” My immediate response was to laugh. Seriously, what a stupid question. Isn’t everyone stressed?

 

I didn’t really get the chance to adequately respond before my two girls interjected and proceeded to tell him about why they were stressed in school. At the time, their chatter was enough to take my mind off the subject at hand, but lately it has been coming back to haunt me. I lay awake at 3am last night pondering the question and what my answer means for how I live my life. Life and living is stressful—EVERYONE is stressed! Aren’t they…? I mean, are there people in this world who are at peace and living stress free lives? I had no idea.

 

Something about yesterday just hit me the wrong way. I hadn’t slept well the night before, a colleague of mine is switching departments so I am mentally preparing to take on a larger workload, all while managing to promote, post and scramble to find daycare for upcoming spoken word gigs. At any given moment I am at my wit’s end—and this is how I live my life every day. Stress is life! There is no loophole, there is no end; it’s just the way it IS. For me, stress can sometimes lead to depression. I try to allow myself to indulge a bit but to snap out of it before I am sucked into a vortex of listlessness and despair. I have goals that I want to accomplish and it is my understanding that stress is a part of the program.

 

I suppose in all of my ambitious life-mapping, I never mapped out a destination. I see my roads full of the same old obstacles of working too hard to impress others to book gigs, financial struggle, rushing home from work to make dinner, braid hair, check homework, micromanage bathtime, etc. It has not occurred to me before this that I don’t have to live my life this way. But what does a stress-free life look like? It still sounds like a fable, I just don’t know. Is the desire to live worry free asking too much out of life, or is this just the price of living? Am I stressed? ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY! I am ready to pull my hair out! I am tired and always worried about money. I am sick of driving and sitting in traffic—of having to cram every hour of the day with SOMEthing in order to accomplish all of my goals, of contemplating whether I actually should give up on my writing aspirations so I’ll have more time to be with my girls, my man, to workout, to BREATHE! This endless grind is wearing on my health and self-esteem.

 

I need to add a destination to my life map, that doesn’t have me on the pathway to a nervous breakdown. A stress-free life… I still don’t know why that possibility has never once occurred to me…

Loving A Soldier in A Time of War

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I had felt this pain before, I was no stranger to it. Except this time, I was more angry than hurt and sad. Here I was being stood up and utterly disrespected, mostly likely cheated on as well– I felt like a fool.

Because of work schedules, JW and I only have snippets of time together, usually meeting up late nights after I have a poetry event and he finishes his shift at his second job. It’s not an ideal situation, especially since my kids are with me full time outside of an occasional sleepover at their grandparent’s house, but we do our best to make it work. This night, we were able to link up and plan to meet at his house at 2am with the understanding that he would arrive a few minutes after me. A few minutes turned into several… into an hour. I was stuck. At the time staying with my parents temporarily and unable to enter into their household that late at night/early in the morning, I knew I was going to have to sleep in my car because this inconsiderate asshole had decided to stand me up!

Or had he? My mind raced back to a few weeks ago. He called me on my cellphone and put me on speaker as he was being pulled over by a police officer. “I’m going to jail,” he kept saying, but I feared much worse than that. It is never a good time to be a dark skinned male of 6 feet 4 inches. He was a threat without even trying, which I know because being in public with him is a bizarre experience. People have no sense of space; they seem to be always touching him. One time he was even challenged to a fight by some random drunk man who happened to be white—I don’t know if it was racially based. I do know that he was born with a target on his back, matching the target my two brothers and my father had on their backs.

In high school I wrote a poem in my journal called “No Peace in This House” because I knew there would never be any peace as long as my brothers were outside in the world. They were far from perfect young men, but the court dates and trumped up charges for smoking a little marijuana with friends never seemed to add up as punishment befitting their petty crimes. After hearing my brother tell the story of an officer harassing his friends and exclaiming, “Looks like that’s assaulting a police officer to me,” after brushing past a tree branch, I knew I could never trust law enforcement again. Fast forward years later, the stories pile up higher and higher and every black man has at least one. JW has several. JW with his long limbs, easy smile and soft voice is not a tender boyfriend and loving man to the world—he is a threat.

I felt a thud in my chest weeks and weeks after he and I had first had the conversation about his desire to never marry. It devastated my soul and I knew that this was an absolute in our relationship. I would never be MRS. JW and the decision to let go of that possibility was a huge thing for me to do. It was an emotional process. That night in the car as I sat and waited in fear and uncertainty I felt that same thud in my chest. Waiting here like this, heart beat accelerated and anxious about the unknown was an absolute in our relationship. As long as he is free to roam about this country he will be at risk of injury or death at the hands of the authorities or the afraid.

Is there any wonder why so much strength lies in the black woman? We are tasked with the challenge of turning our anxiety into a ball of fearlessness, optimism and emotional support for our men (family, significant others, close friends) every single day.

He eventually came home. I climbed into the passenger seat and said nothing as he looked at me with wide eyes and said, “I thought I was going down.” To be honest, I was scared shitless that he was, too.

What is it like to love a civilian? What is it like to have the privilege of loving someone without the added fear that you will lose them to the war…?

 

Medicate. Is HERE!

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In February of 2016 I released my first chapbook and quickly realized that thanks to online do it yourself programs, self publishing is easy! So, naturally I started to plan and compile my next project and it’s FINALLY here.

Medicate. is dear to my heart just as Trigger was. It is raw and emotional and draws from my own personal experiences and perceptions. I truly believe that most of us on this Earth suffer from mental health issues at one time or another, we are just resourceful creatures and have found ways to self medicate. This book explores just a few of those ways; touching on substance abuse, over eating, losing yourself in others, the Internet, religion (and so much more!) in a way I hope is relatable and sheds light on a growing issue across the world. Whether you laugh a bit or cry I do hope the book provokes you to some genuine emotion.

I am offering the PDF version of the book on sale for $7.99 to my mailing list subscribers. The normal price of $10 will resume after the weekend is over. I always struggle with the pricing, I wish I could give them away for free but I invest so much time and money into each of these projects I can’t afford to be a philanthropist just yet!

In addition to the soft rollout of the book, I am sharing with you the link to the Whiskey Girl store. As of now there are Medicate. mugs available for purchase and I will soon be adding t shirts and other fun things I hope entice you to order.

Thank you again for your support. Purchase, enjoy and let me know what you think.

~good vibes always~
WG

Musical Post: Unsteady

 

I want someone to speak softly to me, I’ve grown tired of tough love. It seems everyone likes to tell it how it is these days. I am an adult, I am very aware of how it is I just need to be held. Or for someone to lie to me and say everything is ok. I am stressed out.

And I am disillusioned by people and our savage natures. I’m still learning that standing up for your own self preservation means potentially losing the ones you love. We don’t care about each other as we used to. We don’t hug or talk as much or laugh when it’s not at someone else’s expense. We don’t allow room for error anymore; use hugs as a sign of forgiveness or say things like, “I am disappointed but I still love you.”

I miss when being loved didn’t have so many rules, it wasn’t perfect but it was closer to unconditional. And I had a list of people that I could tell in confidence that my mental health is struggling and I am barely keeping all the balls in the air. I am so tired.

And those people would know to stroke my cheek, squeeze my body tightly and allow me just the smallest of break downs. Those people knew that their touch was enough to build me up again–they didn’t judge or condemn my weakness. They held on. They understood.

I Know Why the Caged Mom Drinks: Second Day of School

mom is superhero

I either feel as if I have it all together or as if I am desperately drowning in a sea of stress—there is no in between. Today was only the second day of school and I managed to botch things pretty badly.

I traded in my piece of shit cell phone for another piece of shit refurbished phone just the other day. Naturally, the phone has been giving me all sorts of problems, one of which is that apparently my alarm is not working. This morning I woke up suddenly in a panic with a foreboding feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sure enough, I had awakened at the time me and the kids were supposed to be piling into the car and heading off to school.

I screamed the kids awake, yelling at them to get dressed—as if any of it was their fault in the first place. I didn’t have the breakfast snacks for them to eat in the car, they didn’t have time to brush their teeth and I didn’t have time to wash my face or respond to the email my boss sent me the night before. In spite of all this, I was ready to shove us all out of the door when I notice that the button on my 9 year old’s uniform shorts was holding on for dear life. Her summer plans to “lay around and do nothing” came to fruition and the end result is that she is all tall, lanky limbs with just the tiniest bit of pudge in middle—just big enough to prevent shorts that fit just two months ago from fitting right now in the time that I need for them to fit the most! A replacement pair would be easy enough but because my life is complicated, all of the kid’s school clothes reside at my parent’s house across town. We were late enough but guess where we had to drive—ACROSS TOWN to go get a new pair of pants!

We stop by my parent’s house (after morning traffic, of freaking course!) and my mother doesn’t say much but I can feel the judgment. I know she thinks I’m running so far behind schedule because I was possibly out drinking the night before, worshiping Satan, or something else irresponsible that would distract me from being an actually good mother. Only I know that reality is: I fell asleep at 10pm, had all of my ducks in a fucking row but still screwed it up. As the 9 year old changed clothes and we grabbed granola bars to race off to the school I tried my hardest not to beat myself up about it. However, insert more judgment from the faculty as we did the walk of shame to the main office to pick up late passes, and I just couldn’t convince myself that I wasn’t a total failure. I walked back to my car thinking to myself: “Wow, and it’s only day 2.”

…I was 20 minutes late to the staff retreat at work. The last of those 20 minutes spent looking at threatening text messages from my new boss who was wondering why I dared to be so tardy for such an important work event. I sat in a meeting room for almost a full eight hours listening to content that had nothing to do with me, all the while mentally beating myself up for all the careless mistakes I made that morning. Even now, I am jotting this all down in a notebook as I sit in the Laundromat at 8:30pm with the kids who are in desperate need of a meal and a good night’s sleep.

Single mothers are supposed to be super heroes—meanwhile, I can’t even find my fucking cape…

*I originally wrote this post for Mytrendingstories.com, visit the website and search my username “Whiskey” to follow the I Know Why the Caged Mom Drinks series and other original posts that will not appear on this blog.*

The Pursuit of Unhappiness: Part 2

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In moments like this I feel so scared. I really have a fear of dying whenever I am happy. My thoughts turn especially morbid when I am traveling to my boyfriend’s house thinking on how blessed I am to have found someone like him and to still be enjoying our relationship after almost two years. I think about death when I’m laughing with the kids in the car, or joking with co-workers or paying off bills. Any satisfaction I get from life comes with the fear that it will immediately be taken away.

I once overheard my father, a very devout Christian man, in conversation as he told someone that God cares more about righteousness than happiness (hence the topic of the last musical post) and that comment still rocks my world weeks and weeks later. Because I suspected it all along. NOT that I believe the statement is true, but I believe that in subtle ways I have been raised to believe that there is no joy and happiness to be achieved in this world. That way of thinking led me into so many situations of learned helplessness; failed relationships, poor work ethic and crippling depression just to name a few side effects. I can’t be that way anymore.

I want to enjoy this. At one point in my life not long ago I really thought that struggling with depression and barely making it as a single mother was going to be my fate for the rest of my life. Then I made the decision to stop martyring my happiness and began to lean on others for help and support. I started to view motherhood as less of a punishment and more of a gift and a reason to keep me on my toes and force me to have my shit together. I have to be mentally well enough to teach my daughters that marriage is overrated, happiness comes from within and can definitely be achieved without a significant other. Independence is a virtue, love is just a feeling but commitment is what holds any relationship, romantic or otherwise, together. It is a debilitating thing to believe that self-actualization has only come about for me because I’ve been left to the devil and God no longer bothers to interfere in my life. It’s a very twisted thing, really.

I want heaven in my afterlife, but I no longer think it’s greedy of me to want to experience just a snippet of it in my life on this earth, as well. I have paid my dues with suffering and I am fully aware that I don’t deserve a thing—but I will strive for it anyway. To be completely honest, I thought of single-motherhood as a death sentence—I didn’t want children all alone, I wanted a strong man to hold me at night, to HELP me! Fast forward years later and it turns out I didn’t need that kind of help. I just needed to realize that life is determined to beat the shit out of me anyway, so I may as well choose to put up a fight for the full 12 rounds instead of accepting a total knock out.

I even have hope that maybe I can win.

WG

So I suppose that a lot of my readers (or folks who trash this post as soon as it reaches their inboxes) don’t know that in my real life I spend time as a spoken word artist. I use the term very loosely because I low-key do not think of myself in that way. Spoken word artists are loved by all, powerful and captivating and I am just a nerdy writer girl who likes to share out of some inexplicable need to connect. When I first started sharing live poems at open mic my stage name was WG—which is for Whiskey Girl. But for whatever reason folks like and prefer to call me Whiskey. I can dig it. But the WG moniker was also an acronym for White Girl and Weird Girl. I do think the latter is probably most fitting.

Someone asked me a few days ago how I deal with stage fright and my douchey answer was that I actually don’t get it that much anymore. I really do think of WG as a separate person—it’s just an aspect of my personality that I play up but it’s not the core of who I am. So when I have a bad night I can say to myself, “Whiskey had a bad night, Naomi is doing just fine.” That mantra has not been working for me lately. I’ve been busting my ass to try to make a reputation and name for myself and it’s like running into a brick wall. In high school, I never had to bother being a cool kid, because I just knew that I wasn’t. In this community, the creative community, it’s as if I have to try to fit in with the cool kids just to be given a chance and I think it might be wearing on my mental health a little bit. For whatever reason I keep coming to the same conclusion: I am not that likeable and I’m 32 so this is it! I pretty much am who I am :-\

I had a show a few days ago. My very own show! I decided to do my own event because I just got tired of waiting around and begging for other creatives to like and accept me enough to give me a chance. Around me folks were pairing up with mentors and I was just there, alone, going from event to event trying to connect. I also had this crazy notion that the poetry community would be a world of misfits that understood what it’s like to be part of the outcasts and misfits—instead I found that it was the cool kids AGAIN. There I am assuming the position on the outside of things. So I put on my own show, just to prove to myself that I could. I gave myself my own feature because I don’t think I am the world’s greatest poet but I have something to say, and my narcissism tells me that the message is important to communicate with others. I got the flyers, paid the vendors, bust my ass trying to sell tickets, even got some other poets on board and hash tagged the shit out of my social media and the people actually CAME! I was exhausted but I felt so good and so proud of myself, in spite of what others thought, I had proven to MYSELF that I could do it.

Bullied

And it was time for me to take the stage as a headliner, and folks cheered as if I were somebody special. I had something to say and there were people that actually paid money to listen. So I spoke, and I had no trouble with the words because it’s never really me up there it’s WG. She was waxing poetic about life, and good sex and heartbreak when I kept hearing the voices of rowdy audience members override her. The voices only got louder so I watched as she moved in front of their faces and recited in front of them in an effort to bring them back in—captivate them! Because this was her show and at the very least she could pretend that she was good enough to headline it for a night. The loud voices got up and moved to the back of the room in response. Their volume increased and became more aggressive. Perhaps I, as Naomi, didn’t know how to handle it but WG did. That’s what she does, she takes the stage and she says what needs to be said in a way that compels people to listen or at least be polite. But for whatever reason, it wasn’t working this time!

That’s when I heard laughter, and I don’t know what happened to her (I am still angry at her for this) but Whiskey disappeared. It was me up there, a lowly under study that knew all the lines to the play but was almost too hysterical to perform. It wasn’t the kind of laughter that flowed out with mine until the sounds met across the room and blended into a melodious unison. No, it was the singular sound of laughter. The laughter of walking through the halls of high school in skater clothes and being made fun of for my dog collar and short hair that would just never grow. The sound of him saying that it didn’t matter how many layers of clothes I wore it was clear that I was fat underneath. It was the sound of boys laughing under their breaths, calling me sexy when just the year before I was an ugly gap toothed nobody. So WHICH IS IT? How am I supposed to gain control of my identity when people can’t even seem to decide what the FUCK it is?! Am I that loser with the clarinet and the chain around her neck and Skechers on her feet or am I Whiskey? Did you come hear to make fun or to LISTEN?

ETC - Awkward bullyingWell one thing is for sure; that night I was Naomi. This woman laughing and talking shit about me got under my skin and she triggered an old feeling inside of me I thought was long buried away. I’m never going to be the cool kid—and on some level I thought I was ok with that. I thought I had fully embraced that others were attracted to me for some indefinite reason and that I’m not going to fit into the categories they choose most often. I was a chubby girl in too much makeup and an annoying voice playing princess at my own event for the evening. I bleed on this keyboard for 4 readers and I pretend that I am making progress but I feel this event may have set me back to the beginning emotionally. I’m deciding marketing and promotional strategies—asking male counterparts for assistance and they smile and wink at me and tell me I can do the work all by myself. Because to them I am just that nerdy girl craving male attention so much that a wink and a little flirtation is supposed to be enough for me to do everybody’s fucking homework!

High school never ends—this is NOT the shit I signed up for! But I am in the midst of this shit so apparently I have to keep going. At the very least until I can find Whiskey again…

DoItForYou