Tag Archives: Identity Series

The Stages of Grief/Window Seat

Posted on by under The Crazy

I thought watching black man take his last breaths on TV screen
Was becoming too much for me
But then there’s something about this new thing
Pale open palmed hands raised in hatred and bigotry
The media really doesn’t give a fuck about me
I suppose neither does reality    ~Whiskey

 Sometime about six years ago I remember watching Erykah Badu’s Window Seat video and crying my eyes out. It wasn’t that the video moved me to tears, but the commentary of the other YouTube users. In my eyes, her body was nothing short of absolutely beautiful and similar to the body I saw of myself whenever I took a look in the mirror. According to white America—and the ridiculous shit show that is the YouTube comment section— she was disgusting.

Witnessing racists react to Erykah Badu’s body in that music video was one of those small things that stuck with me for a long time and drudged up a lot of feelings from my past. In high school, I hung with the white kids, attended local rock festivals and crushed on lanky, pale boys with bright blue eyes. The me now would hardly recognize that girl—pining over boys who would never accept me much less develop a romantic interest. I was developing into a woman—a BLACK woman—with big hips and ass and thick bones. As naïve as I was about a lot of things, I always seemed to be highly aware that none of these boys would ever want me.  I carried with me the general belief that white people thought of the black body as disgusting. Of black people as disgusting.

The concept of white people’s secret condescension for us and our culture is a belief I held tough to for years. It was only maybe ten years ago—after entering the workforce and integrating with more diverse groups of people– that I began to think otherwise. White men are MEN, and most men just like and are attracted to women. White women are just WOMEN, and just because their hair is straighter and skin lighter doesn’t mean that they look down on me because I am not the same. I would ride the metro and look around at all the white people and tell myself to relax. We are all just people.

Fast forward today and that relaxation is nowhere to be found. I simply can’t do it– I feel just really sad…and tense when I look around at a sea of white faces. My black skin is an identifier but there’s no way for me to know the difference between friend or foe. Strange to say, but I think I am overall ok with blatant adversaries, it’s those who exist in the grey who make me weary. My empathy is spent, I can’t seem to muster any for the Trump supporters who feel so victimized and wounded. I feel displaced, severely disillusioned and betrayed without knowing whether those are even rational emotions to feel.

I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go from here. I haven’t seemed to complete the full spectrum of the stages of grief. I am in a vicious cycle, alternating between anger and depression.

No hopeful wrap up or conclusion. This post is just an update on my state of mind…

 

 

WG

Posted on by under The Crazy

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

Great Expectations

Posted on by under The Crazy

I sent a group text the other day to my family telling them the great news that FINALLY I was a published author. I live in reality, I know that I am self-published and it’s not exactly the same hoopla that comes with picking up an agent and being funded by a large publishing company, but still, yay me! My siblings were congratulatory, my parents remained silent. It was the first stone—felt like I swallowed it and could feel it travel down my esophagus and weigh down on my belly.

I saw them later that day, and I know my mother is the type to have cupcakes, say congratulations and ask questions—but when I got to their house it was business as usual. My parents are not villains. I had to pull my eldest daughter out of her former school, I can’t afford before and after care by myself so she now lives with them during the weekdays attending their neighborhood school as well as my four-year old daughter. My parents are not villains. They give me groceries when I am poor and encourage me to go to mental health counseling and provide me with plenty of scripture as advice.

My parents are not villains—they just don’t like the person that I have become. This divorced, formerly broken, independent and kind of whacky woman is not anyone they want to hug or congratulate or give a slap on the back. She is a little broken and way too open. She is not Christian enough; and I know that it bothers them that they can’t quite tell whether I’m going to heaven or hell. Well I don’t really know either, and I had to come to a place and take a moment to stop fretting about it. I’ve had to force myself to slow down and learn to be happy and accepting and to take life one day at a time. And as for this day, I am proud of myself because I never thought I would be here. If you had asked me where I would be at this time 5 years ago I would have said, “Lying in the fetal position on the floor of a psych ward contemplating where my life went so wrong.” I have exceeded my own expectations and I am going to bask in the glory of this moment even if it kills me to smile and I have to do it through faltering lips.

In spite of the men that didn’t value me enough to treat me with respect and dignity…

In spite of what I used to lay awake at night telling myself…

In spite of how the “Christians” may view me and my life choices…

In spite of rejection from the people I desire support from the most…

Ijustwanttowrite

 

 

I am here. And I will continue to shut out the voices of the doubters and unbelievers in order to do the thing that makes me happy. I just want to write.

Click here, to find out more and/or purchase my new chapbook Trigger: A Downward Spiral.

The Blacker the Berry

Posted on by under The Crazy
TBTBThe rains came pouring down in Virginia yesterday. This happened just before I left work. I ran all the way to the metro only barely managing to keep from getting soaked.

I emerged on the Maryland end of my commute greeted by the sun and humidity. It had rained there too, just not nearly as much as it had in Virginia. As I walked to my bus terminal a sparkle caught my eye– something glistening and shiny like an expensive, shimmery jewel. I look up to see just an ordinary black man, lanky in his white t-shirt and jeans, his long dreaded hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. My eyes move to his face and I actually felt my breath quicken and my heart begin to beat faster.

I don’t know what it is, but lately I find myself so enamored with dark skin. It is absolutely gorgeous to look at, and to see a cluster of raindrops reflecting the sun off of his face and forearms gave him the ethereal appeal of an angel come down to Earth. Staring would have been impolite so I politely averted my eyes but it took a lot of concentrated effort to keep away from the sight. I fought the urge to walk up to him, gaping in awe and telling him just how beautiful he was.

I have a dark skinned man at home that I am sure to tell almost everyday how much I love his pretty, pretty skin. I’ve dated maybe 4 or 5 dark skinned men, and couldn’t help but notice that all of them had been treated a certain way all their lives because of it. They make self deprecating jokes about not wanting to get darker in the sun, about being “black enough already” etc. Finally, I took a stand against it and I refused to listen to insecurities about skin tone escaping from full chocolate lips in what was an obvious defense mechanism. Beauty stands proud and alone, it needs no defense.

A dark chocolate male friend of mine came to me and said, “Wow, I saw a picture of your boyfriend– he’s blacker than me!”  Automatically I beamed back at him and replied, “Yes, isn’t he gorgeous?!” I cup his handsome face in my hands, kiss his high cheekbones and tell him so as often as I can. There’s so much going on in the world I can’t bring myself to even write out the extent of my emotions in response to the racial tensions in America and the Black Lives Matter movement. At this point I really just feel moved to savor my identity and to celebrate what others can’t seem to understand or grasp.
I read books and watch programs… see and hear the descriptions of olive skin, porcelain complexions and red tinged lips… no one speaks much about the phenomenon of black skin. Every black man I’ve met and had the pleasure of exploring has been composed of various complicated shades of brown– to the amount of cream in their coffee eyes, the hint of coppery brown in their beards, the tender pinkish brown underneath fingernails and toes, the light tracing of chestnut brown in the lines of their palms…I could go on all day.
I celebrate the very thing that is used against us, to profile us and to make us feel inferior. The same world that makes assumptions about our culture, generalizes us and treat us like animals and stereotype us as heathen can’t deny the unique beauty that lies within our color. And if they can– they are truly missing out.

Monkey

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*Author’s note: I usually don’t write this harshly, the words may be jarring but the message is real

I live in PG county, the richest black County in America. It feels like a chocolate city– if stay in my area for weeks I could go without seeing a person of another race that entire time. In PG County we say things like, “Oh that’s the hood post office, I don’t go to that one.” And, “I hate black people, lol” at some sort of behavior we find unacceptable or beneath us.

A few years ago, I ventured out to a hole in the wall bar in Nowhere, Delaware USA to see my friend’s boyfriend play guitar. Yes she is white, and he, and the whole freaking town but that didn’t bother me. I’m from PG county, my single income alone exceeded the dual income of most people in that town. I don’t have a degree but I have a reputation for being intelligent and witty and perfectly proportioned and appealing to my community.

I entered that bar knowing these things and I left it humiliated–knowing nothing and questioning my identity. I was bold enough to move to the front of the room and dance openly and awkwardly because that’s the kind of person I am and I will always be that person no matter where I go. I’ve been to hardcore rock concerts before and the worst case scenario is that you’re looked upon like an alien that’s fallen from the sky; best case scenario is that you’re ignored as if you don’t even exist. I learned to deal with this because my nights always ended back in PG county surrounded by others that lived in the same homey cocoon of complacency. You can be invisible elsewhere but in this county you matter.

I made my way back to my seat at the bar to drink another beer and converse with my friend. We were seated immediately in front of a rowdy pool table from which I could pick up tidbits of their loud conversation. I don’t remember all of the details now, everything happened in a blur and it was so long ago–but my ears picked up on the word “monkey”. It was spoken in surround sound but it landed on my ears like a whisper. Here you are thinking you’re so confident and cute– that you belong here. ..monkey. My body felt paralyzed, I knew I couldn’t have heard it right but even so, the air was charged I could feel the tension and unwelcome. This was happening. Such a small thing, right?  But I could feel the humiliation and outrage, caught between the desire to cry and wishing I had the strength to confront. What could I do? I was outnumbered and oh, how quickly those nice women I was up front dancing with could turn into “monkey hating enemies”.

I had to deny every thought that came into my head at that moment.  “Look at you with your big thighs and dreaded hair… you’re just a monkey to them.” “Look at you with your big butt and nose and legs, monkey. ” “Look at you, monkey. Who do you think you are? ” I shared what I had overheard with my friend and we immediately got the hell out of there no questions asked. Later she contacted the bar and her boyfriend and they were appropriately understanding and gracious about the whole thing.

…I was still mortified and left with a bad taste in my mouth. I just wanted to go home. Home where I was caramel, people complimented my hair and legs and smile. Home is where I was queen; celebrated and loved for the very same qualities that made me a “monkey”. One word of hatred made me forget who I was. PG County didn’t feel like a home for a while after that–maybe we were all just upper middle class monkeys in a zoo?

Who are you when someone steps in your face, and calls you monkey,  nigger? After all you’ve been through in life, everything you thought you stood for in that moment is washed away. They pretend to respect you, nigger. They know you are only capable of violence, nigger. You are poor and lazy and pathetic. ..NIGGER–no matter how you triumph personally or financially or spiritually in life. Fight with those thoughts every day; wrestle with the truth versus the perception of others, fight stereotypes and rejection from your very own race. Feel the anger and frustration, isolation and despair–then stuff it deep down and bury it all away. You can’t be expressing those things, black people aren’t entitled to negative emotions, what will the media say?  You can’t appear too combative, monkey, what will your co-workers think? Stuff it all down, bury it away–and for god’s sake keep your composure when someone looks you in the face and you can see it in their eyes that your life is worth nothing to them…

CAN Collector

Posted on by under The Crazy

OK, so one thing about little miss crazy that wrote me a nasty note and left it on my car. I’ve since calmed down and realized that while I want violence to be the answer, I can’t justify stooping to such ratchet levels– but that’s not what I’m going to talk about today. In the infamous note, homegirl referred to my dude as a “corny ass nigga” (in a half-assed attempt to limit cursing and the N-word on the blog I will reference the word as CAN). My question of the day is: OK, so what’s wrong with a CAN??

SBMThroughout my strange dating life I have definitely showed a history of CAN collecting. Sure, I’ve dated all types of men, but the ones I really hit it off with and wanted to retain for relationship building were absolutely CANs. Case and point: the baby daddies. My 8 year old’s father still likes the Power Rangers and thinks World’s Funniest Home Videos is hilarious television programming. My youngest child’s father owns the DVD box set of the Golden Girls and knows all the characters on My Little Pony–these two are not exactly winning any Thug of the Year awards and I’m fine with that. What’s wrong with us women–black women especially– that corny guys are a bad thing? And should we even call them corny or just “dudes least likely to pistol whip you when an argument breaks out”?

Hmm, let’s reflect back on guys I’ve dated that were not corny. Let’s see… there was street pharmacist dude: owned two cell phones and was unresponsive, unavailable and unmoved by most things. Pulling emotions out of him was like trying to pull his strong white teeth out of his beautiful mouth! Great to look at, had a sense of humor but time spent together had a dark atmosphere and it was clear to me we weren’t going to be anything long term.

Then there was Young Thug who crammed a lot of life into his 22 years on the Earth. He appalled me with stories of robberies, drug use and near death experiences and had a strict unspoken rule that he was only allowed to laugh at his own jokes. Whenever I decided to be in a silly mood he seemed more annoyed by it than anything else; and when I did actually say something funny he would smile as if it brought him physical pain and say, “That’s not funny.” One warm day it rained outside and I dared him to go for a run outside in it with me. It was all sorts of cornball fun and games splashing through puddles and getting soaking wet until he abruptly decided that the activity was just too corny and our frolicking came to a complete and abrupt halt. He complained for days about his tawny dread locs being ruined by the rain, but I think he was more mad at himself for daring to have the type of fun that didn’t involve smoking and chilling over “so and so’s” house.

And, lastly I’ll mention the guy who had just finished a stint in prison for 8 years for *mumble mumble* “drug stuff”. We got along decently. He didn’t like to kiss on the mouth, asked me for money (which I never gave him) and didn’t appreciate my sarcasm. Months into our odd acquaintance, I sat at a bar with him watching him be rude to our waiter, and on a whim it occurred to me to get more detail about his 8 years in jail. Well, apparently “drug stuff” is code for, I STAB BED MY EX GIRLFRIEND AND LEFT HER IN THE TRUNK OF MY CAR! Umm, check please.

JW TextJust yesterday, I danced around JW’s apartment in just an undershirt with glass of whiskey in hand, watching him attempt to moonwalk while singing Michael Jackson high notes. I was comfortable and I was happy– and that’s really my only bottom line. Yes, I could see how he could be seen as a CAN. He has goals and ambition, respects and takes care of me, works long hours and pays all his bills in full and on time—who wouldn’t want a corny ass nigga? I’ve been with those guys that don’t return phone calls and can barely go out into public without picking an aggressive fight with a stranger and I just don’t need that kind of excitement in my life. She can be that ride or die chick stashing cocaine in her snatch and being an alibi for her man’s whereabouts between 9pm and 3am last night. As for me and my CAN, we’ll be over here watching Investigation Discovery and sending each other silly text messages. 😛

Nutrisystem Diaries – 3.17

Posted on by under The Crazy
NSD 3.17

Too much filter

Reason #3,467 of why I want to lose weight:
If I am anything above a size 10-12 I look like a chubby video hoe in whatever I wear!

I put on an outfit this morning that was supposed to say “Its warm outside. I will dress accordingly and professionally. ” However, by the time I got off the bus with my pencil skirt riding high and my tank top riding low, I think I was saying,  “Everyone step back please…I may twerk at any moment!” (Yes I am obsessed with twerking but only because I feel like it looks like I can do it but I can’t. I’m a walking false advertisement.)

Anyway, this is not how want to look while going over expense reports with my boss. Weight loss has to happen because I’m too poor and too vain to start buying baggier clothes. At the very least, I am grateful this skirt doesn’t have a slit in it anywhere. Seriously, what kind of sadistic, perverted fashion designer came up with that bullshit?

Instagram Pretty

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Going through some things and scrolling through social media is NOT helping. Why is everyone on everything every where just so fucking hot? Am I the only one that has to take like 40 selfies with specific lighting before I find one that’s just kind of decent enough for me to dare posting?

Maybe I need to hire a make up artist that does contouring,  or quit the open mic stuff and do the introverted writer thing full time. I don’t know,  I’m still mulling it over.  I think the last time I tried to send a sexy pic to my man I ended up using a filter so dark I’m sure he could barely make out my facial features. Anyway, it’s definitely not a good time in the world to have low self esteem because the hot bitch cup runneth over. Advice for the regular ass looking chicks out there? Flaunt your personality like a big booty ho and no one will even notice the difference. Worth it once you learn to perfect it…but still haven’t figured out how to capture all that personality in a Facebook profile pic.

Plus-sized Fun! Embrace the Crazy Vacation

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After chillin on the nude beaches of Lake Tahoe beach day with the kids was a piece of cake.

A few weeks ago I looked over the shoulder of one of my guy friends watching as he used his phone to lurk on the social media pages of pretty girls. One women was gorgeous in the face but as we scrolled through her Instagram page it became obvious that we weren’t going to find any full shots of her body (obviously much more his concern than mine). “Oh, you know what that means?  She’s a plus-sized woman.” He said matter of factly.

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Needless to say, this bothered me and thus the idea to exploit myself during my own vacation was born. I knew that I was finally going to visit some friends in a warm climate where I couldn’t avoid the ugly truth of hot weather clothes and bathing suits. On top of this, these friends had less than a year ago won a fitness contest and have nearly perfect bodies so there was a considerable amount of anxiety and body self-consciousness starting to creep up in the back of my mind. How had I gotten myself into this one?

Based on the way I dress and the sometimes outrageous way I carry myself, most people assume that I have confidence leaking out of my pores. The absolute truth– obvious if you read the blog– is that I’m the largest I’ve ever been in my entire life (size 14/16) and definitely not happy about it. Shit,  I wasn’t happy when I was at my smallest because compared to all those other compact women with the shapely booties I was still missing the mark and I felt it. It was only recently that I adapted the attitude that it’s important for me to always aspire to reach my weight goals but in the meantime there is nothing wrong with learning to appreciate and present my body for what it is. So in the spirit of my newfound philosophy,  she who does not take pictures (my tribal name) decided to stop being so self conscious for once and go out there and live without comparing myself to other women for once. The end result: I had a blast!

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Hanging out at the Jurassic 5 show. I danced sooo much and for once wasn't shy or self-conscious about taking pictures

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On top of being hyper aware of my body I lost my entire makeup bag and had to deal w wearing the bare minimum. Not gonna lie I felt super exposed without my layers

I received a lot of support posting some of these random pics on social media and I was glad. Aside from the flattering feeling it brings when people “like” your posts and show you their approval–my main reason for doing this is because I never would have in the past. I found vacation pictures from years ago and I flipped through each image lamenting the fact that I looked so fat and ugly. This time around I just wanted to be able to look through my old pictures and remember that I had an awesome time.

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The beautiful and peaceful Lake Tahoe

Something about living carefree and even spending time on the nude beaches of Lake Tahoe taught me that life is about enjoying each moment and not being so fixated on the thoughts of others. My body is far from perfect and I find that society is usually receptive to body types that are smaller thus more pleasing to the eyesight but until I get to the size I want to be it certainly doesn’t mean I have to cover up like a nun and be ashamed. I can only hope that one other person sees this and identifies with my common struggle. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I definitely feel that I should be among the people that holds myself in high regard no matter what size I wear and if I’m wearing makeup or not. There are enough people in this world to tear me down over shallow matters– I refuse to join them.

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My last night of dancing

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Hanging w the gorgeous fitness girls. We had so much fun I was able to forget about my size anxiety and focus on goofing off and enjoying myself

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Fin