Who asked Yellie, anyway?

"Wonderwall"

2011-10-30T00:21:00.001-04:00

Have I really not blogged since May? Definitely not. I write all the time, but I just haven’t had the nerve to be so transparent. There’s been so much to sort through. I’ve been in pain—the sort of pain that new circumstances can dull, but only time can heal.

Summer was amazingly clarifying, though. In a word, it was: laughter. And when there wasn’t laughter, there was silence. I learned that I don’t get enough silence. Mostly, because I don’t allow myself to. A distinct favorite memory was laying out on the beach in Aruba,late August, Oasis’ Wonderwall on repeat to drown the other people, just thinking:

There’s no safe place for me to plan an escape to. As the saying goes “Wherever you are, there you are.” I have no delusions: My fears, my disquieting thoughts, my faults, my realities will all follow me wherever I go. That said it’s time for me to go away and work on me. My future happiness depends as much on place as it does anything else.

But it would take a few more months for me to make my mind up to just go. And having done so, I’m feeling more and more like this is the right thing to do—especially since Connecticut has decided to let her pants down and show me her rear end this weekend. Really… since when is a full-blown snowstorm in October acceptable? I refuse to let this be my life. I’m so over it. And so I’m out.

Call it love. Call it friendship. But there is now something deep within that does not quit. And this thing is more relentless than anything I’ve previously experienced. It’s calmer now. It’s in no rush. It’s rational. It's growing up and getting wiser. It has moved to an invisibly understood realm that neither doting words nor passionate smooches could properly express. It is something that must simply be lived and proven over and over again to be true. I am okay with that.

I used to think that I needed to be strong all the time. I didn't like to cry. I didn't like to express my need to be reaffirmed, to be held, to be comforted. It was okay for me to provide support, but never to ask for it. But all that is gone now. I need saving. I’m waiting for the one who will take pity on me and do so without my having to ask. The right one will just know. The more aware I am of how little I can control, and the less I want to control anything at all.

"African Dream"

2011-05-11T17:02:00.000-04:00

“If you can talk, you can sing. If you can walk, you can dance.”

This track captures well my college consciousness. I listened to this Reflection Eternal and this track specifically, on repeat most of freshmen year. I discovered my affinity for drum and dance—even before I was any good at it—in the large open spaces at the Afro American Cultural Center. I studied African culture and history—even in classes dedicated to fin de siècle France. At the last minute, against all good sense, I changed my major and carved out a concentration based on Diasporic exploration.

It would be several years before I would visit Africa for the first time as a delegate to the International Convention of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Three months later, I would visit the Continent a second time to visit my best friend’s little sister in Accra. To think that in two weeks, I will watch her participate in Black Graduation and Commencement, only to move on to start her adult life, is mind-blowing. I think about how impossible it was for me to envision my next five years as I stood, Kente stole around my neck, speaking into a microphone in front of dozens of family members and friends. But I remember feeling sure that my options were infinite.

This year marks five years since that moment, and I feel in many regards like I am again at a crossroads—a brand new start. I’m convinced of the “excelling value” of accurate knowledge of the scriptures, so my desire to pursue that more fully is the only check on my next steps. Yesterday, though, one of my mentors urged me to think big about my next five years and where I really want to be.

"Pumped Up Kicks"

2011-05-10T15:29:00.000-04:00

This song makes me soooooo happy!

I heard it the other night while sitting at dinner with friends, and they looked at me quizzically while I took a momentary break from our conversation to jam. I couldn’t help myself. It’s my thing. I can’t help but pay very close attention to the background music in most stores and restaurants. I want to know who the people are that get to select those playlists. I want their job. I would be so good at it! Do I have to become an emcee or something? Real talk: If I had my early teens to do over again, I would have gone the music/artsy route. AP Calculus isn’t doing anything for me now. Not AP Chemistry or Biology either. But a music production course would go a long way for things that I’m more interested in these days. I’m just saying.

Okay, so I hope you’ve enjoyed my jam. Feel free to play it over and over again as you read along. This post is going to be a doozy—or maybe not depending on you look at it.

If you’ve read my posts, you have likely noticed that my music taste is all over the place. And while, I’m willing to claim a preference for soul music, I guess it’s fair to say that a lot of the music that I listen to isn’t what some might call “Black” music. That’s always been just fine with me. There’s plenty of commonly recognized “Black” stuff that I don’t do, or particularly enjoy entertaining myself with. I don’t consume pork in any form, let alone ham hocks or chitterlings (“chitlins”), for instance. I don’t generally watch Tyler Perry films—certainly don’t go out of my way to pay to see his films during opening weekend at the box office. I don’t drink Kool-Aid or Orange Soda. I could go on, but I guess my point is made. There are tons of “Black” things I love to do. I’m a great Spades player. I enjoy talking trash while drinking and laughing with the grown-ups. I never thought that music or food had to be “Black” for me to enjoy it. “Home” smells and sounds like my grandpa or dad making fried dumplings, spinach, and ackee-n-salt fish on Saturday morning. But that diminishes not my love of Indian chicken tikka masala, Thai pineapple fried rice with chicken and shrimp (hold the cashews), authentic Mexican enchiladas, or Italian pastry. What I’m getting at is the fact that the broadening of my “taste” beyond the familiar has never meant the rejection of who I am. I can’t say, though, that my taste in men has never really broadened to match my other preferences.

When CNN aired the Black in America series two years ago, I was super-annoyed with the way that Black women were depicted as having been abandoned by the Black men who preferred women of other races, left with only the choice to pursue relationships outside their race. At one point, my father walked downstairs during one of the commercial breaks to face my cousin Natasha and I sitting watching, and said, “Don’t listen to this… and you better not come home with some white dude either.” He then turned and walked back upstairs, shaking his head. I could hear my mom say from all the way upstairs, “That’s right.”

I suppose this has been the first reason: my parents’ clear expectations.

I can appreciate good looks in every form, but I have always been more attracted to Black men than any other dudes out there. And for this second reason, when other women go on their rants and raves, I stay snuggly in the corner of Black men. It really hasn’t mattered what the media or personal experiences have revealed about stereotypes and trends, I haven’t changed up. Sure, some Black men get educated and suddenly get too good for Black women. Yup, a whole lot of our men go to prison. Some of them don’t stick around to raise their children into responsible adults. Others are using injustice as an excuse not to even try to live a productive life. And then there are those just out to play games—running through women, with no regard for decency and family values. But so what? That’s not all Black men, and more importantly, when I think of all the men that I have ever seen and been really, really, ridiculously, almost viscerally, attracted to: every one of them was Black. These men may have varied in height, physique, and complexion, but they “sure as Gehenna” (a friend of mine says this instead of “sure as hell”) weren’t white men.

Now, this is not to say that I am not attracted to white men. I often notice and comment on attractive men of various phonotypical distinction. But I guess the point is that for cultural, historical and just deeply personal reasons, there’s always been a “block” there for me that started sometime around middle school when I became more intensely aware of racism and the way in which American society trained even Black people not to love Blackness. I won’t even pretend that much of my preference isn’t a decision. I decided to love me—and by extension, those who look like me—despite how others felt.

When I was about eleven, I asked my mom why she would choose to have kids with a dark-skinned man, knowing that her children would probably be darker than she was. I noticed that brown-skinned Black people were always okay. I was surprised when she told me that it was on purpose. She explained that while many light-skinned men had tried to get with her, she always wanted dark-skinned children with curly hair—and that that was what she got. I remember thinking she was crazy at first. Kids in school had been teasing me about my complexion, as she had teased my dad about being dark when they were in middle school. That she would later change her mind and ask him out their senior year of high school was pretty ironic. But I didn’t see myself ever dating the boys who teased me at school, so I was a little miffed that I had to be caught up in all this Black self-loathing. I got over it very quickly, though.

Fast forward eleven years and my cousins are now in middle school. They’re beautiful people—all of them have deep complexions and the curliest, blackest, most beautiful hair. Yet, one of them especially, complains of the constant teasing from boys who hold her complexion in derision. (Aside: will middle-school ever stop being so horrible!?) I remind her, as my mom did me, that her dad and mom chose to bring her into this world because they saw beauty in each other and their Blackness. She is exactly what they wanted. I’m not really trying to have kids, but if I did, I imagine I would want them to look like the rest of the beautiful Black people in their family. I would find it especially difficult to navigate the unique challenges of trying to rear mixed race children. And that’s reason three, I suppose.

As I talk to close friends about my desire to get married someday soon, several of them have suggested that I should be expanding my search to include non-Black men. I have to admit that I was initially offended at the notion that I won’t be able to find what I’m looking for in a Black man. That I have had this conversation with four people in the past week is telling, though.

Maybe I need to look at this entire matter differently, in only for the reason that I’m no longer convinced that my original rationales even hold up now.

I am my own person—someone that my parents love and respect. I know that part of their constant reminders not to bring a white boy home was less about racial preference and more about building a strong sense of self in me. It was about sending a signal that whiteness was not a recognized quality standard in our home. There was no trophy for catching a white man (or woman. To that point, I’m sure I would get much less flack for marrying white than my brother would.) The reality is that we have an incredibly integrated family, and we’ve always been very welcoming and loving to the spouses and significant others who were non-Black. There’s an understanding that with all the travel and fellowshipping that we do with our international brothers and sisters, there’s no guarantee that I will fall in love with somebody Black. Parents’ expectations are therefore not a good reason to hold on to my ideal.

I am now many years removed from middle school. I have gone on many dates with Black men, and I have no husband. It’s not because there aren’t Black men who have tried, but there’s something even more important than race or culture that I must factor in: spirituality. None of the men I have dated have actually met my standards in this regard. That has everything to do with why I am not married. Sure, I have to be attracted to my spouse. I’m not a nice enough person to profess to value “personality” over looks. If I’m not attracted to you, I will likely never know what your personality is like. I’ll politely disregard you. It’s not on purpose; it’s just what I know I’ll do based on what I know I’ve done before. I’m reminded of insanity defined as “doing the same thing over and over, while expecting a different result.” I suppose my second rationale is overturned on the logic that what I’ve been doing simply hasn’t worked yet. I have relaxed and amended my “ideal” Black man on various fronts: income, education, age, national origin, language, cultural background. Perhaps Bjork was talking to me when she sang: “You’ll be given love… maybe not from the directions you’ve been staring at.” Like anything new, I don’t know if I like it without trying it out. There goes my second rational.

The idea that were I to have children (which is ludicrous to say because I don’t want them), I would prefer not to grapple with the unique challenges of rearing biracial children has some validity. And, I believe there is something special about loving Black families—if only because I was reared in one. That said nothing about child-rearing nowadays is what our Creator envisioned for us. He purposed a united, though diverse human family and we have constructed meaning in our differences that were never supposed to be there. I guess what I’m saying is that just as I have engaged in the process of meaning-making, fashioning a self-identify, I can do the work of deconstructing this barrier. This will be important work to do, not just because I might open possibilities for a husband, but because I serve a God who is “not partial”, and I can’t please him if I continue to be.

So I guess we’ll see…

"Love Poems"

2011-02-20T12:48:00.001-05:00

I love music, like the O'Jays did. Maybe more.

As much as I enjoy pleasant libations and spirits to add levity from time to time, music is the best way to put me in a good mood—in any mood at all. Dancing is my crack. I literally become sad when I haven’t been out dancing or to dance class in too long. At work, my team teases me about the fact that I dance and bop constantly, at the slightest provocation, and in almost any setting.

I love all kinds of music, and for a while now, I have been unwilling to name one favorite “type” of music. People often ask that, and nowadays, you're not cool unless you can say "I like all genres." I’m not even sure, though, that with all the cross-over, and varied influences on music, “genres” even exist anymore. If they did, I suppose my taste would still be difficult to describe because music is just so vast. For me, it’s like a movie soundtrack, and sometimes the music is part of the action of the scene, and in other instances, an interlude or background. I don’t believe that I am alone in this, though. It seems to me, that in almost every situation, there is some track that lyrically or musically matches my precise thoughts and feelings. I’ve seen Facebook groups dedicated to this concept, which tells me that there’s most likely a small nation of people living to their own respective soundtracks.

Maybe it’s my dislike of “labeling” my music tastes, or just the fact that I find the moniker “neo soul” somewhat of a misnomer, that has led me to never admit to loving or preferring it. There was also a period of time a few years ago in which people were just giving out neo-soul cred to individuals that I felt were entirely unworthy ::cough::JossStone::RobinThicke::cough.

But I feel now, more than ever, that those musical beacons that have brought about a new wave of the soul music from previous decades have stood up and taken their place. Even they have been unwilling to stay within their music box. Think: Cee Lo Green, The Foreign Exchange. They’re experimental. Jill Scott, summed it up best: “whatever it is, let it be.” She’s not digging the labels either. No, “neo-soul” isn’t a genre any more than “soul” ever was. Soul, I believe, is intrinsic. You don’t make soul music, you convey the depth of your feeling and experience through music, bearing your soul. I’m going to stop there, lest I dig up my “Afromusicology” notes from my college days.

If neo soul were a genre, though, it would have a king, and his name would be Bilal. “First born Second” has been part of the official soundtrack to my life for nearly a decade now. It comes in second narrowly to the queen, Erykah Badu’s “Mama’s Gun”, which still holds the number one spot for my most listened to album of all-time. Occasionally, I’ll hear a track by one the royal couple, and that track, though I have heard it many times, will astound me with its newfound relevance, timeliness, brilliance in my life.

This weekend, this was that track:

“Use Somebody” (Introduction to the IHC factor)

2011-02-16T00:10:00.001-05:00

I’m not one for hooking other people up. I haven’t ever really preferred to meddle in such affairs—mostly because I don’t want to be blamed if anything goes wrong. Somewhat against my better judgment, I sort of impetuously ventured into said uncharted territory and it remains to be seen if I shall live to regret it. I’ll do almost anything once. Almost.

So, Kings of Leon have me thinking again, and even though I said this blog was going to take a turn toward the hilarious and mundane, I sort of need to start getting a few of these ideas down on paper.

There’s this theory that I have (and in full disclosure have been co-developing with Me-Me Robles into what will be a book or set of articles). Should I see it anywhere, I will most certainly get to suing. Writing that ("get to suing") instantly brought back to mind my early high school years when my bestie (and still the smartest chic I’ll ever know) used to threaten to “get to to slicin’” all the time. I don’t even remember where she got it from. I’ll have to ask her when we chat this week.

Ok, so my theory: there are certain things about a person that are tangible. They are the raw materials, if you will, that a man or woman is working with. Everybody has a basic list of tangible (manifest) elements that must exist for them to connect with the person (as a friend, as a lover etc). Example: his one very adorable dimple, her gorgeous eyes, his car to pick you up for dates, her demonstrated independence in owning a home etc. These are the things that can be seen and felt. They are the tangibles. Then there are intangibles. And these intangibles are the elements that bond. They go beyond the physical, the material, and they connect you on a level that creates the mystery, the trust, the understanding that leads to the desire to pursue, be caught, and ultimately stay (or if things go awry, split for good). It’s rarely, I argue, the tangibles that get in the way. If these do, they get in the way upfront, signaling you to keep looking and not even waste your time. The intangible human connection (IHC) factor is what I believe matters the most. It’s usually what’s missing: not money, not attraction.

I’m picky. Some might say that I’m too picky. It takes quite a special person to meet pique my interest. And I can literally count on one hand the number of men with whom I have felt the IHC. When I feel it, I’m always incredibly surprised. For me, there are a few tangibles that absolutely must be met. Faith might not seem like a tangible, but there are some pretty manifest elements that have to be in place for me. I don’t care how spiritually curious, open, or inclined you profess to be, I need you to be walking into a Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses as a dedicated and baptized man for all five meetings a week and visibly engaged in our public ministry regularly. Physically, my taste is all over the place. But bright, earnest brown eyes and a great smile totally rock my world. Humor, not in the stand-up comedian sense, but more nuanced, sometimes sarcastic, ability to laugh at self and recognize the irony of life is huge. It requires intellect, astuteness, and emotional security. And there begins the IHC for me. What separates all of the cute guys out there, all the devout men out there, all the intelligent men out there, from my guy (or any guy who should hope to be mine) starts with our ability to laugh together—effortlessly. I don’t like to have to think too hard about your jokes. And I want you to get mine. It’s a picky little thing that makes a big difference.

There’s more to the IHC, though. And in working through the theory, I know that there are a ton of caveats. Every couple has their own IHC factor. If you watch any two people—those who have been together for a short time or quite a while—it’s very evident. I find myself at times, noticing the interactions between a couple and wondering, “How in the world does he/she do it?” It seems to me that beyond the whole “opposites” attract theory, there are so many people who are just aren’t with the right other people. You’ve seen these couples: the very sweet, humble man who is with the loudest, most overbearing woman you’ve ever encountered; the deferent, unassuming woman with the man who doesn’t appreciate what he has and walks all over her; the husband and wife talking over each other at dinner with others, both trying to get their shine and canceling each other out. But who am I to judge? Those people aren’t together for nothing. Even if we can’t see it now, the IHC factor was there at some point.

To be continued.

"No Hands" (Acoustic Cover)

2011-01-29T23:38:00.003-05:00

“She said, ‘look ma, no hands! She said, ‘look ma, no hands!’”

I’m tickled every time I hear that line. I can’t believe he doesn’t bust out laughing (and, yes, I realize that the expression should be “burst out laughing”, but I just posted a Waka Flocka Flame cover, so I feel like I get a pass on propriety.)

It's a shame that I have been neglecting some of the lighter moments in life, with all these deep, introspective posts. So I thought I'd switch it up a bit tonight.

For instance, sitting at Sushi Palace with my mom and a friend, I realized that only Americans take a Japanese delicacy, prepared with fresh, healthy ingredients, and gorge themselves on it until they can't even move. All you can eat... Sushi? It's just seems wrong. Don't get it twisted. I definitely got my money's worth. But, it ain't right.

Real talk: the combined weight of the (maybe) eight people sitting at the table next to us (it could have been seven) was easily two tons. Eight people (I'm giving the benefit of the doubt here) combined (especially with two children, and only one male in the group) should not, under any circumstances, add up to 2,000 pounds. Do the math. I’ll weight (tee hee, get, it "weight", not "wait"?) That's right. 2,000 divided by 8 = 250. There's no excuse.

America (Bernie Mac voice), do better.

Something else that I found interesting, and sort of cool, was the diversity of the clientele. It was cool little multicultural smorgasbord, at the well, smorgasbord. That doesn’t happen as often as it should. I have noticed though that things like dining and schooling with people of different races and ethnicities doesn’t necessarily change any individual’s world view. People engage with the people they come to the restaurant with, in much the same way that students tend to split off into groups at the lunch table. I don’t know that anybody thinks too hard about it. Much of the grouping happens organically. I won’t get all Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum, but I’m just saying.

One exception was the incredibly, outrageous, unforgivably nosey Latina sitting next to us on the other side. This heifer must not have found her daughter or grandson interesting enough company, because I cannot recall her saying a word to them all night. She was much, much, more interested in our conversation. I mean, I get it. I’m hilariously entertaining. But she could have at least offered to pick up our liquor tab if I was going to be the “show” at dinner. At one point, she just turned and looked right into my mouth.

Word? That’s how Hamden, CT gets down?

"So Far to Go"

2011-01-28T20:11:00.001-05:00

Ever wonder what happens to fearlessness?

Have you ever watched a child experience something new? They don’t know what to be afraid of, so they just do things. They see a wall (no matter how high)… they jump off of it… or at least until some adult tells them they should be afraid of heights. They see a new animal (no matter how big)… they run over to pet it… until some adult tells them to be careful.

We teach fear, and our instinctive voyeur inside dies.

Fear can be healthy. Godly fear, for instance, is necessary as we work out our salvation. But, trepidation, based solely on an overestimation of potential risk or loss, is never good.

I made the decision, even as a child, not to live my life that way. Sometimes I wonder what has made me so willing to take risks. I think it has something to do with the faith that I have in Jehovah, and the privilege that I have enjoyed due to the love and support of my family. They have never let me fall, and there’s something in me that tells me that they never will. Or that even if they did, I’ll still always have my relationship with Jehovah. It’s this cycle that just doesn’t fail me that makes me pretty bold. I have also experienced success in many endeavors that others wouldn’t even try. The feeling of success pales in comparison to the hurt from failure. I’m addicted to former feeling of accomplishment that starts with trying, doing, striving, getting bumped around, and fighting through. It starts with jumping. It starts with squaring up with something new and potentially dangerous, a new “animal” of sorts.

Lately, though, all sorts of fears that have crept into my consciousness: fear of being alone…forever (or worse, being with the wrong person forever), fear of living with regret, fear of losing people I love, fear that I’m not doing enough in God’s service, fear that I’m doing what I do for the wrong reasons, fear that I’ll end up really unhappy no matter how hard I try.

My fears are unfounded, and each fear feeds another. But this hasn’t made them go away. Knowing that I’m being stupid hasn’t motivated me to get it together. I have been doing what I said I would never do: letting fear drive my decisions.

But today, I feel different. For the first time in a while, I’m ready to go the distance.

A special thank you to Mr. Secretary, whose wisdom and belief in me are as endearing as they are endless.

“Laughing At Your Plans”

2011-01-21T00:22:00.000-05:00

On a random day, sometime in 2009, I woke up and realized that I was woman.

And even though I continue to get mistaken for a college student, I know now, as I knew than, that I was too old to be carefree. But also too young to start listing regrets and limiting my options. Since this realization is semi-recent, it’s still quite an adjustment.

It’s led me to do a few completely insane things here and there, but I’m maintaining. Peace to Ghana 2010.

The problem is that as I watch various other people in my life navigating their way, even those just a few years ahead of me, I am struck by just how little we can really plan for. I don’t know that anyone plans to be "unhappily" anything—not married, single, divorced, not struggling to lose that extra 20 lbs, not working under duress and undervalued, or searching for certainty and relief from personal drama or financial strain.

We plan to be happy whenever we get the chance. But so many of us aren’t.

I’m sure that there are unhappy men, but as I experience the world most days wearing a bra, I cannot help but to see this peculiarity of life in terms of the women I know. I draw incredible strength from the beautiful 30, 40, 50, 60, and 70-something women in my life. They show me daily that it is possible to grow in age with dignity and grace, never letting “the number” determine what they should look like, wear, laugh about, or try out for the first time.

They simultaneously make me wonder what I will care most about at their various ages. I can already see the changes in my perspective from day to day. But some things have remained. I just wonder if it is possible to avoid the hurt and pain.

Is heartache the "tribulation in the flesh" that Paul was talking about? Is any of the pain worth skipping? Is falling in love actually worth the potential fallout that will most likely come later? Is commitment worth the inevitable regrets (now and then, or worse: daily) when you and your other half wake one day as different people than who the other committed to? Are children ever worth it? No, I mean that: Are they? My mom and dad would say yes. My dad told me recently that he wishes that he had more children. But I wonder sometimes: why? He and my mom gave everything to their kids, leaving not nearly enough time for each other. Would another decade of child-rearing have made anything better, anything different? Just a thought.

I find myself waking up some mornings (more mornings that I think should be the case) wanting out. Or maybe I want in?

To be honest, I don’t even know what I do every day. Sure, I work harder than a lot of people would ever even attempt. I get stuff done, but how much does the stuff I do even matter in the long run? I talk all day. I talk to people about stuff. I create and deliver presentations, I draft memos, plan events, I send tons upon tons of email, I ask people for money. I do more talking, some texting, more talking.

Every. Day. All. Day.

Bible reading happens more days than not. I study and go in service a lot too. I attend meetings. Were it not for my public ministry, there would be nothing anchoring me, no real meaningful commitment for my time and energy. Maybe it’s this absence that is most acute for me: the lack of any significant obligation to anything other than my own existence.

Recently a friend posted on my Facebook wall, "You need a hobby or a child. Pick one." He's a jerkface, but he was right. I do sometimes feel like I need something much more important than just paying my bills to wake up every day fighting for. But what? I've never been one of those people who felt like "a family" would fix feelings of emptiness, and especially not if "family" means just popping out kids.

With each year, it becomes more true that most of the women in my life had husbands and children by now. Those who did not, and still don’t, might not ever and they don’t seem thrilled at that prospect—though many of them have made their peace with their lives.

Maybe I should give myself more time. I just became a woman, anyway.

"No Bull$#*t"

2011-01-06T18:12:00.000-05:00

I used to hate Chris Brown. It was the lisp, really. I never denied that he was talented, but every time I heard him say "thsay" instead of, well "say" or “thsshhhawty” instead of “shorty” it made me a little crazy. He’s so much easier on my incredibly astute, though, recognizably, politically incorrect ears now. And I am a fan.

This post is for all the “prud(ent)” twenty-something year old women out there, who sometimes get confused with the prud(ish) ones. Not really. It's for everybody. Because we live in a world that is sending some mixed signals about sex and what it means to keep it in it's place. There are huge differences between not giving it up, not giving it up to just anybody, and not giving it up to anybody who hasn’t put a ring on it. Those of us who submit to Bible standards have chosen to forgo our personal view on these matters out of love for the Originator of sex. We're waiting, despite how easy it would be to do otherwise. I was reading a Bible-based article last week that quoted one mother who said she always shared with her daughters the beauty of sex and encouraged them to look forward to it, while urging them to enjoy it in its right place. I believe that that sort of balance should be communicated to all young people. There would be no prudes if everybody were convinced that sex was beautiful and the right thing to do. There would be only prudent people, making love the way their Creator intended.

What’s all this talk about sex today?

I agree that it is somewhat of a departure from my usual, as I try to only opine on things with which I have had direct experience. The thing is, even when you’re not having sex, it’s everywhere. It’s the undercurrent to guy-girl dynamics, it’s on TV and in songs on your iPod, it’s being discussed at work and school, it’s a topic in religious conversation, and our bodies are constantly reminding us of our biological needs. There isn’t anybody who is not experiencing sexuality in a real and vital way, apart from and including the physical act, on a daily basis.

My parents were always good about sex talks. They didn’t make it awkward. I was never made to feel shame or embarrassment for what I was curious about. Even now, my brother and I are confident, comfortable people. For the most part, we’ve made responsible decisions because we were given the space to figure ourselves out. Abstinence in teenagers is applauded. Celibacy in adults is treated as something so rare and unusual that it begets special attention. For teenagers, the decision to wait to have sex shows maturity; whereas for grown women, the decision to wait raises questions and invites skepticism about how certain the woman is of herself. Andre 3000’s “Where are my panties?” skit was a classic example of this. In the skit, the woman who has just given it up on the first night wonders if her sex partner, a complete stranger, will think she’s a ho. He anticipates that she will think this way, but reasons that her giving it up without hesitation just lets him know that she knows what she wants out of life. It’s funny, but it’s also tragic.

It’s all about choices. Not having sex doesn’t happen any easier than having it does. In either case, the people involved (hopefully just two, but times are crazy), are making a conscious decision. I listen to the radio and I shudder at the themes and lyrics and references that my younger cousins (ages 12-14) are repeating when they’re playing their iPods or riding in the car. Nicki Minaj, for instance, has become household name, and while we think our youth aren't catching the sexual references in their music, they're not stupid,and they have more access to internet and other sources than we even know. They know what's up, and they're curious. I remember being their age. I had parents who, even though they couldn’t shelter me from all influences, armed to me make the right choices. I’m prudent because I was taught to be. This generation needs more of that.

I feel sometimes like even as I make choices that help me stay true to my convictions e.g. who to spend time with, who to give my number to, where to hang out on weekends, that I am sometimes perceived as out of touch, boring, distant, and corny. When I was in high school and I would opt out of certain activities, often classmates and friends wouldn’t understand. It was the same in college when I would choose not to drink or not to go to certain parties, because I didn't want to risk my resolve being compromised. Sure, I had a group of friends who loved and supported me, but occasionally I would think that I needed to lighten up, that I was being paranoid.

I thought I was past all of the uncertainty. But then recently, I started to feel that way again, wondering if I'm single because I've put up too much of a wall. Have I taken this prudent thing too far? Do I need to be more open? Maybe I'm just on some bull$#*t that I need to come off.

But I have been praying about it more. Something deep down is kicking in, telling me that all these minor choices over the years do amount to something; that maybe what I need to do now (more than ever) is continue to be me; that quite likely, the grass isn’t greener; and that I’ll get what I want eventually; that all the waiting is worth it.

"Fool for You"

2011-01-02T12:16:00.000-05:00

I want “That real, that deep, that burning, that amazing unconditional, inseparable love/That feel like forever, that always , emotional but still exceptional love,” that Cee-Lo sings about. Anybody who knows me knows how much sense that makes. I have to be that passionate to do anything well. So, that goes for men too.

Recently I had a conversation with a girlfriend, who’s in a very loving, though uneven relationship. She realizes that her man is more in love with her than she is with him, but that’s exactly how she likes it. My girlfriend thinks that if a man doesn’t love you more, then he’ll take your love for granted and he will eventually leave, especially if he has a good excuse. She doesn’t think women are as inclined to do that. Judging by what we know of our parents’ and friends’ parents’ marriages, I can’t deny certain merits to her theory. But I’m much too stubborn to put a period at the end of the matter.

Security is important. But if the worst case scenario is that he leaves and I’m back to taking care of myself, I think I would rather take that chance with the man I love more than anything. I admit it’s a lot easier to think about being left as I am right now—young, healthy (physically, spiritually, etc), employed, and without children. Were any or all of those circumstances to change and for the man I love to up and leave, I’m certain that it would be a different story. But I still don’t see how I give up that ideal even in the face of abounding evidence that I might have this all wrong.

"Time: The Donut of the Heart"

2010-12-15T23:23:00.000-05:00

So tonight, Dilla is on repeat.

I have never been one to play games with people.

It’s just not my style. I have lied before and I don’t like how that feels, so I do my best not to do it—not to myself and not to others. I don’t mince words either. My grandma would say I "don't speak no foolishness.”

I’m sure that I could stand to lighten up sometimes. But when it comes to feelings, that’s not an area where I think “foolishness” should be tolerated.

Even the thought of being more into somebody than they are me makes me sick to my stomach. It’s an awful feeling, that lingers in the mind— even when enough has time passed that things are cool with the person, even months after you’re over the him (or her, I suppose). You just never forget those moments when you felt a little crappy, unsure of yourself, a bit off your game. There are dozens of painful things I would voluntarily undergo in lieu of the agony of an unreciprocated crush: washing out my eyes with onion juice, brushing my teeth with Comet (I’ll spare you the entire list). But, yes, it’s that tragically uncomfortable.

The idea that somebody might be out there feelin’ me and not having those feelings reciprocated makes ME uneasy. I feel their pain. Really, truly, I do. I don’t want to be them, and I don’t want them to be them either. But alas, se la vie.

Being the special breed of control freak that I am, I have tried unsuccessfully for years now to control when, how, and for whom I catch feelings. It doesn’t work. So I’ve given that up. I don’t know what got me thinking about this today.

But, it seems to me that crushes are like paper cuts. They hurt like crazy until one day you don’t feel them anymore. They go away so completely that you can’t even find the source. You just remember the feeling and hope to avoid it ever happening again, knowing that it’s inevitable with time.

Crushes are one thing. It's a completely different matter to lead people on deliberately. I used to be pretty unforgiving about this. I used to be quick to impute all sort of bad motives to a person who, in my view, had led another person on (typically, I was all indignant over the plight of a girlfriend that I felt had been done wrong). Sometimes I was feeling salty about how a young man was dealing with me. But my view is changing. Maybe this is because, even now, I really don't know, not as clearly as I would like, how I feel about certain people in my life. And I am certain that this means that I send a whole slew of mixed signals.

This is certainly not the end of the world. I work through it, day-by-day, endeavoring to "keep it 100" but somehow feeling like sometimes I'm not telling the whole truth, wondering if I am now guilty of playing games.

"Maybe sHe'll Dream of Me"

2010-11-26T21:17:00.000-05:00

“Shut the front door”, Phonte! (For those who have ever watched What Not To Wear on TLC, yes, that was me doing my very best Stacy London.)

On so many levels, The Foreign Exchange makes my life. I wasn’t sure I could be more blown than I was at first listen of Leave It All Behind. But then, minding my business, kickin’ it, this track just entered my life, and BOOM! Life was made all over again. And I needed that. My life was in need of making, because lately, I have felt trapped in a nightmare. Most days last week felt something like the hell of most fearful sinner’s worst imaginations.

I’m a realist. So I expect to get down about life sometimes. I also know the beauty and hope that exists. Even at my low moments, my most overwhelmed hours, I know that there will be some spark to bring me back up. This week, that spark was hearing this track for the first time. And the mere fact that I was hearing this track for the first time this week, and not weeks ago, made that experience an intense moment of clarity. Sitting there, playing it on repeat, I changed my life. I made up my mind that I would be different.

As I see it: It was either be different or be dead. So change it was.

Yup, it’s a small thing. But there was a time when I was up on new music, when I would anticipate the leaked tracks from a favorite artist’s anticipated album, searching them out online so I could be the first to hear the newness. What stops me from doing that now?

There was a time when fun and friends had a real place in my life. Sure, my crew is split up, we living in different cities now. We’re getting older and we have new pressures and responsibilities. But seriously… am I willing to allow “busyness” to be the reason I don’t get around to meeting Juice? If not now, when will I make the time?

There was a time when I was more balanced about happiness. I started to get back to what I know to be real around this time last year. But lately, I’ve been stressed out, and it started slipping away from me. I’ve forgotten why I do anything anymore, and I’m doing things for the reasons other people want them done. But it’s costing me. It happens. We get knocked down sometimes.

But I’m up and fighting to regain perspective.

Jamaica, soon come.

"This Is Your Life"

2010-11-07T00:36:00.000-04:00

Thank you, Brandon Flowers, for lyrical perfection: "This feeling won't go..."

"All For Love" Part 1

2010-10-01T02:48:00.000-04:00

Some days I wake up with this feeling in my chest—a sadness, a lacking. It used to be that when I got that feeling, it didn’t leave easily. It stuck around for days at a time. I carried it around with me—in my countenance, in the back of my mind, in my gait.

Some nights, more often now, I have a remedy for that feeling. I make a phone call. I talk it all through. When I don’t care to be that transparent, I talk about everything but the source of whatever negative feelings I’m battling. But no matter what we talk about, I feel better.

While I don’t question it, I do at times wonder how it got to be this way. I wasn’t getting those phone calls this time last year. Last October, I was still sorting everything out on my own. I was treading water, frantic, but I wasn’t yelling for help. I was suffering in silence. Part of my impetus for starting this blog (AskYellie turns 1 on October 18) was the need to sort things, even if just through the clickety clack of my keyboard.

I’m not exactly sure what prompted me reach out. Maybe it was the realization that my move back to Connecticut wasn’t temporary, and that I didn’t know how to go back to a time where I shut myself off from the world. I needed somebody to talk to. I needed to start somewhere. However it happened, just when I thought I might drown in my own doubts and discontents, I found friendship— just friendship, and it was just want what I needed, at just the right time for it.

The other night, my friend and I got to talking about time—timing more specifically. Like all of our conversations, there was give and take, point/counter-point banter. In the end, we agreed that time significantly dictates much of what happens (or doesn’t) between two people in matters of the heart. Neither of us was particularly articulate, but I feel like we both sort of “got” the other’s point.

Over the past week or so, I’ve been contemplating the extent to which love depends on time. I want to believe Thom Yorke when he says “true love waits.” But I don’t.

I’m inclined instead to think that people stumble across love every so often, and much like with any other truth, they quickly dust themselves off, look around nervously, and press on, hoping nobody saw them almost fall. People are often reluctant to face up to any reality that demands something of them. For the same reason, I’m pretty certain that most of us stare love right in the face and pretend like we don’t notice if we can get away with doing so.

At some later point in time, hopefully bad first impression long forgotten, we get another chance with love. For a fortunate few, it’s the same love we met back in the day, and stepped over, to get on our way to wherever else we thought was more important. The masses learn from past mistakes, determined not to look back, on the search for a brand spanking new love. And we promise ourselves that if and when we do, we won’t stall.

That’s just my sense of how it goes down.

With that, I leave you to Bilal and one of the most astoundingly perfect tracks ever put down (musically and vocally).

"Sweet Disposition"

2010-09-09T23:31:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I’m loving this song right now. And I had to share, because my thoughts all day have been overrun by this tune, drowning out any and all trace of coherence. It’s been this and Rick Ross- all. day. long. And yet The Temper Trap has won out for tonight’s blog entry. I’ve included the lyrics below, because this song, however simple and repetitive, is lyrical genius. Me encanta.

It’s giving me Freddie Mercury (Queen); it’s giving me Tom Chaplin (Keane); it’s giving me Brandon Flowers (The Killers); it’s giving me chills.

Enjoy.

">

Sweet disposition
Never too soon
Oh reckless abandon,
Like no one's watching you

A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
A kiss, a cry
Our rights, our wrongs
A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh

Just stay there
Cause I'll be comin' over
While our bloods still young
It's so young, it runs
Won't stop til it's over
Won't stop to surrender

Songs of desperation
I played them for you

A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
A kiss, a cry
Our rights, our wrongs
A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
Just stay there
Cause I'll be comin' over
While our bloods still young
It's so young, it runs
Won't stop til it's over
Won't stop to surrender

A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
A kiss, a cry
Our rights, our wrongs (won't stop til it's over)
A moment, a love
A dream, a laugh
A kiss, a cry
Our rights, our wrongs (won't stop til it's over)

(Repeats)

"Chai Tea Latte"

2010-09-05T23:17:00.000-04:00

I'm re-learning to like my own poetic voice.

I'm scurred. I don't like to put my poetry "out there" for public review in any audience. Most obviously, it's because I don't write poetry for people. I write it for me and I write about things personal and specific to me. I don't even write poems for my loved ones anymore. (I used to write poems as gifts. Not anymore.) Poetry is the catharsis that I used to believe would be my life's work. But that was before I realized how uncomfortable and out-right crushing the self-doubt that accompanies creative enterpise can be. I stopped writing altogether for a while during and after college. I feared that wasn't "tragically mulatto", dredlocked, sexually (and/or herbally) explorational, or agnostic enough to be a poet of any repute.

But occasionally, I would dream lyrics, vivid word pictures. I would be heavy with sleep, but unable to rest, mind abuzz, and sometimes a few really interesting lines would come to me out of nowhere. A word here, a phrase there, a theme just floating in my head. Written down, I believe that is called a poem-- no matter who writes it. And just like that, I was back to it.

Untitled Poem #5

if I knew what it was like
I would talk about it all the time
I would pen the kind of poem
that burned at the soul
gripping and true
each line would sting
with the longing of the lost and fearless warriors
those ones who would cross all barriers
to be reunited with the scents and touches
they’d been remembering, missing

had I even the faintest brush with
the pain and anguish, the devastation
that is yet most essential to the human condition
the miracle in its discovery
sick cruelty of time and separation
the power of its enemies
fear, death, secrets, lies
how it alone renews and inspires
by touches and smiles
makes promises in first kisses
only to break them in tearful goodbyes
no-eat, no-talk days
chased by no-sleep nights
heavy, guilty mornings and apologetic afternoons

such is the stuff of love
irresistable, horrid, complex
correction: so I am told
I dare not pretend to know

"Just One Kiss"

2010-08-23T21:07:00.000-04:00

Now that my period is over, I can get back to thinking and feeling like a normal person. It’s got to be the most alarming, though regular, occurrence in a woman’s life to be completely disarmed of all reasonable thought and stripped of sensible eating habits for a week each month while also bleeding steadily. I love womanhood, but I must say that I find it unfair to be straddled with such a pesky and uncomfortable nuisance, particularly given that I’m not sold on the wonderment of pregnancy or childbirth. It is not for everyone and I have had no indication that bearing and rearing children is for me. So why can’t I opt out of my period? I’m not the first woman to ask this. I won’t be the last.

Oh well, my real post awaits…

In a nutshell: I don’t believe that he is in love with me.

I can understand if it seems a bit rude and possibly callous of me to blog about this, but I’m not using names, so relax, people. I’m just trying to clear my mind here. Not to mention, there’s really no way to think this is about you and be hurt unless you sent me an email telling me you love me and it went to my junk mail within the past week. Trust, if this is about you, you know it, and we both know we’re cool.

It’s not like I’m not listening. I carefully weighed his remarks and appeals and I still don’t believe it. In fact, if there’s any misunderstanding, it’s because he’s not hearing me.

Sade says that love is stronger than pride. Agape is, but not eros. And he is talking about eros because he doesn’t even know what agape is. He doesn’t make such distinctions.

He bases his whole estimation of me on things outside the scope of what is required to make a truly informed decision. It would actually be a lot more flattering to just take him at his word, but instead, I’m inclined to believe that much of this grandiosity is ego. It would feel quite nice to accept that a person could make up their mind and heart about me with so little information, and in so little time. But I know better. This isn’t love. This is something else.

Some of my resistence stems from personal doubt and insecurity that I rarely acnowledge or speak on. Deep down I fear that if he could know that he felt within days of acquaintanceship what others didn’t feel in months (years even—of intimate knowledge and friendship) about me, that something was lacking in me. Those others must have seen that something lacking and maybe time wasn’t a factor in why we didn’t work out.

…

Overall, it’s just easier not to think too hard on it. There’s a simpler way of looking at it. He might very well be infatuated. Who hasn’t been infatuated with somebody at some point? I’ve run out of fingers to count the number of people with whom I've been infatuated at various points in my life. But he is by no means in love with me. And since that’s the not case, I don’t really need to discuss the matter any further—not with him, not with anybody. I don't need to scrutinize our every interaction or conversation. I don't need to agonize over the fact that we'll never be friends. We won't even necessarily be cool. He gets that. I get it. And it's all good.

::PHEW::

I just needed to get all that out. But I wanted to wait until well after my PMS craziness passed when I was back to thinking and feeling like a normal person.

Note to self: Must be more careful when traveling. No more kissing strangers or friends-of-friends. Just kidding. No, but, really...

"I Miss You (Double Rub Part One - Sunshine Mix)"

2010-07-15T02:24:00.000-04:00

(Actual Conversation, Paraphrased)

Me: Do you really not remember meeting me as an undergraduate student?
Him: Are you serious? No. Your hair is different. Even your face looks different. You’ve gained what 20 lbs since then? Do you think you look the same?
Me: (cracking up) I have not gained 20lbs!
Him: Okay, fine, maybe 15. I’m getting older. I’m allowed to forget things. It’s Halfsheimers—what you get before you’re memory goes all the way (Alzheimer’s).
Me: (laughing harder) Ok, that’s fair.
Him: I don’t say that to offend you. You look more mature. You’re a grown woman now. By the way, are you married? Dating? Any engagement prospects?
Me: That’s a whole conversation of its own.
Him: Well, that’s our biggest problem (our = Black men/women). It affects our whole being, our presence, our approach to our work. I’ve been married 28 years, so maybe you think that’s just easy for me to say. But we need to give that just as much attention as we do anything else.

Why aren’t you dating/married yet?

I’ve been asked versions of that question so many times recently; I’ve run out of non-awkward, gracious responses. I’m never offended by people inquiring. I’m always surprised by how earnest most people are when they do. People tend to ask and then stop to pay rapt attention, with that “I’ll wait” look on their face, searching my countenance for some indication that I’m going to surprise them with good news. I’m always so sorry to disappoint. I come away at times feeling like I’m letting people down—whether they know me or not, have any stake in my marital bliss or not, are married or single themselves. It doesn’t seem to matter. Under the gun, I want to give the right answer and avert the inevitable awkwardness and self-doubt that follows.

I have even been tempted to go for sympathy, with something like: “No. You didn’t hear? My fiancé died the night before our wedding.” Not that I would ever doing something quite so horrible, but I seriously am running out of polite ways to respond—even to all the people who mean well.

Sheesh! Am I the only person who feels like that’s a rather clumsy question to pose to somebody?

I was commiserating with a girlfriend about this today. She suggested that I start saying something like, “No, but here’s what I’m looking for…” (Follow with a brief description.) Then add, “If you know anybody like that, feel free to make an introduction.”

I actually think she may be on to something.

"Bag Lady"

2010-07-15T02:22:00.000-04:00

I carry the people close to me the way an asthmatic does their inhaler: everywhere, always.

It’s as if I truly believe that there will one day be a catastrophe in which all of this useless knowledge and sentiment will be a much needed life-saving treasure.

But I know better. I know much of it is just extra weight. A major part of simplifying my life will involve cutting out distraction and cutting off people who are sucking up precious time and energy from far more worthwhile pursuits.

This isn’t a new realization.

So when I look in the mirror, after washing my face every morning and again before bed (sometimes, when I’m not too lazy to wash off my make-up), I’m left with the question any self-respecting woman must ask and answer for herself if she is to find any peace of mind:

Why can’t I let go?

Some people are just toxic.

It’s not always easy to spot these people because often they masquerade as family members (whom we cannot choose) and “frienemies” (who may not reveal their true selves initially).

I find the most dangerous brand of toxic people are those who subscribe to a unique form of hateration that requires that they stay just close enough to you to be in a position to do you harm. The problem with these folks is that they all have (at least ostensibly) a valid reason to be in your life. Only, you find yourself constantly wondering: Where does it end?

My answer is: right here, right now. It is indeed time to clean house.

"Joyful Girl"

2010-06-16T12:46:00.000-04:00

I’m funny. Ask about me.

I don’t think I could do well as a stand-up comic, though. I prefer not to “perform” for people. Occasionally I get into a rhythm and the jokes just flow—sometimes at the expense of some unwitting passerby—other times as I sound off on something utterly ridonkulous that has occurred.

“Sense-of-humor”, “funniness”, whatever we call that quality in people who are both alert enough to appreciate life’s nuance, irony, contradiction and silly enough to laugh at the appropriate moments, is paramount for me in forming lasting human bonds. That’s why all of my friends are funny people too.

In recent years, I’ve experienced the healing power of humor at work in my family. We are, and have always been, a completely lunatic bunch: loud, highly emotional, quick-witted, overly-involved in each other’s business, quick to offer our opinions unreservedly and unsolicited, but above all else, we’re a riot. And it’s the latter quality that comes to the rescue at clutch moments—saving our relationships, reminding us of why we’re in each other’s lives for good.

This was highlighted for me recently, at my mom’s graduation dinner. Despite the strain of time and circumstance on various relationships around the table, it was, I imagine, imperceptible to an onlooker that any of us present were anything but wholly delighted by others’ company. The entire evening was punctuated with hysterical outburst, hands-covering-mouths to keep food and drink in, random leaps from people’s seats, and otherwise rambunctious behavior. I loved every minute of it.

My mother is always the quietest person in a room of more than two people at a time. Get her one-on-one, and she’ll talk your ear off. Add a third person, other than one of her own siblings, and you’ll forget that she’s even there. But quite appropriately, on this occasion, there was no forgetting mom. She was quiet, as usual, but she was ever-present. Dinner conversation touched on many topics, but all thoughts of the night, came back to her. We were all so proud of ourselves for not having missed this opportunity to celebrate her quiet strength and focus.

One moment stood out to me: I was returning from the restroom, and as I re-entered the dining room, I couldn’t get through the door before I was hit by an overwhelming eruption of laughter. It startled me a bit, and I stood for a few seconds, watching my family—many of whom I lose nights of sleep over regularly, pray about often, some of whom haven’t spoken to each other in weeks over various tiffs.

And I felt like we might just be okay.

And if not, I'll write a funny memoir. (Just kidding.... kind of)

"Sparks"

2010-06-14T18:49:00.000-04:00

My grandparents lived in the same "yard" in Jamaica most of their lives. My parents were in the same class since sixth grade and went to high school prom together.

It was quite clear, pretty early on, that I was on a different path. There would be no "boy-next-door" or “high-school-sweetheart” for me. Focused on academic and spiritual goals, I've been on a personal grind since age 8. Boys didn't factor into that. Don’t get me wrong. I always liked boys—but I was content to have them as friends. In college, I was cool with plenty of the cute guys in our class—but just cool. No hooking-up, no nonsense, no heartbreak—just kicking it, study breaks at A-1, potlucks, and the occasional cameo appearance at a campus party. I had a few crushes here and there, but nothing serious. Just good ol’ platonic male company to punctuate my girlfriend time was a sufficient balance.

The game has changed now, though. I’m grown.

Nearly all of the items on the original “to-do” list have been checked off. My new list includes plenty of things I simply cannot—or care not—to do alone. This reality check came about this time last year as I turned 25 for the first time, and piqued my interest in finding a boo—despite the fact that I was then, and still am now, happily single. I realize how that sounds, but I suppose it’s most analogous to going grocery shopping when you’re not starving so that you can focus on getting what’s on your list and not desperately throwing junk into your cart to feed the hunger monster that has taken over.

And I do have a list. I’ve written down the characteristics that my husband must possess.

I’m OK with my list. It’s not too long, not too specific; and it’s grounded in an honest assessment of me—my needs, with my ultimate happiness in mind. My challenge, as I see it, is to “shop” smart, and before I find myself like some of these hungry women out there settling for whatever comes around.

Now, I don’t mean to overstate the amount of control that I believe I have in this process. I still stand by everything I said in a previous post: “It Never Entered My Mind”, October 18, 2009.

It’s just that my life up to now has been one constant exercise in striving to be (excellent, obedient, happy) through doing for myself, doing what I’m told, and doing for others. The notion of waiting for anything to come to me just goes against my most basic over-achiever sensibilities. If striving and doing have brought success in other, lesser endeavors, how can waiting be the answer in something this important?

In a recent Bible-based discourse on spirituality, the speaker likened marriage to a butterfly. As he put it: “The more you chase it, the more it eludes you. But just when you turn your attention to something else, it rests softly on your shoulder.”

Word? It’s that simple?

I just stay busy doing me… and wait?

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad.

"In a Sentimental Mood"

2010-05-17T23:34:00.000-04:00

I stopped into Yorkside tonight for a meal and it felt different –not just because I was strolling in minus two or three other familiar bodies, but because I was a different person than I had ever been when making such a stop.

For one, I wasn’t there to order pizza slices or wings or buffalo tenders-- a major departure from my usual Yorkside routine. I wanted real food that wouldn’t make me feel sick if I went to sleep in a hour or so. I wasn’t there en route to the library for all-nighter or after a party of some sort or because I missed the dining hall and needed to use flex dollars (or whatever they call them now) to pay for food. I was there after a long day of work. My stop at Yorkside was out of necessity. They were a restaurant that was open, reasonably close, where I could get a good salad at a late hour. So there I was.

As I sat listening to graduating seniors, laughing and chatting away over their pizza and wings, I was sad. I could vividly picture all of the people I used to sit in those same booths with, and I missed them. I’ll be over this sentimental feeling by the morning, but tonight forced me to face something I’ve been reluctant to say of late. I’m not happy to be back in New Haven.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to have such a great place and great landlords. I love everything about my new apartment– the layout, my furniture, the rent. It’s all good.

But it’s in New Haven. And New Haven is in Connecticut. And Connecticut is in the United States of America. And I’m itching to live abroad, right now, not soon, now.

I’m not bursting with anticipation, away from home for the first time, ready to explore this whole new place called “college” the way I was in 2002. I’m not transitioning into the “real-world” for the first time, comforted by almost daily reminders of my former undergraduate existence greeting me at every turn between Chapel and Elm Street like I was back in 2006. It’s 2010, and my best friend doesn’t work in the medical school building a five minute drive from my office anymore. Going out doesn’t exist for me here. I wouldn’t be caught dead in any of New Haven’s clubs (or maybe I would, given all the shootings lately). But I digress.

New Haven in 2010 isn’t my first choice (or anywhere, for that matter) on my list of places to live anymore, but it’s my only tolerable living option in Connecticut. So here I am.

My heart is gone from Connecticut, save the love, appreciation and deep sense of obligation that I have for my family and to the communities that nurtured me. But I can do right by those I love from anywhere in the world. And more importantly, I can think of at least two places (:::cough:::Kingston:::Accra:::cough:::hack::throat clear) where I would be doing much better by myself on so many levels.

So, I wonder, as did Ani Di, “if everything I do, I do instead, of something I want to do more.”

I don’t really want to live in New Haven right now. I just want to live anywhere in Connecticut infinitely less. And what’s more, I am committed to finishing what I started in coming back home in the first place. But I know better. I wonder how long I’ll keep pushing myself to meet unreasonable expectations against my better judgment.

It’s been difficult to get out of bed in the morning now for two weeks, but I just pretend I’m fine and keep it moving. I’m great in meetings, so long as I can bring myself to show up for them. I’m a beast with managing my calendar, if I just turn on my laptop early enough in the day to see my alerts. I can’t keep ignoring these signs.

I’m obviously not happy about something.

It’s worth saying, though, that the Yorkside chicken parmesan and Greek salad was the truth!

"We Fight, We Love"

2010-05-04T16:56:00.000-04:00

Per usual, I’m about to drop knowledge that nobody solicited, but that I believe some out there could benefit from.

I’ve noticed that there are some women who take a rather passive approach to catching a man, when in every other aspect of their lives, their incredibly confident and intentional. I don’t really know what to say to these women. I find that whole way of doing business unfortunate; but those women aren’t the focus of this post.

It’s a whole ‘notha group of women that I care to discuss this afternoon. We all know those women. These women perpetually bemoan their lack of success in finding a man despite claiming to be doing everything right. In time, these complainers often become embittered haters. They’re miserable to be around. They’re envious. It’s not a good look, but it is totally avoidable—that is if we keep in a mind a few basic truths.

It’s worth noting that even unhappily single women under 30 tend to be far more hopeful and less likely than their over-30 counterparts to be all-out venomous attackers of women getting play. It’s somewhere around 30 that I have personally noticed a change in women, where suddenly they see their baby-birthing years starting to slip away and they get all psychotic. This post is particularly for those ladies under 30 who don’t wanna “go out like that” and refuse to be the stank heifers at the party mean-mugging the cute 20-somethings getting all the attention from eligible men.

Part 1: The 3 Reasons He’s Not With You
After careful consideration and extensive investigation, I have found that there are only three
possible explanations for why a man doesn’t bust a move on a woman. These are, in no particular order, He’s not interested; He’s not ready; He’s not available.

Let’s tease these out a bit, shall we?

Not Interested.
Fact: A man who is interested in a woman lets her know.

His lack of interest may spring from sexual preference (e.g. he’s gay and is not interested in women more generally) or it could be specific to the woman in question. Said another way, he just may not like you, find you attractive, or be particularly disposed to some aspect of your personality or background. (Aside: While this is all I’ll say about this now, I delve into this more in Part 2).

Not Ready.
Fact. Women marry whoever they believe is the “the right man”, as soon as they find him, and hopefully in time to bear healthy children. Men marry at the “right time” and hopefully find the best compliment for themselves and mother for their children.

See the difference there?

Just because on paper you two are a perfect match does not mean that he’s ever going to really kick it to you. Your options are to wait around for the possibility that the day he wakes up and decides he’s ready to be serious, you’ll be the first person he calls, or find somebody whose ready now. It’s not rocket science. It is not difficult to know when a man is ready for a serious relationship, especially not if he is interested in you (see Not Interested). He’s going to make both of those things abundantly clear.

Regularly being blown off for other “friends” (male or female), general flakiness (e.g. cancelling plans at the last minute, never really asking you on date, but sort of asking you out sometimes and other such hotmessery), perpetual mixed signal-sending (e.g. calling you late to discuss his deepest fears, but never inviting you anywhere public – which actually isn’t a mixed signal, it’s a pretty direct strategy for avoiding accountability, but I digress), visible irritation at the mention of the words “date, commitment, children, marriage” are all great indications you’re dealing with somebody who is (potentially not interested in you), but certainly not ready for a relationship.

In a word: Run.
Real talk: Anything less than putting distance between you and that person is setting yourself up to be all twisted and hurt later.

Not Available.
Fact: Whether one believes in “soul mates” or not, there are always thousands more potential men or women in the world we could have been with (and certainly those we find attractive or otherwise desirable). Sometimes we don’t meet those people until after we’re already committed to somebody else.

And there’s a high probability that at some point every person will have that experience and be on either of the unfair sides of that equation. But the key is not so much to walk around with blinders on, as to arm oneself with the moral fortitude and conviction to handle such a circumstance with class.

If I had a penny for every time I heard women say such things as: “All the good ones are taken” I would seriously be swimming in my coins like Scrooge McDuck. And it’s that sort of reasoning, that in my mind, starts the negative thinking that leads woman to conclude that it’s easier to share a man (read: greedily and selfishly rob another woman of her husband’s fidelity and trust) than to just get their own. The flawed logic goes something like: If ALL the good ones are taken, then a piece of a good one is better than the none that’s left out there for women still on the hunt, right?

It requires a certain candor and strength of character to evaluate why men you’re interested in may not be interested in you or to recognize that the timing is off with a relationship you might be pursuing or to walk away from “Mr. Right” because there is a “Mrs. Right” but just because it’s difficult doesn’t mean it’s not required.

Part 2: The Top 3 Reasons He’s Not Interested
Okay, so here is my disclaimer: There is a strong possibility that what follows will disturb and even enrage some of those who read it because they will see themselves in my words.

To that I say: Hey.

Far too often, I’ve heard women say (in an attempt to console a girlfriend over a break-up or whatever): “He doesn’t deserve you; you’re too good for him.” Sometimes that is true. Unfortunately, sometimes it is not true and the person saying it is lying, because that makes their friend feel better. Why not actually tell your friend why you believe she was just dumped or never wifed up in the first place?

Here are (from what I’ve seen and come to know) the top 3 reasons a man is ever not interested in a woman). Of course there are others, but here are my top 3: She is physically unattractive (which may encompass morbid obesity); she has a severe personality disorder (or demonstrates emotional instability); she is a Bitter, Intolerable, Treacherous, Caustic Hater (tee-hee).

I almost don’t even care to explain any of these any further. What is there not to "get" about my top 3? However, so as to not be misunderstood, I will say more.

Physically Unattractive
Fact: Men are incredibly visual (and if we're honest, so are women).

I get that beauty is subjective. But I am not one of those people who believe that there are no objective measures for physical attractiveness. Let’s get clear on who I am talking about. Some people are strikingly beautiful (and almost no person can deny them that). Some people (due to factors out of their control, possibly at birth, or due to an accident) are deformed in appearance. I am not talking about either of these groups of people, because these people have inherited an appearance that they can likely do very little to alter. Most people, however, fall somewhere on the continuum between the two extremes. I am talking about these people—those who can look better or worse based on their upkeep, hygienic practices, and the effort they expend to present their best self to the world.

Ladies, if you have a friend who has been talking about losing that extra 132 lbs for the past 5 years, but still eats a gallon of Ben n Jerry’s and cries and herself to sleep at night, stop telling her she’s single because no man “deserves her.” She is not putting her best foot forward. You know it. She knows it. Cut the crap.

To be fair, plenty of men like women with meat on their bones. But, I’m tired of famous people like Mo’nique (who has a personal trainer and can afford a dietician and cook) telling women of mammoth proportions to embrace their unhealthy size. Tell people to make the best commitment to their lives (love-life and otherwise) by getting fit, and not just watch the Celebrity Fit Club Finale and cry in front of the TV set. It’s not cute.

Emotionally Unstable
True or False: Husbands should expect to make up for whatever damage their wife's father (or other central male figures) have done by their actions (or inaction in their absence) over the course of her entire life.

I’ll wait.

I’m with all the people who say: False. And yet, so many broken women are sitting there waiting for the man who is willing to do that. Don’t get me wrong: Some men are just nurturing like that and they don’t mind taking on that burden. Kudos to them.

Maybe there is a website somewhere.

But most of the men that I know can totally sniff out insecurity, low self-esteem (sense of worth), and emotional instability miles away, and when they do, tend to go the other way.

In the words of E. Badu, “Let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go.”

To be fair, some women have suffered an inordinate amount of pain in their life and cannot so easily unload those burdens. A caring man will likely see that. I don’t mean to cause any unnecessary offense, but I simply must point out that failure to address one’s own issues will only be exacerbated within the context of a relationship. So, women should get right with themselves before they go roping somebody else into their drama. I’m just saying.

Bitter, Intolerable, Treacherous, Caustic Haters
Fact: Some people are just bad people.

And that’s why nobody wants to be with them. And those people have a choice. Stay that way and stay by yourself, or you become a better person.

Who knows? Maybe there’s a website for these women too—where there are equally horrible men just waiting to meet their match.

My initial thoughts on this sprang from the insistence of the national media to focus on the number of unmarried “successful” Black women there are in the US (there was another one of those news shows last week talking about how Black women can't find husbands.) It’s true; we marry (statistically) less than white women and Asian women. But Black women do marry. If we keep embracing this notion of ourselves as undesirable victims, rather than own up (collectively) for how we can improve ourselves, and by extension the quality of our relationships, what will have to show for ourselves a generation from now? What will we teach our daughters (again, collectively)?

On another note: I’m really missing Ghana today.

"Pretty Girls"

2010-02-24T02:03:00.000-05:00

It’s definitely been quite a while since I spent some time with my thoughts and the clickety-clack of laptop keys. Trust, it’s not that I’ve run out of things to over analyze or on which to opine. But time is scarce these days. I haven’t actually gone to bed in weeks. I collapse in random places about the house, typically wake up in the late morning, still wearing my clothes from the previous day, change into PJs and enjoy the last 2-3 hours of sleep in my bed. Hot mess!

It’s all good though. “I lu’ da kidz” like Marty-Mar, and hard work never killed anybody, right?

Ok, so let me get to what is really on my mind tonight:

Driving I-95 this afternoon, I recounted a few recent conversations that I had with two of my favorite “pretty girls”. Since most (read: all) of the “pretty girls” in my crew are well-educated black women, most of us are still single (except one who is married and another who might as well be), and a fair share of our conversations center on boys (read: grown men) we like, are dating, can’t stand anymore, are in love with and all that comes with any of those scenarios.

Two of the “pretty girls” had especially trying (for lack of a better word) weekends with their boos, and their frustrations seemed to be incredibly parallel, even though the men in question could not have been more different—we’re talking different ages, races, educational backgrounds, nationalities, etc.—but the same fundamental hang-ups. It appeared that the only constants were the profiles of the women they were dating.

Both “pretty girls” in question are undeniably beautiful women, and they have the nerve to also be dumb smart.

Aside: I’m sure everybody thinks their friends are hot, but mine are objectively fly by most measures of flyness. I would be willing to put a photo of my crew up against a photo of most of other groups of friends and wager that we would shut it down. Sorry-O (big-ups to my Ghanaian duns.)

But anyway, these two brown women are well-adjusted, confident, accomplished and really two of the “coolest mothafunkers on the planet.” Still, in their distinct scenarios, the common elements were that the men they care for attempted to make them feel (a) less smart (b) insecure, and (c) invalidated in their angst/anger over the situation. In both cases, the man was being manipulative, to different degrees, in different ways. I can remember being made to feel that way—like I was crazy for being annoyed or upset about something I knew I was completely justified in being irritated over. It’s appears to be a strategy to regain control or save face—try to convince the woman that she is making stuff up, that’s she crazy, that’s she can’t trust her own mind.

I wonder if there is something about being this “type” of women that rubs the male ego especially wrong, putting men on the defensive—in a way that being smart or pretty in isolation doesn’t. In commiserating over the nonsense that was these ladies’ weekend, we all seemed to keep coming back to that central question.

This was particularly annoying with one guy that I dated who one night blurted out (mid-argument, amidst a whole lot of other stuff not even worth repeating) “You’re a ‘pretty girl’, you seem cool, but if you can’t tell me why you’ve never been in a serious relationship, then I have to conclude you were the problem, something is wrong with you.” And he was serious; he kept looking for whatever was “wrong with me”. Our tiffs occurred whenever I called him out on something or asked him to explain himself about anything, as if I was expected to just not notice things. That, he concluded, must have been what I did to other dudes, studied them, been too academic. In a short time, we ended, and neither of us looked back.

On my own time this afternoon, I thought about all of that, and back to some of the conversations that I’ve ever had with my own father about male/female dynamics.

My dad has always maintained that he was going to get “ten cows” for me (referring to the tradition in many African countries where a bride price is paid by the groom/groom’s family before a wedding occurs, even though we are Jamaican, and even though “ten cows” is about the most arbitrary “price” he could possibly have come up with). But that’s been a running joke for us—that as long as he "trained me right", I would be of great value in the “marriage market” or whatever. But “wifey bootcamp” hasn’t made the difference in any relationship I’ve been in—the only exceptions being platonic male relationships, which don’t really count. How much does it matter if two people who have no intention of marrying each other think the other person would be a great spouse?

Usually, I try to find some clever way to end entries, but this morning, I got nothing.

"Hypocrite"

2010-01-05T04:14:00.000-05:00

I can’t think of one good reason to leave Jehovah.

Not one.

But as people that I love have done so, one after another, I’ve come to another realization.

While no good reason exists for me right now, there is no guarantee that I’ll be serving Jehovah tomorrow. I could mess everything up at any moment.

The truth is that integrity boils down to a series of decisions—many of them small, some of them big—that add up over time and become our individual record of faith. Each day, each week, each month, each year, since June 13, 1998 has been filled with decision-making. And while I’m very proud of my record, I know it’s not perfect. I’ve done some really stupid, really wrong things in that time, too. And that bothers me.

For a long time I’ve wondered if bad decisions, made here and there, eventually cancel out a good record, and make one a hypocrite. Nobody likes those people. But as it’s often much easier to profess something than to live it, we all find ourselves, daily, struggling not to be hypocritical. And those of us who are hypocrites tend to not know it. Because we forgive ourselves for our mistakes, but in other people, all we see is inconsistency. I’ve had trouble reconciling the fact that there is such a thing as right and wrong with my fear of being called out as judgmental or worse, a hypocrite, in the inevitable case that onlookers uncover my own faults. I felt myself slowing down, making excuses for doing less and less, losing sight of the line between being human and being a hypocrite.

I made it a point to lay low, content to just be present for my spiritual obligations, but not really show up. It felt easier. It felt safer. I figured, if people don’t really know me like that, if I’m not really visible, then there’s less risk of being misunderstood, or becoming a target of anyone’s skepticism or criticism.

But I’m done with all of that now. And I have my trip to South Africa to thank for that.

Many people have asked me about my trip. And I appreciate the interest. I know that I’m delinquent with posting photos and sending follow-up emails. I’ll get on it soon.

Concerning my trip, a colleague asked me: “Was it life-changing?”

And at the time, I stumbled to answer.

(Aside: Why can’t people, myself included, just answer questions straight anymore? When did we all get so verbose? I’m tiring of the sound of my own voice, not answering questions directly. I can remember a time when simple questions got simple answers, but now I feel like I need to draft up an official reply to every inquiry. It’s just not that serious. In 2010, I’m bringing back the one-word-answer to questions, e.g. “You hungry?” “Yep.” End Scene.)

Back to the question at hand, the simple answer is: Yes.

My time in South Africa absolutely changed my life. Before South Africa I was in a spiritual stall pattern. I thought more clearly in those 12 days than I’ve done in the almost 12 years since my baptism about what really matters to me. And work isn’t particularly high on that list, neither are material luxuries, nor, surprisingly, is a earning a terminal degree.

Waking at 5:30am for the first three mornings of the trip looking forward to the 6:00am Safari game drive, with the intent of snapping an amazing photo of a lion as my most pressing concern, was liberating. The International Convention of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Pretoria had the largest attendance of the three conventions that took place simultaneously. Being surrounded by thousands of brothers and sisters—most of whom spoke languages that I didn’t—each day was a privilege. And getting to know as many of them became a mini obsession. Walking around with my convention badge to remind me of who I was there to represent became familiar and I missed getting dressed with my badge in the morning when I returned.

South Africa dramatically changed my daily norm just long enough to convince me that I needed to change my daily norm for good.

Early into the trip, one very smiley and personable couple on the trip asked me if I was joyful. I’m convinced that they could tell I wasn’t and asked me as a way to force me to consider why I wasn’t. I confirmed their suspicions and confided that knew I had many reasons to be joyful, but I couldn’t seem to fully disconnect from pressures back home—namely work. And as with any other addict, my admission led to change.

I think it had something to do with subsequent conversations with that couple and several others, people who were full-time ministers, whose tallied years of service added up to hundreds of years. They were so focused. They seemed genuinely happy, having embraced a most fulfilling work assignment, the very privilege that I had been taking for granted. They reminded me of the me of my childhood—the person that I I’d been suppressing, too busy trying not to be a hypocrite to just be me. But eventually, I stopped fighting.

It was psychologically heavy to be in a country where the pain of injustice is still so present, but it was a healthy wake-up call. Our trip ended with a visit to the South Africa Branch of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and we took in a beautifully integrated and celebratory program, representative of all nine native African tribes’ traditional artistry that culminated in a united chorus singing new Kingdom Songs.

Sitting there, in the auditorium, tearing up, eleven days into the trip, without almost no email interaction with family, no calls from work, unplugged from most things familiar and my typical distractions, listening to songs sung in Zulu, my life changed for good.

And there was no pretense. The new me felt completely authentic, because she’s who I’ve been all along.

Talk to You (Lil Darlin')

2009-12-04T16:15:00.000-05:00

So this afternoon’s post comes as a result of me thinking about an exchange that I had with my aunt the other day.

Aside: Why do Jamaicans say “the other day” to refer to just about any non-descript amount of time? I find myself doing that and then having to correct myself. I’ll be telling a story, starting with “I was doing such and such the other day…” and it hits me that the “other day” I’m referring to definitely happened weeks, months, sometimes, over a YEAR ago, and here I am talking about it like it just happened. I don’t have an answer, but I’m definitely open to comments on that. Do other people do that and not just Jamaicans?

But I digress.

The conversation itself went something like the following:

Aunt: (Stopping me mid-sentence for clarification of a detail) Oh, wait so who is he? Is So-and-So your friend’s new boyfriend?
Me: No, they’re just talking. (Attempting to continue my story)
Aunt: (Dismissing my correction) So they’re dating then? How long have they been dating?
Me: No, they’re not dating either. They’re talking. There’s a difference. (Again, resuming my story)
Aunt: (Now laughing at me a bit mockingly) Okay, maybe you insist on that difference, but if there is interest on both sides, they may not see it that way.

It was as if this woman truly believed that I just made up “talking.” I know my friend. I know when she’s dating somebody. I know when she’s “just talking” to some dude who may not be around in a little while.

But I’m not one to spend a great deal of time arguing with elders, so we sort of moved beyond that little hang-up and got on with what I suppose was the essence of our conversation.

It definitely didn’t end there for me, though. And in the subsequent days, as I’ve thought about it a little more, I’ve been at times miffed because she never did get to a place where she could really feel me on the whole “talking” issue. And at other times, I’ve wondered what is wrong with me and why it matters to me that such a distinction exist at all.

I suppose there are no hard rules that can be applied to something that develops between two people. Maybe it’s all about their understanding of what they’re doing. But if that’s really so, then why is that when people skip whole steps in the process of becoming familiar, they often find themselves uncomfortably ahead of themselves in uncharted territory with no direction? I feel like this common occurrence suggests that there is something to be said for a progressive development in familiarity that starts with “just talking” and grows.

Since I know you’re all dying to know, here’s where I stand on the pros and cons of “talking”:

Pro: “Talking” is necessary and all good. There’s no downside to having conversations. Sometimes these conversations confirm things you already knew. Other times, they test your notions and biases. In yet other cases, they surprise you with new knowledge—both welcome and unwelcome. But conversations lend new prospective to any individual’s frame of reference and prospective gained is always helpful.

Con: “Talking” is entirely subjective and therefore a necessarily frustrating space for many people. One interesting conversation with a cutie at a cocktail party does not constitute “talking” because “talk ING” requires there being some ongoing engagement by both parties. Men and women who are interested in somebody rarely see things as they rationally are and therefore tend to project all sorts of things onto the other person.

Pro: “Talking” is a temporary safe zone in which “catching feelings” is not necessarily the expectation or a prerequisite for a continued relationship. I almost feel like that statement is self-explanatory. You can start talking to somebody and decide spontaneously that they are boring, whack, too needy, too high maintenance etc. and phase it out. Talking doesn’t require that you make any significant commitment to the other person. This is a protection, especially when dealing with somebody who is a complete stranger. There’s a long road from complete stranger to friend, let alone potential novio/a or life partner.

Con: “Talking” emphasizes what is said in person, on the phone, via text, over email etc. and less what’s being done to demonstrate the seriousness with which either or both party is taking their budding friendship, relationship, whatever it is. This can therefore lead to an entirely detached read on where all these conversations are actually going. If you’re doing a whole lotta talking and not much else, you’re probably not about to be dating this person any time ever. And that’s a tough pill to swallow for people who think their conversation game is air tight.

In the end, just because talking is ambiguous, noncommittal, and has the potential to lead to
unrequited romantic feelings, doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t exist. It’s all part of this utterly demoralizing journey that men and women take on their way to lasting, loving relationships.

Or so I prefer to think on my manic days.

On the low days, it’s a great way to keep distracted and shop for boosurance.

"Miss Independent"/ "The Truth Is (I Need You)"

2009-11-24T23:36:00.049-05:00

I never liked Beyonce’s whole “Independent Woman” mantra. And I'm still not fully convinced that Ne-Yo's ode to "Miss Independent" wasn't just a guised attempt to kill off the last semblance of chivalry in the world and leave women to fend for themselves financially once and for all. It was catchy. And I can't deny that it was a refreshing break from the mysogyny so typical in popular music. "But" in the words of Bon Qui Qui "don't get crazy."

Lately the Wall Street Journal and Huffington Post have featured articles about guy/girl politics. In the WSJ article, the writer answers the question "Where have the good men gone?" with the argument that the success of women is turning men into adolescent boys, unable to find their place in a world where women don't need them to fill roles that previous generations of men filled at their age.

Some of us (read: moi) don't believe that the "good men" have actually gone anywhere. Instead, I think we have started to train women not to look for or recognize said man when she finds him or to have unrealistic standards that eliminate all of the actual men she meets.

Jill Scott, in all her genius, got this exactly right with "The Fact Is (I Need You)."

Men are necessary, and so are gender roles.

I don’t understand what is so liberating about the idea of women living utterly and completely independent of men. Not that we can or do, but who thought it was a good idea to start talking like that’s what we want or telling young girls that crap?

Seriously, who are these women?

Some of these mistaken women may have been quite open to a healthy relationship at one point, but have been hurt and therefore now associate dependence with powerlessness. But dependence does not equal powerlessness. We are dependent on food, water, and oxygen. Try building your strength without these things. Still, I know some of these women and I empathize with them.

In other instances, I suppose these women are dreamers, and while in real life they remain willing to allow men to treat them like crap, in their minds, they reserve the right to pull the plug on that bad treatment at any moment and exercise their agency. Only they never do. They just stay talking about doing it and spouting nonsense on their cell phones in public, at the hair salon, and in the dressing room next to you about how “they don’t need no man to do for them” and "can do bad all by they self". I know some of these women, but not too well, because I can only deal with them in doses—very low doses—or not at all really.

But there is another group of women who seem to love them some independence—or so they think. These women are just misguided. We all know these women. They’re the ones who did everything right. They worked hard, stayed out of trouble, toiled to build a life for themselves, never taking any “handouts.” And now that they’ve attained a reasonable degree of comfort and stability, they can’t see compromising their security for anybody— especially not some man.

Is that so?

As somebody who has paid her own bills, gotten up early on very cold mornings before work to shovel snow off of her own car, taken out the garbage, raked leaves, lugged furniture around, stood in stilettos on public transportation, broke a sweat trying to stow heavy bags on airplanes, and the like, I’m not so sure I understand what all of these independent women are fighting to protect.

Today I did my best "damsel in distress" impression to get help with my flat tire at a random service station. It worked and it saved me time and money. Don't judge me.

It’s certainly not the right to not be helped that these women are fighting for. Maybe it’s the right to be helped and supported, but only on their own terms. And that’s just not realistic. What’s more, it prematurely shuts down the possibility of something that is greater than just our individual best.

It’s also stubborn. And what is there to esteem about doing everything for yourself, forever, just so that you can boast about not needing anybody?

Not only do we all need somebody, women absolutely need men— and vice versa. And we need them, not just for “muscle” or finances or household upkeep— because we are quite capable of doing for ourselves. We need men for the purpose of fully being. It is the absence of men in many instances— fathers, uncles, brothers, friends, husbands— that has led to such imbalance in the first place.

To deny that simply goes against everything that we’re designed to do as “compliments.” Some are uncomfortable with the notion that metaphorically speaking, men are the suit, and we ladies are the bag, the shoes, the pashmina, the super fresh trench coat— the “pop” that makes the ensemble. But it is what it is.

"Doing What I Can"

2009-11-14T22:27:00.000-05:00

Of all of the colloquialisms that have been introduced into American vernacular in my lifetime, I think that “hater” is one of the most useful.

Having read all of the definitions for “hater” and “hateration” that I could find on urban dictionary, it seems that most agree that haters tend to be hostile and jealous and feel the need to undermine other people by pointing out existing flaws, inventing flaws, and or wrongly attributing motives with the intent of detracting from another’s success or accomplishments. But a few of the definitions include these caveats that claimed that the term is commonly misused to dismiss any person who is critical of or disapproving of something and expresses negative sentiment— as if “hater” isn’t really a valid terms because the person making the claim that another is a hater is usually wrong.

Ok, so here’s what I think…

Haters most certainly do exist and they exist in so many forms and for so many reasons that if a person is doing anything at all good in their life, they are likely—no certain—to have people hating on them. But, calling haters out, acknowledging them, or allowing their negativity to interrupt one’s peace is not only futile; it is an unnecessary and totally avoidable distraction.

Sure, the term hater gets overused and misused—just like every other colloquialism— but more often than not, it’s the most appropriate way to capture the angst and disdain that people who refuse to do anything positive and or productive for themselves or others harbor and project onto those who dare to be at all industrious and of benefit to the world.

On an evening when I am so full of promise and ready to press on, I am simultaneously heavy, and feel impelled to examine the conundrum of hateration because of the many ways in which I have seen it rear its ugly head of late.

Katt Williams, for all his hotmessery, may have made one of the most cogent observations on the appropriateness of haters in the lives of those upon whom they hate. In a nutshell, his point is that haters are here to stay and they are doing their job, so why be upset? And all posturing aside, I too share the sentiment: “If there’s any haters in here right now that don’t got nobody to hate on, feel free to hate on me.”

Why?

Because I’m just so very tired of paying any mind to those individuals who would rather deal with disingenuous, conniving, and unscrupulous individuals who will never move beyond the mundane and mediocre than to take a chance on the uncertainty of striving for that which is possible, but previously unrealized.

Some of the greatest human endeavors have failed because of the inability of individuals to check their hater ways. Hate is poison. Poison kills. Like vipers that seek to paralyze their prey with poison in order to devour them, haters seek to dispense poison enough to render their targets incapable of forward moment, stalling them, just long enough to overcome them, and kill their spirit.

But I’m not going out like that. The antidote to the poison called hate is something infinitely more powerful—love. And I arm myself with an abundance of love.

Haters may have a job to do. But so do I.

"Stop This Train"

2009-11-10T13:43:00.000-05:00

At this precise moment I’m sitting in the loudest Amtrak train car ever.

I do not enjoy being in the company of children or adults who lack discipline, but I find the former far more troublesome than the latter. Unruly, disrespectful, inconsiderate, and or unappreciative children irk me because I can’t hold them fully accountable for their actions-- yet. They are, after all, children, and still developing. It is the responsibility of the adults who are supposed to be their caretakers to correct and guide them so that they become adults that other people don’t hate. The adults in their lives are remiss and their failure to adequately care for their responsibility results in my being inconvenienced. Only, it would be poor form to then take out my frustration on the misbehaving child. And so, there I am, typically in some public place, fuming, as some ill behaved child is acting a fool, and I can’t do anything, but be upset.

Let me also say: I am not a parent, and it’s highly doubtful that I will ever bear any children, as I am in no particular rush to do so and my eggs have an expiration date. Not to mention, I just really don’t want to. But do not get it twisted. That I am not a parent does not disqualify me from weighing in on what good parenting does and does not look like. Let me be even clearer: I don’t need to have a child to know when a parent is a bad parent and call them out. In fact, it's probably safe to say that everybody knows when a child is out of control and needs to be disciplined.

OK, so back to my life right now in the noisy train car.

This moderately cute, blonde toddler on the train right now and her mama need to be slapped.

As is typically the case, everybody around them is aware of it. Some people are rolling their eyes. Others are turning around to stare at them in an effort to shame the mother into doing something to address the noise level. Others are patronizing them in an attempt to “trick” the little girl into better behavior. Her mother is doing nothing. She is getting louder.

I think we should just kick them off the train.

I guess I should also say a few words about the morbidly obese black woman sitting behind me.

One may wonder why I mention this woman’s weight and race at all. How, you may ask, are these descriptors relevant?

It's simple. When you are morbidly obese, you are hyper visible. When you are black, you are hyper visible. When you are these two things in combination, others have a heightened awareness of your presence and are likely to watch your actions more carefully. I didn’t make the rules, and I am aware that they are unfair. So if you don’t want to be watched in public for no reason, don’t be black or obese, and certainly don’t be both at the same time. I’m black all day and I have long accepted that people watch me in public. (Aside: Black people are also completely invisible in many settings, and sometimes, just an excuse to do things like bump into us without saying 'excuse me', at a later time, I'll devote an entry to that nonsense.)

This woman is both black and obese, so it would behoove her to act in such a way that is dignified and affirming rather than detracting. For example, rather than carry on an unnecessarily loud and contentious conversation in the earshot of everybody in the car, she could opt to, well, NOT carry on an unnecessarily loud and contentious conversation in the earshot of everybody in the car!

Were it not for my headphones, I would know even more about her feelings on Michael Jackson, her irritation with people not really listening to her and having to repeat herself, her travel plans, and other mundane details of her seemingly uninteresting life. Nice.

I think we should kick her off the train right along with "Blondie" and her no-parenting mama.

Let’s hope my flight to Atlanta is more relaxing than the train ride to the airport.

"I Am One"

2009-11-05T22:44:00.000-05:00

“Indeed, everyone to whom much was given, much will be demanded of him…” (Luke 12:48)

I am a hard worker. Some might call me a workaholic. But it’s not ambition that drives me.

It’s an acute awareness of the sizable debt that I owe based upon the enormity of the blessings that I have been given, the privilege that I have enjoyed.

There are undoubtedly many people who are far more talented than me in any of the areas in which I excel naturally. But the fact still remains that I have several gifts that I did nothing to acquire and that are therefore not mine to hoard selfishly. I have had many opportunities that past generations of people who looked like me could never have imagined and that many other deserving individuals have not enjoyed. And I have been so fortunate as to have been spared many heart-breaks and disparaging circumstances due to the vigilance and loving protection of watchful and self-sacrificing parents and family members. More than anything else though, I count myself blessed to have been taught the comforting hope from the scriptures and to have had the chance to develop a personal relationship with my Creator from a very early age. This knowledge of God’s word and purpose has helped me to avoid so many pitfalls and even when I get off track, I have a sure way of finding my way back.

Everybody should be so favored. But not everybody has been.

So when I think about what I owe, I can’t help but be busy at work on behalf of others.

But this approach can be incredibly taxing. Especially, given that I’m just extra and a pseudo-perfectionist. So when exactly have I fulfilled my responsibility? When is enough, enough?

These are the questions that keep me up at night. Literally, awake. Either because I’m traveling for work, or up because I can’t seem to pull myself away from all the email, or up because I’m just getting in from an evening meeting.

Tonight I’m up because I got in about 30 minutes ago from sitting with seven deeply concerned parents and community members who refuse to rest while their children go underserved. Some of these folks had gray hair and a few had children who were currently in college. But they didn’t feel like their work was done when their biological children were through the system. They meet every other week to share and strategize on how they can increase their access and influence over the education policies and practices of their town—particularly in the delivery of educational services to Black and Brown youth.

I was invited to attend the meeting by a colleague and I arrived about 20 minutes into the discussion and was quickly caught up. I did a healthy share of listening. But when I did start to speak, I could tell that all seven people in the room were hanging onto my every word. I could sense that they believed that there was an opportunity to be a part of something much bigger than any one person present. And they saw me as critical to seizing this opportunity. And it wasn't just me feeling myself because several of them told me thankful they were that I came and how ready they were to work with me. But that was much later on, just before I left. There was one point when it was so silent, that I nearly felt like I was listening to a speaker other than myself. And with every word, I realized that I was committing myself more deeply to this work, that I was digging a hole that I would not easily get out of, entangling myself in a web that I would not soon escape from.

But I know that I won't be able to go at this pace forever. There are limitations to what I can do-- what I'm willing to do, for that matter. It's a deeply humbling thing to have gray haired black folk express confidence in my ability to lead and a willingness to follow. I look at these people and imagine what they have seen in their lifetime, the joys and disappointments, and how they have arrived in this moment. What does one do exactly when these people, so much older, so much wiser, ask: "What do you want us to do?" and mean it.

Somewhere along the line, I miscalculated. I owe much more than even I could possibly have known. And it's being asked back from me.

And I'm nervous.

"Water No Get Enemy"

2009-11-04T22:43:00.000-05:00

Let’s talk about “closure”, shall we?

What is that, anyway?

“Closure” has to be something that a woman invented. Even with abundant evidence of the reality of a situation, it’s a very female thing to still insist on more proof— as a stall tactic, as a form of self-preservation, as a way of delaying the inevitable feeling of rejection that will set in once there is acknowledgement of the reality.

OK, so you’re talking to some guy, and out of the blue, he just stops calling. But you still call him from time to time until he eventually stops answering your calls. Confused and all in despair, you start hoping that you’ll casually run into him with the hopes he’ll remember why you two started “talking” in the first place. And now you’re telling your girls, what you really want is just “closure.” And you don’t get it because he now goes out of his way not to bump into you anywhere. You hear some time later, he started dating another woman, married her, and now has three children. And yet, you’re still holding out for the prospect of one day getting some “closure”?

Wait, I’m sorry, you want what exactly? A letter? Email? Text? A tearful conversation over dinner? Wherein you do what exactly? Discuss how you ended and why and if and when he ever thinks about you anymore? Is that really “closure”?

No, it’s delusional! It needs to stop.

But women love them some “closure” and so the beat goes on.

I won’t lie. On occasion, I’ve been known to be a tad obsessive about wanting “an answer” or some other version of “validation” that I was not just imagining some uncomfortable or unfavorable situation.

But make no mistake. I have retired the word “closure” from my relationship vocabulary, for it simply does not exist. I have never experienced this “closure” that women speak of. And I highly doubt that any other woman (or man, for that matter) has either.

If by “closure” what we are really seeking is a feeling of peace, calm, and mutual understanding and acknowledgment that comes with another person dignifying our humanity with an explanation and or apology for some failed relationship or breach of friendship, then therein lays the mistake. Because far from “closing” a situation, such a conversation opens two persons up to a new possibility for relating to one another— arguably a more honest and I would offer, much more meaningful opportunity than “closing” the situation would.

But “closure” is a myth that needs to be debunked once and for all.

Besides, we wouldn’t even feel like we needed “closure” if we just had boosurance.

Let it marinate.

"Country"

2009-11-03T20:23:00.000-05:00

It’s been a long time.

But seeing as how I’m writing this blog, essentially for my own cathartic consumption, it’s all good.

Jamaica was amazing.

I say that with complete surprise and shock in part because I nearly cancelled this trip for me and my two friends who traveled with me. They were so wise to insist that I stop the madness. They were so wise to not listen to my words and hear my silent desperation to be freed from misery, even if just for four and a half days. I am in their debt for that.

Jamaica was amazing.

Every moment leading up to my arrival in Jamaica was riddled with unnecessary drama.

I missed my original 6:00AM flight due to unnecessary rain and unnecessary traffic on my way to Newark. I paid an unnecessary amount of money, first to move up my departure flight from Tuesday to Sunday (another unnecessary glitch created by my need to be present as the head of a state organization. Aside: One day, you just wake up and actually find yourself building a career and it’s scary, especially when you genuinely only wanted to do something you actually found interesting and make a living and really and truly have no great ambitions other than not living crazy. It’s an annoying tension, the solution to which I determine later in this post), and then to secure a seat on the 2:00PM flight, the next available flight, and only other flight leaving for Jamaica that day. So then I went to the only other residence to which I have a key and can show up at an unnecessary hour in the morning uninvited and unannounced, to sleep for a few hours.

I awoke to the sounds of intergenerational chatter in Wolof and tea water boiling. The apartment was abuzz with talk of getting Grandma back home safely to her country with a current Visa. I sat with Grandma and we fell into our usual routine of me mispronouncing basic Wolof phrases and answering her usual inquiries about my mother and work until it was time for me leave for the airport. That stop was unnecessary, but it was a blessing to say goodbye to Grandma before she left.

The unnecessary rain had not ceased, and the low visibility on the road made it unnecessarily difficult for me to figure out my parking situation. I eventually gave in parked at a random lot where I would return to the unnecessary parking bill of $75.05 four and half days later. But I agreed to such exorbitance simply to get out of the unnecessary rain and not miss my flight a second time in one day.

Jamaica was amazing.

I arrived at about 7:05PM and stepped off the plane into a very different Kingston airport than I remembered as a child or teenager. It had been renovated. But one thing was the same: the murals and advertisements welcoming me home. Bright, brown faces welcomed me to Jamaica and I would see bright, brown faces for the next few days. It isn’t that I don’t relish the warm smiles and greetings of my non-brown friends and colleagues in the states. It’s just that there’s really nothing to describe the experience of arriving in a place where everybody resembles you and your family. It’s home and it’s glorious. It tickles me every time. I made my way through immigration, picked up my luggage, cleared customs, and I walked outside to a perfect evening. The sun having just set, my cousin and one of my friends were waiting for me outside the car. I hopped in. We pulled off. A calmness that I cannot describe set in immediately. That calm did not leave me until I arrived in Miami four and half days later.

Jamaica was amazing.

There were many great moments on the trip. A highlight was the afternoon spent at the Jamaica Branch of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The grounds there are truly amazing. It’s incredible to see the self-sacrifice of the volunteers who live there and have committed themselves to making sure that the work of Jehovah’s Witnesses on the island is carried out in an orderly, dignified, and comprehensive manner. That there are nearly 100 Kingdom Halls under construction, renovation, or expansion on the island is a blessing and speaks to the tremendous growth taking place as more and more people embrace the marvelous hope in the scriptures. It was faith-strengthening and sobering to spend time speaking with the volunteers and to envision how I could expand my ministry.

Jamaica was amazing.

The road that links Kingston to St. Thomas is long, full of potholes, inconsistent in width, lined mostly with bush and ledge, and littered with breathtaking ocean and mountain views. It’s one of the more beautiful drives that I’ve ever taken. It was helpful for me to focus on the beauty of the drive because there was no AC in the small car loaded down with four adults and our overnight bags on the way to visit with my cousins who had accepted a special ministry assignment in St. Thomas, “country.” Jamaicans call everywhere that is not Kingston (which they just call “town”) or the tourist area near Ocho Rios, Montego Bay, and Negril (“North Coast”), “country.” We spent less than 24 hours with them, but it was a very pleasant trip. That evening after dinner, sitting around on the front porch, helping my cousin take out her braids, for the first time, in a long time, I felt I could give a complete answer when asked, “How are you doing?” And I did. And it felt wonderful. I wonder why it required escaping to Jamaica, all the way to "country", surrounded by tropical scape and night air, for me to finally feel comfortable enough to release some of my anxiety.

It shouldn’t be that hard. I wish I felt that freeness more often.

Jamaica was amazing.

I met three new cousins and I love them. They are truly excellent young people with so much zeal for teaching the bible to others. They are such beautiful people and I’m so happy to know them. I also had a chance to reconnect with family. The hospitality shown to me and my friends (who were complete strangers) made me feel even closer to my relatives.

Jamaica was…

I’ve decided that I just need to move. So I’m out of here within five years. And that’s that.

There’s really no reason to keep grinding at this pace, to keep waiting on things to work themselves out, to keep looking for the next part of my life to get going. I’m so ready to feel at home every day and not just when I’m on vacation. There’s nothing keeping me in the United States. There’s really nothing keeping me anywhere.

It’s all in my mind.

"Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want"

2009-10-25T20:46:00.000-04:00

So let's see...

I leave for Jamaica in 2 days on a trip that I'd rather not be taking right now.

I'm coming down with some sort of plague.

I start my morning work-out routine at 6:30am tomorrow.

I'm not packed and I have so much work to do that I want to cry.

I'm behind on my field service time by 45+ hours.

Good times.

For some particular reason, whenever I get completely overwhelmed, The Smiths (no not my family, the band) come to mind.

"Call Me When You Get This"

2009-10-22T21:07:00.000-04:00

Love Jones (1997) is essentially the black When Harry Met Sally (1989) and I strongly dislike both films.

It's not just that I find them inaccurate. It's that I find them annoyingly presumptuous.

So tonight, instead of discussing what’s really on my mind, I’m going to lighten my own mood with some good ol’ fashioned hateration. It seems like an appropriate thing to do. My love/hate relationship with Love Jones goes something like this…

Hate first.

My issues with Love Jones start and pretty much end with the writing and directing. I actually didn’t hate the acting in the film.

Love Jones’ presumed to tell the world and blacks themselves what upwardly mobile urban black folk do, eat, say etc. and an entire generation of intelligent black up-and-comers believed them.

Spoken word. Old school R&B music. African drum and dance.

Apparently uppity Negroes don’t go a day without one or all of these things in abundance. What’s interesting is that I do my best to get in a fair share of at least the latter two. But a movie in which mid-conversation, mid-chillaxin, the black characters spontaneously erupt into African dance and drum is just so unnecessary, I can’t put it into words.

I can’t possibly count how many of my black peers count Love Jones among their “favorite movies of all time”. Even I drank my fair share of Kool-Aid, but then I made the mistake of watching this movie as a grown black woman and I didn’t make it all the way through. I literally cut it off and watched Love & Basketball (2000) instead. (My love for Love & Basketball will have to be discussed another night.)

More hate.

The dialogue in this film could not possibly be more pretentious. Some of these ridonckulous “gems” include the following:

Girl A: Are you gonna give Marvin back his ring?
Girl B: Girl, I would if I knew where the hell he was or maybe I’ll keep it as a reminder never to make the same mistake twice.
Girl A: Get engaged?
Girl B: Fall in love 'cause that sh*t is played out like an eight track.

Riiiiiight… Because that’s not the most trite exchange ever.

Or how about the existential mutterings like:

“I mean...physics the sh*t aint...Love...Passion...It is what it is...”

“All of these people running around here jumping, skipping, falling in love...falling in love ain't sh*t. Somebody, talk to me, PLEASE, about how to stay there...”

“I love you and that's urgent like a mother f***er.”

“Love is what you make and with whom you make it”

Thanks, Love Jones. I was wrong to expect a movie about love to not just use the word “love” as many times as possible in each scene, and oh I dunno, actually delve into the inner workings of relationships.

Love.

“I am looking at Music- Nina’s Poem” was dope. The kiss in the rain was also moving.

But it’s egregious to have to sit through so much crap to get to that poem. Egregious, I say!

More love.

The soundtrack was phenomenal then and still is.

'We Are the People"

2009-10-21T22:47:00.000-04:00

If Black people are ever going to get it together, we’re going to first have to get together.

And marry.

Yea, I said it.

Building Black families builds wealth and builds community.

It’s a really simple concept.

It’s timeless.

It works.

Ask white people, Jews, Asians… anybody with any collective economic power, for that matter.

Marriage.

Who knew?

"Subi Alto"

2009-10-20T21:41:00.000-04:00

I really need to talk about me more.

I’m certainly what one would call “a talker”. And, sure I discuss things of importance to me, regularly in fact. The usal topics: Black people, education, music and other matters of the soul, the Bible.

As the conversationalist that I am, I find it easy and comforting to be communicative with other people. I’m not big on “small-talk” though, so a conversation with me quickly finds its way from hello to the more substantive happenings in the world and the lives of the people breathing oxygen around me every day.

I think people can tell that about me. Maybe that’s why when I ask something like “How are you”, people tend to divulge all kinds of things. I take it all in, I synthesize, and then I ask more questions. And then I see it happen. The person I’m speaking to begins to relax and release. The very act of listening is miraculous in its effect on the individual listened to. It offers reassurance. It affirms one’s humanity. It’s catharsis. It’s free.

In an era where text messages and emails divorce the transfer of information from in-person human engagement, it seems we have forgotten the helpfulness of oratory stimulation in the process of learning and knowing. We’re so intent on being unbothered by other people speaking, that we quickly block out any sounds we find unnecessary. We travel with earplugs and iPods and wear our alien earpieces at all times to facilitate complete dismissal of our immediate worlds and entry into the ones we’ve so neatly carved out with as much ease as possible.

I noticed this some time ago and sort of concluded a pact with myself that I would endeavor to engage people around me as a way of interrupting this phenomenon. So, yes, at the risk of looking a little odd, I greet people in elevators, walking past on the street, seated next to me on public transportation etc.

But it’s not just other people that we need to remember to hear. Sometimes we need to hear our own voices as much as we do another person’s. I see the power of telling another person how one is doing at work sometimes and it nearly brings me to tears because I rarely experience that conciliation, reassurance, and liberation for myself.

I go days without expressing my actual feelings on matters of tremendous importance in my life. And for a long time now, I’ve been on a mission to prove to myself that that’s not a problem—that simply being there for others is sufficient.

But maybe it’s time to start speaking on my feelings with candor and courage.

Whether I’m asked to or not.

"You"

2009-10-19T21:18:00.000-04:00

Tonight, let me say a few words about "Boosurance."

A derivative of insurance, boosurance applies to any measure(s) taken to safeguard oneself from the heartbreak, self-doubt, frustration, and otherwise sucky feelings experienced after the temporary interruption or permanent break of a romantic relationship. One common measure involves keeping one or more prospective romantic interest(s) in close proximity and somewhat emotionally engaged in the event that your current relationship comes to an unexpected pause or end.

Serena Williams first put me on to the need for boosurance in an emotional blog entry that she posted after a breakup sometime last year. At the height of a fallout with some famous somebody she was dating, she expressed personal disappointment over allowing herself to trust this beau so much that she didn’t have a contingency plan for what she sensed was inevitable. I don’t even generally go for the whole celebrity-relationship gossip thing, but I couldn’t help but feel her and for her as I read:

Weeks turns into months and you slowly start to wean the other guys in your life out. And then it happens. No not the "L" word. But what you have been most afraid of. What deep in your heart you have been afraid to confront. What you always suspected would happen one day sooner or later. HE STOPS CALLING.

Some might focus on the part where instead of things blossoming into eternal bliss, the guy just stops calling. Not me. The important part is where “you slowly start to wean the other guys in your life out.” That happens when things start getting good. All of the common sense that one applies to every other situation in which something of value is involved goes out the window. That, to me, is the real tragedy of it all. Men seem to know better. Therefore they do better by themselves in this regard.

Like any other type of insurance, you take out a policy only when the value of the possession is great enough that to lose it would cause tremendous distress, severe inconvenience. In other cases, it’s because there is a strong likelihood of theft.

The parallel to relationships seems obvious to me. You really like him/her? You think you might love him/her? Then it would really suck to lose them, and you’re probably not the only person who thinks their super dope. Hmmm… Sounds like a great time to get some boosurance.

I’m just saying. But who asked me, anyway?

"It Never Entered My Mind"

2009-10-19T02:22:00.000-04:00

I think that marriage is by far the most noble and rewarding undertaking that any individual could embark on with another soul. It is also the most difficult.

And yes. I do think that marriage is harder than child-rearing. I'm not a parent and I have never been married. But if I had to pick one, I'd pick marriage. Yes, because I really like a challenge. But it's more than that. I enjoy hard work and appreciate the beauty that comes from committing to something greater than myself. Two people committed to a union that they swore to before God, possibly for eternity, is an unparalleled privilege with the potential to yield unimaginable blessings.

It's just that the rest of your life is an incredibly long time to commit to anything, let alone another person. It's not that I don't believe that we fulfill our very purpose for existing when we elect to spend our lives with another so-inclined, loving soul, and raise a family. It's that I so believe that we do that the mere weight of this decision leaves me with a sickening fear that I will screw it up somehow. And the reality is that there is a great chance that I will.

But this is precisely why I'm convinced that it takes unshakable faith in our Creator, the originator of marriage, and unwavering submission, a willingness to yeild to the His direction, to accomplish the task of selecting a life partner. And I definitely need to learn both of these things or just be prepared to be single for the foreseeable future.

It's definitely my own stubborness that I fear most. It's that simple. Of late, I've had a few experiences that have helped me to appreciate my strongheadedness. It's quite an exceptional asset to be strong in mind, resolute, detemined, committed to a course of action, and willing to accept personal respsonsibility for the outcomes of one's actions. But it's completely and utterly useless to be so when navigating what Bono calls "the mysterious distance between a man and a woman". You simply cannot reason and question and test and deduce your way through that process. It's distinct from any other challenge presented in life. Love has nothing to do with logic. Who you should be with on paper means nothing if that person is not willing to stand with you in the flesh as you make your way through life.

Bjork says that love is all around, but just "maybe not in the direction you are staring at."

This is where faith and obedience come in. When we petition our Creator to guide us in this process, in looking in the right direction to find our parter, it does us little good to turn our heads eyes closed, mind still fixed on the person we've thought up in our own head. We must open our eyes, recognize the person, and then move toward that person, with faith that the other person will do the same. Not with rigid reasoning, but with honesty and humility. A certain openness is required for us to accept that we may find our life with somebody that we have not imagined, someone that we do not expect, someone that we did not set out to find, but somebody that we were directed to.

For some people, this faith and submission comes easily and is sustained and strengethened over time. For many, probably most, these things must be learned and relearned over the years, and as new chapters in life present new challenges. Therein is the challenge and the beauty of marriage. It is the ultimate test of human character to love as yourself indefinitely another adult person over whom you have little to no control and whose union with you is voluntary. They will change. So will you. The trick is to become different people, while keeping the same committment. And there are no guarentees.

I'm totally up for that challenge. One day soon. But for now, I should probably be easy, because I'm just too stubborn to turn my head, open my eyes, and walk toward whoever I see when I do.

It's all good, though. It's not like anybody is asking me to marry them.

"I Wanna Know"

2009-10-18T22:21:00.000-04:00

I'm opinionated.

I care very deeply about the people in my life.

I don't believe that love spares a person's feelings at the risk of letting them lose their soul.

So, those three things make for many interesting moments and occasionally (no, constant) beefing between me and my loved ones. It also drives the occasional (no, I'm pretty certain, this too is constant) wedge between me and my romantic interests.

And since everybody else can't be wrong in taking issue with my particular brand of human interaction, I figured I should take some time to be introspective (you know the way that people who think aloud are being introspective, while sort of annoyingly engaging the outside world?) about the way that I am operating in my relationships. This whole blog thing works for me (or at least I hope it will) since I've never been disciplined about journal entries and the sort.

At any rate, this blog is about my inability to not have an opinon, to not care deeply (or stop caring after being given just cause), and worst, to not tell people I care about what I really think (even if not doing so might keep the peace). Occasionally I'll sound off on minor irriations and simple pleasures. But for the most part, I'll be recounting the many moments in which I've seriously just thought: "Why did I even open my mouth just now? Who asked me, anyway?""