Letter 2 the librarian

Scenario: I don’t have my student ID. It’s finals season. I’m spending more time in the library than b4. I have a presentation 2moro night and checked out books last night for the presentation I had to give 2day. I used my STATE ID 2 check out the books I needed yesterday.

Message 2 my librarian friend (not really a librarian, but he does work there…

You didn’t speak…and that annoyance only highlighted the fact that your loser ass co-worker w/ the faux-french accent started set-tripping. You are quite lucky that I’m only averaging abt 4hrs of sleep or I would have had 2 show my ass…and I’m 100% serious…
#1, I don’t know where my student ID is b/c I have a sh*t-ton of reading to do and an ass of papers to write…no time 2 run u 2 the ID spot at either UNC or Central b/c I AM A GRADUATE STUDENT!!! DOING GRADUATE STUFF (ie THESIS, FINALS, PLANS 4 when I GRADU8 a SEMESTER EARLY, PHD Programs, CONFERENCES!!! Tell me, is it a courtesy to do your job and type in my name? Then you’re battered-coworker, who probably told you she fell w/ that gigantic leukemia bruise on her bicep…her dumb ass is gonna ask me what my name is when she’s staring at my ID. ARE YOU SERIOUS? What the hell kind of student/ customer service is that? And why didn’t Jacques Cousteau say something yesterday if it’s such a BFD? Huh? Like, oh…I don’t need more than one day’s visit worth of books…it’s not like I’m writing a thesis or anything…no I go 2 Central, we just learn 2 do hair n make our booties clap over here.
EFF THAT! And you know what’s worse? If I complained that I thought I wasn’t treated w/ the respect and dignity a Duke Graduate Student would receive, then I’d be reading into it. I suppose I have 2 have a lynch rope shoved up my baby-maker before anyone concludes that that situation might have been even moderately affected by race…No, I’m just an angry black woman if I curse everyone out and throw their raggedy ass bull sh*t books across the counter.
And that concludes my rant…if you’re still reading…well..thanks for listening…

Questions? Comments?

Ashes, Ashes; We All Fall Down.

I haven’t not written for lack of ammunition or for want of a firing target. Thankfully, I’ve been blessed with an abundance of both lately. Bare in mind, I’m not thankful for the pain, stress, trauma, or discomfort these past few months have afforded me, only the lessons. My hard head forecast some other parts softening, and if you’re familiar w/ the adage, I need not enumerate the squishy sections affected–just know that I’m getting in shape in every sense of the word.

I’ll save the juicy gossip for my first memoir or set it obscurely in the lives of one of my characters: one more articulate in the moment, fierce to opponents and with less care for how the world views her. Instead, I’ll talk about something that used to scare me tremendously, but now only scares me some: mortality!

A young man I went to school with passed. No worries, I don’t dare attempt to eulogize, I barely knew the man. Actually, the first time I met him wasn’t on campus, but when I was working full-time. I had to wipe out his entire call log, and he was none-too-thrilled with me, but generally cordial and pleasant. He kept his composure and informed me that he had thousands of business connects. I knew he was a freshman because only they and valedictorians possess such deluded optimism, like molecules ping-ponging against themselves; the rest of us, or maybe just I, were more like the sperm that swim in circles  and keep bad boys very busy. In any case, we parted ways and I thought nothing of the next few times we passed each other on the yard, in the caf, around the city.  We did what any bison would do, if you went to the school, you know…shades up, purse in arm crease, PDA in hand, headphones in ear, oblivious to the world, way too cool to speak… ignored each other.

Upon reading an alumnus had passed, I investigated to see if I knew him, and sure enough, it was the over-achiever. I cannot mourn because I did not know him personally, but from the school’s newspaper article dedicated to him, I learned he had updated his status on a social networking cite shortly before he died. I thought back to a friend who passed a few years back and how she had updated her profile with an encouraging status a day or two before she passed. I look at friends’ stati (I’m using the latin plural, so what if it’s wrong, it feels smarter this way. :/ ) and I believe we build these electronic shrines to ourselves as a method to defeat mortality. We’re burying our heads in the sands of self-worship. His status was actually prolific, and if life were a novel, I’d swear he foreshadowed his demise with a glimmering spiritual reassurance. I would call this eerie if I didn’t believe in it myself.

We, as young people, can get caught up in the glamour of our self-constructed celebrity, but, in reality, a meretricious existence–if God permits it to remain– withers as soon as the sparkle fades and beauty shrivels. Etching Confucian wisdom on twelve web-domains wont offset the inevitable. We’re spiritual amphibians, both living and dying at the same time. Smart updates, ignorant sayings, illicit photos, biblical quotes–all the electronic decorations that collect dust on these shadows of our true lives amount to nothing in comparison to the actual lives we lead. The lies we tell, secrets we keep, things we do when no one else is around, true intentions, all that you’ll never expose or that you pray wont be exposed, that’s your true self. So if you’re working on time-and-a-half for most popular, beautiful, funniest, best photo superlatives on Facebook, maybe this would be a good time 2 consider a hobby outside of the matrix. Just a thought. I’m not judging…just thinking out loud. I’d rather not be one of the tail-chasing sperm anymore…that’s all I’m saying.

HELP me!

Why am I willing to acquiesce to a man’s fantasy’s with only a sliver of a shot at his being worth my energy? I will cook for him though I rarely cook for myself; clean my house from top to bottom, though I barely have time to sleep; subscribe to the many versions of ESPN, though before we met I didn’t even own a TV.

Does that reek of desperation or youthful ignorance or am I simply fulfilling my womanly duties? It’s all worth it if it “works out” right? I console myself thinking, did I really want to give up this potential husband just b/c I’m not a chef? I should eat healthy anyway…and then the cooking lessons ensue. In six months, I’ll have been accepted at the Sorbonne and he’ll be microwaving with some princess in a distant villa of glamour. My fingers will have burn scars from the oven.

Why don’t men see a woman with a few flaws and think, “She’s a catch, lemme ‘by-any-means-necessary’ my ass into her life before someone puts a ring on it,”? Women do that, or at least I do. I look for the “at least” and cling onto it until my legs get numb.

No solace removes the sting of rejection when the man you matrix’d your back for to fit into his narrow fantasy evolves into the loser, or worse, “that nigga!”

When you start referring to him as, “that nigga,” all those desperate distortions you concocted curdle. How dreadful!

Would this circumstance be defined as a self-esteem issue? I know too many women, myself included, who commit this sin. It’s not necessarily changing for a man, but a “but, wait!!!” coercive tactic.

 You know, like when in the infomercials, they sell you this do-hicky that magically trims ur ends, sratches your back and massages your feet for the low,low price of $9.99, “BUT WAIT!!!” if you act now they’ll throw in three vibrators and an errand boy for the cost of shipping and handling? Yea. It’s my “BUT WAIT!!!” saleswomanship that snaps me into these Stepford trances and I turn into the tri-athlete who cooks, cleans and spirals a football better than Brady.

Who am I kidding? On a good day, I’ll inhale a stack of Ritz crackers and a can of cranberry sauce for dinner, buy new panties rather than wash clothes and haven’t touched sports since the bowling ball cracked my French tips. Can’t I just be smart and really sarcastic? Will someone see the value in that or must I entertain these charades for the next few disasters?

too obscure? nope, translucent

I dusted off Coldplay’s “Sparks” for nostalgia’s sake.

Along with it’s older connotations, today’s associations with that song reflect a new pair of eyes, another damp fuse after a spark. Maybe sparks never ignite when you expect them too, or after a painful detonation all the fuel is used up. The earth is too scorched to produce something beautiful.
“Did I drive you away?” he asks. Maybe.

I did see sparks though, or at least I thought I did. I could have breathed too many prayers and expectations on it, thinking that–if  for nothing more, than for probabilities sake–I had found “something”.

This particular streak of light, stubborn, but elusive nonetheless, feels more like a modernist romance where the wife is barren and the man looses his job. Does it every fairy-tale away; is every interaction a fizzle waiting to happen?
Maybe my expectations tower above reality’s limits.

I’m  not sad, or even disappointed. I heard the crescendo forming.

If Africa isn’t black then who is?

My last boyfriend was Nigerian–a fact that I loved, because his culture was much older than mine. Something about him felt essential, elemental, like a carry-over from a piece of history in the brownness of his palms, how soft his hair was. Aside from being tired of black American men, some of whom, in my humble opinion, collectively forgot their role in the household, he made me laugh, which was great because he pissed me off just as much.

In any case, our relationship failed, as most do, and I was astonished by the outpour of ignorance used to console me during the tough time. When I moved home, I didn’t realize how strictly color-consciousness strangled minds. In my anger, I grouped and assaulted all black men–wrong, but it made me feel a little better– and the response from black men, “He wasn’t black, he was African,” stole my breath.

 Mistakenly stumbling on a nerve, they endured my retort, one which seems to be on loop these days: “First of all, Africa is not a country, it’s a continent…” I thought…If Nigeria is not black, then what is? Certainly not we, with our generations of color complexes, color contacts, colored weaves, bleaching creams, long-haired-thick-red-bone exaltations. I mean, who are we trying to escape?

For the many negative stereotypes I heard incessantly, about two of the prophets had passports, meaning the others had never been out of the country. So the stereotypes they heard, about the “country” of Africa, were never substantiated. Where did they come from? In addition, the advice I received never associated the words to a particular ethnic group, or even a nation, simply the “country” of Africa.

How can we adopt Tiger Woods and Barack Obama, who are bi-racial, as black and vehemently deny black Africans as black? Is being black only accessible to those whose blood has been “purified” by whiteness? I can’t stomach to think that that is the logic behind the omission, but then again…some would like a “long-haired, thick, redbone” and swear that it’s not brain-washing, but a preference, that a black woman’s hair is supposed to dangle down between her shoulder blades, or into the small of her back–that it grows that way.

Apparently an ignorant consistency is also a hobgoblin of little minds. Maybe it makes the world more manageable to minimize an entire continent of people into one culture, one religion, one association. I may endeavor to pigeon-hole black American men, but that’s a population a few million strong, not an entire continent. I’m not evolved enough for such a feat.

No Name Woman…

In America, we name every joint, expression, component, every segment of our lives. At times the words escape us, but one exists to describe every inch of our bodies and minds. So what is to be said for the relationship without a title?

When we denounce labels and proclaim our interactions with others defy nomenclature, are we simply denying the true name of that relationship?

Destiny’s Child in, “Is She the Reason,” once observed, “I was cool with no commitment; wait– let me take that back– it was you, so I was with it!” Did this persona simply fool herself into believing that she was more than a J.O? Or how about “in a relationship without a title”? If it’s a relationship? Why not give it a title? If there are restrictions, if jealousy exists, if there are no other candidates, why not call it a relationship?

The power lies in the namer, and generally, the definer is the man. Brian Fiel’s play, “Translations”, examines the power of a name, not so much a name, but who christens an area. In the process of naming, you acknowledge that an area, being, or feeling exists. This entity belongs to or is inhabited by something or someone else. So the one who establishes the object’s title, controls it.

Why, in this instance do we, usually women, relinquish the coveted name, wife, for the undefined? Sure, exceptional circumstances exist, but mostly, the lack of a title signifies a lack of commitment, a premeditated murder of an entity that never was.

Then again, maybe our fears deter defining terms of engagement. Verbophobia describes an intense fear of words. Are we all verbophobics in Noah’s 21st century arch refusing to acknowledge the obvious: that we are a pair, and tend to congregate by twos? Or, is the lack of a name evidence that one individual fabricated an entire relationship out of shards of nothingness and convenience? Better still, do we use each other to assuage the stinging loneliness that cuddles us at night and leave the inevitable unmarked as a rite for smooth passage into relationship limbo…so we wont stumble across it in the future and mourn?

All Lies…

Ladies, what’s the point of asking a man questions about questionable  behavior when the negatives will invariably be swept under the rug. Instead of interrogating your fella, boomerang that grand inquisition. Based on what you know of him and how fond you are of him, ask yourself, “Do I care?”

Women ask men ridiculous questions that beg for lies as answers to see if the man cares enough to lie to her. “Who was that woman?” “Where were you last night?” “Why is your baby’s momma textin you at 3am?”

We rake over every letter of the evidence with our girls and bounce the bogus excuses off of them so that they’ll stroke our egos, confirm that the explanation is plausible. The likelihood of his far-flung veggie tale being true is as astronomical as hitting the lotto, but you want to believe, have to believe. Need to believe! What’s worse, you implore your friends to believe his story too! They even come up with ridiculous stories to cover his ass before you confront him, you know, while he’s cookin up his excuse.

And…for what? Why do we even confront men with the 48hrs. Hard Evidence that would have him convicted by any jury in the land? Why? We ask to proclaim a sense of bad-assed-ness. We ask because when our girls are outraged at seeing him hugged-up on some strange woman, the naked pictures in his phone, when we find a pair of too large/ too small panties out of the drier, we can appear mighty when we say, “Oh yea, I called his ass out on that one” Why ask if he has to tell you a lie that conveniently contradicts all probablility that he slipped up?

You already know he’ll lie. Ask yourself, instead, “Do I know this man?” When he plays his rendition of the damning events, you’re simply taking what you know of him and what you want to believe of him and reconstructing your own truth based on his testimony.Why even ask? Have the foresight to see whether you will or will not leave him and when your bags are packed, then and only then, should you inform him that you know of his misdeeds.

If you hinge your staying or leaving on the minutia, you’re simply begging him to lie to you. If his explanation will keep you, you didn’t want to go in the first place. So why entertain the drama. If you find evidence, and you don’t want to leave, say, “I trust my man,” and leave it at that. Odds are some impossible thing happened right when you read the text, so-and-so snapped the picture, his voice got recorded…whatever! Why drive yourself crazy and make yourself appear gullible to him?

Over the old man, under a new?

A guy I know, we’ll call him Charles, told me a story about a woman he had dated who declared that she loved him after only two moths. I cringed. My last “I love you” exchange took place after three months or so, and was followed by years of a relationship. Now, it has been two months since the crash, and some days I’m better than others, but I feel “over it”, whatever that means. Today, I lost ground in the “over it” battle I have with myself after every break-up, but I maintain my general well-being and have hit several milestones on the path to peace of mind. My friend exclaimed, “If you’re still sad, you’re not over it!” Ouch, cannonball much?!?!?!

 If two months is too short a time to fall in love, then is two months too short a time to fall out? I’m very in tune with my sad feelings and even more honest about them. Is my willingness to talk about those feelings a sign of my dwelling on the situation and not being “over it”? To what extent should I uncover these emotions to new-ish “friends”?

My friend is probably somewhat right. I am over the individual, but the disappointment lingers. The sting of rejection and indifference nettle  me. In my heart, maybe I’m still an athlete, always in competition for affirmation of my excellence. I don’t see the individual and the emotions as the same thing. At a certain point, when you build a world in your mind of someone else’s image and their place in your life, because it can’t fit in your mind anymore–not when you plan to use that image to build a life w/ that person outside your mind–, the individual shrinks. You shrink too; this is why you lose track of your goals in favor of “our” and “we”. The comfort of those big words being stripped away, the company, still stings, not that face, voice, smell–the loss of familiarity burns.

Feigning indifference places a fluffy chincilla across the blood soaked pot-holes in a broken heart, and fuzzy sentiments over hollow gestures wont hold my prodigious weight; it’s basic math!

I am ok to move forward, to love myself again for my singularity, so I politely disagree with Charles’ assessment. His estimation bodes poorly for my future. I diagnose myself with PTBD, Post-Traumatic Break-up Disorder. The standard prescription for this affliction involves a myriad of therapies and homeopathic remedies:  retail therapy, one drunk phone call,  two dates w/ your gf’s/month of failed relationship, one rebound, one cutie w/ BF potential, a pair of thigh highs, 5 lbs., a new diet to work off that 5 lbs., one int’l trip, mani-pedi-facial, and a new duvet set…in that order if you can help it.

Go for BLOOD or BLOOD of Christ?

I am reading Sex and the City, the novel…for the first time! IKNO! Any cosmo girl would have been up on game, but I have been slaving away over Shakespeare, Baraka (no, not our prez, but Leroi Jones–please get up on game if you don’t know–although I have read Mr. Obama’s work, and am quite impressed), Soyinka, Joyce, Rushdie…I really could go on. In any case, this is my first opportunity for leisure reading in a year, and now I am infected with the jaded nonchalance these women parade. If I ape their cosmopolitan ways, am I prescribing a future of loneliness and shallowness? I must admit, when I read, some sections I feel totally akin to ; others, emphatically against; and still others, grinning in adoration of the sexy, bitchy, almost trashy confidence and couture. Am I a groupie? On the other side of my mind, I find the need for substance. Sure, when I finish this book, I totally plan to finish Thiong’o, read Moby Dick, and find some “eastern” classic to rake my brains over, but I need spiritual structure. Without a need to adhere to the path delineated by my parents, I find myself shiftless, and unsure and the only structure I know will set me firmly into the soil is spirituality.

I am not big on religion; religion drives ulterior motives–I’m a salesperson; I know a sales pitch when I see one, Jehovah’s Witnesses…although I still love you–which rarely parallel my greatest estimation of the world’s potential (ie. Love, charity, honor, faith, kindness, clear skies, hummingbirds, starfish, exhaling…) .

So, where I find trouble is, where do these two worlds collide? At what point must I forsake my fabulous? I haven’t stepped out in a while, but the possibility of living a fabulous life rather than being tormented in love appeals to me, especially after failing so miserably in any romantic adventures, planned and spontaneous, committed or unfeeling, seedy or adoring.  I know religion, which is the conduit to spirituality for the busy twenty-something, will prompt me to stop drinking, complaining, be charitable… My gifts for Christmas are relinquishing everyone else from buying me things so I can buy myself jewelry, max out my credit card on me.
This probably does not fall in line with Christian charity, and while some of this stunting I want to do will involve tons of paparazzi shots snapped by my girlfriends who will silently agree to post them on facebook the next day, most of the bragadocious behavior, I intend to indulge in alone.

I enjoy looking at diamonds sparkle from the privacy of my living room, spray myself with perfume, sometimes cologne, when I’m home alone–I like to smell myself, good, bad (I know, it’s gross, but I do it). I enjoy wearing garters and thigh highs even when no one will see how sexy they look.  So, I guess what I’m asking is, how much of this is me and being in the world? I want to enjoy the shallow expensive trinkets as much as I do laughing until I cry, apple pie, polished toe nails, skittles, the color pink, and lots of other inconsequential smile-makers. If I’m made to lie in green pastures of death, why not just skip the whole life thing? He put me here for a purpose, and although I know it can’t be to get drunk, as my sore diaphram and esophagus taught me after my last hangover was cured… and my purpose surely can’t be to love blindly, based on my frequent hurt feelings, being rejected by men I wasn’t even interesed in…I’m supposed to balance–I know that much–, but does sexy, inappropriate, sarcastic, extravagent…mesh with pious, charitable, chaste, demure…
Does Christianity allow a budget for enjoying life even if it does not enjoy you?

Lemme get yo numba shawty…

 

Blue, a very close male friend of mine–completely platonic– , holds strict beliefs about women. He believes women should have as few sexual partners as possible, and men should strive to keep their numbers down too. Women, in his ideal, degrade themselves the more partners they have. In keeping with what I call an archaic system of sexual oppression, I rationalize that these virginal women are either young or simply disinterested in sex– for whatever reasons.

I provided a scenario: one woman is married for 10 years, and another woman is single for ten years, but sleeps with a new man every year. The married woman may have had more sexual partners had she been single over that ten year period. Does her being proposed to relinquish her in the eyes of other men from the burden of her sexual desires? Why? And what was the single-lady supposed to do when no one offered to “put a ring on it?”

 

I could appreciate Blue’s perspective if women chose whom to marry in this society; women do not and are human. We do all sorts of unholy things like digest food, grow hair in unmentionable places, sweat, bleed and sometimes smell truly rank. Women also like sex. Why is that wrong? And if men have the monopoly on marriage, and simply refuse to propose, don’t they vicariously control the number of sexual partners a woman has?

Granted, we control, in normal situations, with whom we share our bodies, but if our biological need to procreate is not met, do we simply cross our legs and pray a strong, fertile man pops a 2ct solitaire on our raised left hand just so we can sweat out our presses? Is that realistic?

 

In order to remain chaste, men need to step up and commit; otherwise, they should swallow their distaste for non-virgins with a healthy dose of reality, no chaser! In this era, provocateurs should be more fearful of disease than digits.

 

I don’t think knowing the other person’s number is beneficial. As long as he/she remains candid with regard to health issues and has not slept with any of your close friends or relatives… Besides, there are far more influential numbers that require more consideration: number of children he/she has and doesn’t take care of, credit score, number of times he/she has been divorces, number of dollars in his/her saving account… These seem far more indicative of the kind of life you will enjoy/regret with your significant other. What do you think?