No. You cannot have me. Not while I'm still so broken. And even still. That word does no justice.
No. Not while im still fragile. Sensitive to the touch
Beyond that of collateral damage
Misappropriated, disintegrated, more than I could bear.
The darkest parts of my mind, all consuming. Wildly tainted
Cold nose tips, salty tear drips
Blood stained glass
shattered from the past
Glass shard distortion of who I used to be
No
Not while I'm still damaged
Not while loneliness is all engulfing
Joining with the darkness
Swallowing me whole
And I'm lost
These hands, these feet, this body aren't my own
Foreign. Stranger
Who's dwelling inside the hollowness?
Love was never a tenant
No warmth
No. Not while I'm cryptic
Icy
Cold
While my touch sends menacing shivers down your spine
And not in the good way
It's parasitic
Insanely infectious
And not in a good way
No
Just wait
Wait until
The heat of the sun begins to warm my fingertips and numbness is no longer present. Rays sweetly licking my face bringing back it's color and fullness
Until there's no chance of me dragging you down to the darkness
Where everything lays limitless
Indispensable. Free
Until I no longer have to cling to the bitterness of the past to feel something. To be something
Until I could let go all of the good and all of the bad. To be satisfied with nothing than pacified with poison.
Just wait
Just wait
Friday, December 21, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
No Shame November
Naivety. Believing that ambulances were free and pure white Christmases.
Naivety turns into cold nights without blankets. Innocence slowly changing into ignorance. It is that, that kills me.
We were desperate. Any little thing we felt, we called love. I always wanted to be the one to meet him waiting for me. Not me waiting hours outside, feeling like I've made a mistake.
"If it feels right then it'll just come natural."
Forced.
Everything was forced.
Everything within myself screamed no but I dragged my body through it. Aimlessly. Shamefully. At least he always was. Never held my hand. Nor did he tell anyone.
A secret.
I obliged.
He can't be totally at fault. I'm the one who lied. To myself. Whole-hearted deception with a mask painted on to make it seem like nothing was wrong.
This is love. Lust eats you alive from the inside. I'm hollow. Body flailing and swaying. Another piece stolen, shattered, and spread. Who is she now? On her knees frantically trying to put the pieces back together while he glares down at her and nods in pleasure. Yet no trace of it on his eyes. This is happy. You become so tuned into his satisfaction, you neglect yours.
It doesn't matter, you don't matter.
No longer hanging from a thread, but endlessly falling. I'm not sure if I want to fall into nothing or finally plummet. I'd rather dangle. At least there was some kind of connection there. No matter how thin.
Hunger. Never satiated. Keep going. Don't stop. Overdose. Refill. Start again. "Do you like it?" I hate it.
Lost. So far gone. Disconnect. Disengage. No warmth here. Just come (on) already. Funny how this all happens while we're the most "connected."
The insidious onslaught of guilt.
Every.
Single.
Time.
I never knew why. It plagued me. Shame follows her. Walking in as one person. Shirt tossed. Jeans strewn. Peeling off. Picking off more and more pieces. Walking out another.
Half-wrapped present. Half baked. Half sewn. Half glued. Half. Half-personed. Who am I?
Lost. Arms and legs bound. Lips silenced by the pain. I creep inside the recesses of my brain and try to remove myself. I can't stop the tears as the already-crumbling finally crumbles. In his hands. To my expense.
I can never be a flower.
It's hard to believe the word "beautiful." Even harder to believe the word "love."
Not when trapped,desperate,shame,dirty,fucked,ugly,putrid all rush in at the same time. It's hard to see the "ever-after" with "happily" tacked on somewhere. Where's the fun in forever if it doesn't exist? What's the point in tomorrow if it never comes?
But I'm free now. Right? No longer chained. Only by memory am I reminded. I guess I'm free.
I feel so funny. I feel so sad.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Lust Gluttons
You can't go through life constantly testing the waters because you'll never jump in. You'll always stay in the safety zone, sticking a couple toes in and quickly pulling them back out when it's not desirable. You'll never have the courage to dive in and see what its like to swim. You'll never get a chance to see what it's like to plunge to the very bottom and make your way back up.
I've met a lot of people like this. Within the realm of casual dating and "hooking up", guys and girls here get their chance to test everything out. There's nothing wrong with sampling the goods. Yet, if that's all you care about, just sampling the goods and moving on to something else and repeat, what is there to get out of that? No one wants to be tied down in college especially not the first couple of years, but what I don't understand is why keep up with the game for so long?
It's a cycle that breeds off of instant gratification. The all-too-familiar "Hit it and quit it" phenomenon is widespread. I'm slightly surprised at the trend being so popular among women but if Rihanna can sing about "Cockiness" and Rude Boys, I guess that explains it. Either way, is there anything fruitful to come out of that? The constant "drive by" relationships? Then again, who wants to attach so much meaning to something that's so easy to get?
"Lust gluttons" I call them. Thriving off of pride and the actions are excessive of lust. The cheating. The lying. The growing numbers of "bodies." Hyper-sexed. Over-sexed. Till eventually we've overdosed. Desensitizing so much that we are romantically numb. We haven't the faintest idea of what love is yet try to correlate it to what we hear in songs or see on television. We like pictures and post memes but miss the whole concept entirely. By circumstance, experience, or otherwise, WE are fifty shades of messed up. Emotionally raped. Over and over. No one wants to go in too deep. No one wants to afford the energy nor the time. No one wants to feel the immense pressure of love for fear of getting crushed. No one wants their minds to go there, but have no problem letting their bodies do so. So we splash around on the outside. We try every fish. Feeling like we are full, yet walking around as hollow shells of ourselves. Only exisiting but never really feeling alive. Never satiated. Always wanting.
Is that how we really want to live?
Where is the fullness? Where is the feeling of being whole? Where is satisfaction in taking the risk of letting someone in and they turn out to be everything you wanted? What's so wrong with choosing wrong the first time around? Or second? Or third? Fourth?
I blame "Trust Issues"
Everyone has them and we're crippled by them.
Suddenly, we're all philospohical geniuses who can synthesize love with a couple of rhymes and verses. Yet, we can't even process the notion for ourselves. Often mixing up what we need and what we want. What is right and what feels right. What we think is love and what we know as lust.
We are the Lust Gluttons. Lord help us all.
I've met a lot of people like this. Within the realm of casual dating and "hooking up", guys and girls here get their chance to test everything out. There's nothing wrong with sampling the goods. Yet, if that's all you care about, just sampling the goods and moving on to something else and repeat, what is there to get out of that? No one wants to be tied down in college especially not the first couple of years, but what I don't understand is why keep up with the game for so long?
It's a cycle that breeds off of instant gratification. The all-too-familiar "Hit it and quit it" phenomenon is widespread. I'm slightly surprised at the trend being so popular among women but if Rihanna can sing about "Cockiness" and Rude Boys, I guess that explains it. Either way, is there anything fruitful to come out of that? The constant "drive by" relationships? Then again, who wants to attach so much meaning to something that's so easy to get?
"Lust gluttons" I call them. Thriving off of pride and the actions are excessive of lust. The cheating. The lying. The growing numbers of "bodies." Hyper-sexed. Over-sexed. Till eventually we've overdosed. Desensitizing so much that we are romantically numb. We haven't the faintest idea of what love is yet try to correlate it to what we hear in songs or see on television. We like pictures and post memes but miss the whole concept entirely. By circumstance, experience, or otherwise, WE are fifty shades of messed up. Emotionally raped. Over and over. No one wants to go in too deep. No one wants to afford the energy nor the time. No one wants to feel the immense pressure of love for fear of getting crushed. No one wants their minds to go there, but have no problem letting their bodies do so. So we splash around on the outside. We try every fish. Feeling like we are full, yet walking around as hollow shells of ourselves. Only exisiting but never really feeling alive. Never satiated. Always wanting.
Is that how we really want to live?
Where is the fullness? Where is the feeling of being whole? Where is satisfaction in taking the risk of letting someone in and they turn out to be everything you wanted? What's so wrong with choosing wrong the first time around? Or second? Or third? Fourth?
I blame "Trust Issues"
Everyone has them and we're crippled by them.
Suddenly, we're all philospohical geniuses who can synthesize love with a couple of rhymes and verses. Yet, we can't even process the notion for ourselves. Often mixing up what we need and what we want. What is right and what feels right. What we think is love and what we know as lust.
We are the Lust Gluttons. Lord help us all.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Identité
From the moment I stepped foot on campus, my identity was always questioned.
It was at a Penn African Student Association (PASA) meeting that probed it. While in discussion, everyone knew exactly what country they wanted to be identified with. I had to question myself, "Who do I identify with?"
I was born here, in the United States. My mother is Trinidadian. My father is also American with some Bajan roots on his father's side. Although this is the case, I could never comfortably claim who I was.
A lot of friends back home disregard their American-ness and embrace their Caribbean or African heritage. Don't get me wrong, being well informed of your roots gives you an upperhand in uncovering yourself with a historical reference. Therefore, when asked "Where are you from?", sometimes I'd say Trinidad. It wasn't exactly wrong. My mother is the one who raised me so I inherited her Trinidadian culture and knowledge. Whenever asked for specifics, I'd claim my mother's region, my mother's city, and my mother's road. It's like I was living a foreign life vicariously through my mother's past. People liked using countries as a common-ground, especially in the Caribbean. Basically, if we shared the same island, we probably went to the same primary school together and are probably long-lost classmates. In the states, it's just a way to locate and belong to your country-people. Friendship by association. It was automatic.
After a while, it didn't feel quite right. So, I just started telling people I was born here then mentioning my mother being from Trinidad. It was more of a mouthful yet much more accurate to say. I'm fine being a Yankee*. Trinidad was always in my back-pocket when needed.
As many may know, the Black community at Penn is small (I use "Black" loosely here). Therefore, the Caribbean population within that community is especially scarce. Seeing that being Trini is a part of me, I want to find others here too. It's only natural. There was an instance where, during introductions, I heard this guy speak and I could tell by his accent alone that he was Trini. So, bypassing the whole "Are you from Trinidad?" scheme, I asked him, "Which part of Trinidad are you from?" In the coldest tone possible, he replied "Which part of you is Trini?" Ouch. I've been caught. An American claiming Trinidad being called out by a native. Mama's background can't save me now. It was amazing how strong my urge to defend myself was. He was only a stranger, I had nothing to prove to him. But when he only saw me for the American I was and didn't even bother to consider any Trini in me, I felt offended. It surprised me how hurt I was by this.
I never want to come off as fake or false-claim when speaking of Trinidad which is why I had only been mentioning Trinidad ever-so often. I never want to be one of those people who name every calypso song and soca monarch. Who wear red, white, and black religiously. Who put on this fake accent that only seems to come up whenever they're conveniently around Trinis. To me, those people feel like they have something to prove and by doing this, they're proving how much they're NOT.
I don't do any of those things. Yet I got called out like I did.
Am I allowed to be nationalistic of a country of which I was not born in? What's so wrong with being proud of my mother's homeland? I love the spicy-sweet rhythms of soca. It is the melodic perfume that is so gracefully accompanied by the aroma of curry and tamarind. I love the tantalizing pang of the steel drum and the vibrant singy song accents of the people. Why can't that be a part of me although I'm not directly tied to it? More so, why couldn't I do this without being disapproved by others? That eludes me.
I've tried to look at my home country from a different standpoint. Initially, claiming America just didn't seem like enough. Trinidad is a part of me, supposedly false-claimed or not, I'm going to embrace it. However, American values and morals, although not always agreeable, I must accept as a part of me as well. Although I have tried, to completely disregard that part of myself would be crippling to my identity. Finally, it clicked. This is who I want to be. The two (Trini/American) can co-exist.
I am young America, I am black America, I am Afro-America, and I am Caribbean-America. All entities exist as one, intertwined. Who says I have to be one or the other. There are no defined lines. Everything spills over and mixes in with one another forming me and molding me into my identity. Trinidad is no longer in my back-pocket and neither is America. They are both kept close to my heart. This is me.
So, let me re-introduce myself. I'm Shakele Seaton, a cute little Yankee with a zest of sweet T&T.
*term used by Trinidadians to define an American
It was at a Penn African Student Association (PASA) meeting that probed it. While in discussion, everyone knew exactly what country they wanted to be identified with. I had to question myself, "Who do I identify with?"
I was born here, in the United States. My mother is Trinidadian. My father is also American with some Bajan roots on his father's side. Although this is the case, I could never comfortably claim who I was.
A lot of friends back home disregard their American-ness and embrace their Caribbean or African heritage. Don't get me wrong, being well informed of your roots gives you an upperhand in uncovering yourself with a historical reference. Therefore, when asked "Where are you from?", sometimes I'd say Trinidad. It wasn't exactly wrong. My mother is the one who raised me so I inherited her Trinidadian culture and knowledge. Whenever asked for specifics, I'd claim my mother's region, my mother's city, and my mother's road. It's like I was living a foreign life vicariously through my mother's past. People liked using countries as a common-ground, especially in the Caribbean. Basically, if we shared the same island, we probably went to the same primary school together and are probably long-lost classmates. In the states, it's just a way to locate and belong to your country-people. Friendship by association. It was automatic.
After a while, it didn't feel quite right. So, I just started telling people I was born here then mentioning my mother being from Trinidad. It was more of a mouthful yet much more accurate to say. I'm fine being a Yankee*. Trinidad was always in my back-pocket when needed.
As many may know, the Black community at Penn is small (I use "Black" loosely here). Therefore, the Caribbean population within that community is especially scarce. Seeing that being Trini is a part of me, I want to find others here too. It's only natural. There was an instance where, during introductions, I heard this guy speak and I could tell by his accent alone that he was Trini. So, bypassing the whole "Are you from Trinidad?" scheme, I asked him, "Which part of Trinidad are you from?" In the coldest tone possible, he replied "Which part of you is Trini?" Ouch. I've been caught. An American claiming Trinidad being called out by a native. Mama's background can't save me now. It was amazing how strong my urge to defend myself was. He was only a stranger, I had nothing to prove to him. But when he only saw me for the American I was and didn't even bother to consider any Trini in me, I felt offended. It surprised me how hurt I was by this.
I never want to come off as fake or false-claim when speaking of Trinidad which is why I had only been mentioning Trinidad ever-so often. I never want to be one of those people who name every calypso song and soca monarch. Who wear red, white, and black religiously. Who put on this fake accent that only seems to come up whenever they're conveniently around Trinis. To me, those people feel like they have something to prove and by doing this, they're proving how much they're NOT.
I don't do any of those things. Yet I got called out like I did.
Am I allowed to be nationalistic of a country of which I was not born in? What's so wrong with being proud of my mother's homeland? I love the spicy-sweet rhythms of soca. It is the melodic perfume that is so gracefully accompanied by the aroma of curry and tamarind. I love the tantalizing pang of the steel drum and the vibrant singy song accents of the people. Why can't that be a part of me although I'm not directly tied to it? More so, why couldn't I do this without being disapproved by others? That eludes me.
I've tried to look at my home country from a different standpoint. Initially, claiming America just didn't seem like enough. Trinidad is a part of me, supposedly false-claimed or not, I'm going to embrace it. However, American values and morals, although not always agreeable, I must accept as a part of me as well. Although I have tried, to completely disregard that part of myself would be crippling to my identity. Finally, it clicked. This is who I want to be. The two (Trini/American) can co-exist.
I am young America, I am black America, I am Afro-America, and I am Caribbean-America. All entities exist as one, intertwined. Who says I have to be one or the other. There are no defined lines. Everything spills over and mixes in with one another forming me and molding me into my identity. Trinidad is no longer in my back-pocket and neither is America. They are both kept close to my heart. This is me.
So, let me re-introduce myself. I'm Shakele Seaton, a cute little Yankee with a zest of sweet T&T.
*term used by Trinidadians to define an American
Friday, September 28, 2012
Jarred Heart Maybe?
I've had "Bury My Heart" stuck in my head all morning. I understand what you're say K.Michelle. Bury it away so no one could even think of touching it. But why bury it?
What about a glass jar? Then, it wouldn't get dirty or infected and it could take its time to heal. Put the jar in a high, safe place so no one can touch it until you take it down and give it to them. The repercussions? Buried or in a glass jar, you're still walking around heartless for a long time.
First, it's safe to assume that you would want to bury a wounded, bleeding, broken heart. To bury it is to cover it with more dirt, making it prone to infection, worms, and further suffocation. To bury a heart is an arduous task because it's to bury feelings. Suppress them. If this is an attempt at making it heal faster, this is not very sterile condition. Of course, immediately after getting hurt, some people just want to numb any kind feelings, thus burying them. However, those negative feelings always find a way to resurface (loneliness and helplessness always seem to resurface with her).
What about a glass jar? Then, it wouldn't get dirty or infected and it could take its time to heal. Put the jar in a high, safe place so no one can touch it until you take it down and give it to them. The repercussions? Buried or in a glass jar, you're still walking around heartless for a long time.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Hair
I cut my hair. All of it. It was crazy. It was maddening. It was risky. It was liberating.
Everyone had something to say about it.
Upon the frenzy I was experiencing while donning my new hairstyle, my encounter with a friend is something that sticks out the most. He asked "What are you going to do with it now?" I said "Grow it out." He said "Why? Because that's what you think you're supposed to do?" That really made me think. He then told me "Do what you're happy with doing, not with what you think you're expected to do." Then I realized, my hair could grow and I could cut it again. It could be an afro and I could cut it again. I could put twists in and shave the sides, then cut it again. It could be down my back and I could cut it again. I could do anything I very well please. It was my choice to make. My style to rock. My hair to wear. Mine. No one else's. They don't have to care for it. They don't have to wash it. They don't have to comb it. This is mine.
I feel like me cutting my hair was more of a big deal for everyone else than it was for me. Everyone is still shocked. Surprisingly they're impressed too. They keep asking "Why?" Well, I could happily walk in the rain at my own speed. I could dance at parties and my hair would never show how much I've sweat. I could wash it at anytime I want. There are no boundaries here that were once set on my relaxed hair. I could wear cute fedoras. I could wear big earrings or none at all and still feel beautiful (earrings seem to be a big gender marker with shaved hair. I'm no longer worried about being mistaken for a man). I could feel invincible.
When someone asks me why I cut my hair, I can tell them many more things. I can say that I didn't believe that "it's painful to be beautiful", and by pain I meant scorching my scalp with heat and chemicals just for a straightened outcome. I can say that I didn't want to deal with having my hair matted to my scalp after a bad burn or waste hundreds of dollars to have it sewn in for me. I can say that my hair was tired, dry, brittle, and therefore breaking as a result of years of perming it. I can say that the decision to have straight hair was made for me through years of brainwash and loathing and now, I've decided to make my own decisions with MY hair. I can say I was finally woman enough to make a choice about how I wanted to look. No one else's input matters.
I'm delighted to be joining in the ever-growing movement that is natural hair. With the straight hair, I cut away all of the chains of conformity, guilt, insecurity, frustration, and self hatred that has manifested over the years. They've clung and held me down for far too long. The stigmas have indeed "stung" me while stereotypes wrote me off as ugly and inapt of having long hair. Our ancestors have forcibly rode that "field slave vs house slave" boat, but our generation has jumped right back on and reinvented it into the infamous "Team lightskinned vs Team darkskinned" battle. Among the many variations of which ever "skin" everyone was, I was supposed to fall into the "undesirable" category of a "darkskinned" girl. However, as of now, while I'm coming into my own, all of that is non-existent. Yes my skin is dark, were my ancestors not African? Yes, my hair is nappy, once again, were my ancestors not African? We only want to feel bad when we talk about slavery in history classes. But when it comes to our social culture, we dehumanize each other with the very same labels. With this and many other things taken into account, yes, I will wear red lipstick. Yes, I will shave my head and dye it blonde. Yes, I will do all of the things society (or whomever) tells me I can't do and do it with the grace of a beautiful black woman. No lightskins or darkskins, just black.
Strength comes from embracing what's within. Everyday is a step towards loving myself. Truth be told, I was cautious about cutting my hair at first. One main concern? I didn't want to lose my friends (preposterous I know but a very true reality to me). However, when I realized that people come and go and that it is I who will have to accept myself, my fears disintegrated into nothing.
People have called me brave. I should have asked why. If utilizing my right to have a choice in how I looked was bravery, then so be it. Je suis une femme réincarné. I am a woman reborn. Instead of looking at myself as another follower of natural hair, I see myself as a pioneer of a personal movement. Moving forward, shining my light towards advancement and hoping that light can touch others. What audacity I must have to think I could be elegant, black, and beautiful.
They say that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. So does the lack thereof make me any less a queen?
I think not.
Everyone had something to say about it.
Upon the frenzy I was experiencing while donning my new hairstyle, my encounter with a friend is something that sticks out the most. He asked "What are you going to do with it now?" I said "Grow it out." He said "Why? Because that's what you think you're supposed to do?" That really made me think. He then told me "Do what you're happy with doing, not with what you think you're expected to do." Then I realized, my hair could grow and I could cut it again. It could be an afro and I could cut it again. I could put twists in and shave the sides, then cut it again. It could be down my back and I could cut it again. I could do anything I very well please. It was my choice to make. My style to rock. My hair to wear. Mine. No one else's. They don't have to care for it. They don't have to wash it. They don't have to comb it. This is mine.
I feel like me cutting my hair was more of a big deal for everyone else than it was for me. Everyone is still shocked. Surprisingly they're impressed too. They keep asking "Why?" Well, I could happily walk in the rain at my own speed. I could dance at parties and my hair would never show how much I've sweat. I could wash it at anytime I want. There are no boundaries here that were once set on my relaxed hair. I could wear cute fedoras. I could wear big earrings or none at all and still feel beautiful (earrings seem to be a big gender marker with shaved hair. I'm no longer worried about being mistaken for a man). I could feel invincible.
When someone asks me why I cut my hair, I can tell them many more things. I can say that I didn't believe that "it's painful to be beautiful", and by pain I meant scorching my scalp with heat and chemicals just for a straightened outcome. I can say that I didn't want to deal with having my hair matted to my scalp after a bad burn or waste hundreds of dollars to have it sewn in for me. I can say that my hair was tired, dry, brittle, and therefore breaking as a result of years of perming it. I can say that the decision to have straight hair was made for me through years of brainwash and loathing and now, I've decided to make my own decisions with MY hair. I can say I was finally woman enough to make a choice about how I wanted to look. No one else's input matters.
I'm delighted to be joining in the ever-growing movement that is natural hair. With the straight hair, I cut away all of the chains of conformity, guilt, insecurity, frustration, and self hatred that has manifested over the years. They've clung and held me down for far too long. The stigmas have indeed "stung" me while stereotypes wrote me off as ugly and inapt of having long hair. Our ancestors have forcibly rode that "field slave vs house slave" boat, but our generation has jumped right back on and reinvented it into the infamous "Team lightskinned vs Team darkskinned" battle. Among the many variations of which ever "skin" everyone was, I was supposed to fall into the "undesirable" category of a "darkskinned" girl. However, as of now, while I'm coming into my own, all of that is non-existent. Yes my skin is dark, were my ancestors not African? Yes, my hair is nappy, once again, were my ancestors not African? We only want to feel bad when we talk about slavery in history classes. But when it comes to our social culture, we dehumanize each other with the very same labels. With this and many other things taken into account, yes, I will wear red lipstick. Yes, I will shave my head and dye it blonde. Yes, I will do all of the things society (or whomever) tells me I can't do and do it with the grace of a beautiful black woman. No lightskins or darkskins, just black.
Strength comes from embracing what's within. Everyday is a step towards loving myself. Truth be told, I was cautious about cutting my hair at first. One main concern? I didn't want to lose my friends (preposterous I know but a very true reality to me). However, when I realized that people come and go and that it is I who will have to accept myself, my fears disintegrated into nothing.
People have called me brave. I should have asked why. If utilizing my right to have a choice in how I looked was bravery, then so be it. Je suis une femme réincarné. I am a woman reborn. Instead of looking at myself as another follower of natural hair, I see myself as a pioneer of a personal movement. Moving forward, shining my light towards advancement and hoping that light can touch others. What audacity I must have to think I could be elegant, black, and beautiful.
They say that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. So does the lack thereof make me any less a queen?
I think not.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Eulogy
Today is the day I put to rest those of the departed. It's time and it's only right to hold a proper service. Although they are still physically on this earth, I still feel the need to mourn. Within the last year, I lost a friend to an inevitable event: change.
I cannot say that I didn't see this coming. I saw the signs, gradual steps towards a full metamorphosis. Why am I surprised? It's hard to say that it's because of the end result, because they aren't truly finished "changing", but more of the current result. I expected for there to be more of a gentle transformation, like from a caterpillar to a butterfly or a plant yielding a flower. What I witnessed was a corruption within the process.
They became like clay, molding and shaping into figures to the likeness of others. Soon they hardened and got tossed within (and maybe even by) those who created them. Going with the flow, rolling with the crew, up and down the hills of monotony. Pieces chipping and wearing away as they lose parts of themselves, whilst firmly believing they're getting closer to who they are.
But I knew them as a seed or a caterpillar. I was there during the many phases and stages of childhood. As time went on, we had different interests and I began to dim into the background to them. My presence was almost negligible until needed for help. They tested my loyalty, but it ultimately turned into me being a convenience.
I upheld the creed of a genuine friend.
They swept the floor with it.
I was ole' reliable.
They were constantly M.I.A.
It hurts.
It hurts because I still find myself believing that the old them could return. I put too much love into our friendship for it to barely be reciprocated. I feel like I'm in rehab. One moment, I want to just go cold turkey. Let them go and wither away by themselves. Then, I relapse. Love takes over and I want to be there. I want to care. Perhaps, I care too much.
So now, I'm slowly letting go. It saddens me that someone who had the potential to be a butterfly, chose to be a pebble. Slowly being crushed into dust.
They say that certain characteristics about you are prominent in the people you attract. Some of their traits were once present in me. The constant need for attention and friends. But I changed too. I'm happy I've changed. So at this point I only ask, are they happy with who they've become?
I cannot say that I didn't see this coming. I saw the signs, gradual steps towards a full metamorphosis. Why am I surprised? It's hard to say that it's because of the end result, because they aren't truly finished "changing", but more of the current result. I expected for there to be more of a gentle transformation, like from a caterpillar to a butterfly or a plant yielding a flower. What I witnessed was a corruption within the process.
They became like clay, molding and shaping into figures to the likeness of others. Soon they hardened and got tossed within (and maybe even by) those who created them. Going with the flow, rolling with the crew, up and down the hills of monotony. Pieces chipping and wearing away as they lose parts of themselves, whilst firmly believing they're getting closer to who they are.
But I knew them as a seed or a caterpillar. I was there during the many phases and stages of childhood. As time went on, we had different interests and I began to dim into the background to them. My presence was almost negligible until needed for help. They tested my loyalty, but it ultimately turned into me being a convenience.
I upheld the creed of a genuine friend.
They swept the floor with it.
I was ole' reliable.
They were constantly M.I.A.
It hurts.
It hurts because I still find myself believing that the old them could return. I put too much love into our friendship for it to barely be reciprocated. I feel like I'm in rehab. One moment, I want to just go cold turkey. Let them go and wither away by themselves. Then, I relapse. Love takes over and I want to be there. I want to care. Perhaps, I care too much.
So now, I'm slowly letting go. It saddens me that someone who had the potential to be a butterfly, chose to be a pebble. Slowly being crushed into dust.
They say that certain characteristics about you are prominent in the people you attract. Some of their traits were once present in me. The constant need for attention and friends. But I changed too. I'm happy I've changed. So at this point I only ask, are they happy with who they've become?
Thursday, September 20, 2012
From the Big Apple to the Prickly Pear
At the beginning of the summer, I was on a mission. I was going to do weekly covers of songs, I was going to always be in the loop with my friends, I was going to train hard for track, I was going to go to the aquarium, the park, the zoo. I was going to be better and do better, no excuses.
One thing that seemed so minuscule at the time but I lacked to see its enormity: I was going to go to South Africa.
I was on the road to rediscover myself this summer. After a year of disappointment, hurt, tears, regret, sickness, and all of the other terrible things to follow, I wanted a fresh start. What better way to start over than to go back to my roots. To the Motherland. To Africa.
On the plane, there were so many things rushing through my mind at once. It was almost surreal. Who would've thought that a year after graduating high-school, I'd find myself in South Africa. For some reason however, I felt a little sad. I was traveling alone and I kept asking myself, "why don't I have someone to share this with right now?" The issue of being alone was something I struggled with this past year. Being at school, barely knowing who I was, and having to warm up to people who sometimes walk out of my life was difficult. Loneliness was a constant, lurking force that always reared it's ugly head. On that flight, its presence was there, sneering at me. I began to question what I wanted from this trip. At that moment, I didn't quite know.
A movie that I watched probed some very random thoughts. The narrator kept talking about moments of impact and how they defined a person. I thought about what defined a person. To me, a person isn't really whole, so they are defined by their pieces. When we come into this world, those pieces are scattered across the world. Some pieces are close by, but for the others, you must travel far to find them. Outside the comfort zone. Outside of what you know. Outside of the normal. This is why you can't become a "whole" person if you've never experienced a different country or culture before. During your journey, you encounter people in your life who will either help you put them together or scatter them even further. Those who help you are the ones you keep around. They, as well as yourself, help you become a whole person. Is that the purpose of life? Maybe. Personally, it does give a whole lot of meaning for my existence.
A met a man at a restaurant called "Nandos." Of course I know I shouldn't talk strangers especially while by myself in a foreign country, but something urged me to do so. After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, the conversation took a completely different turn. He asked me what was my purpose here on Earth. Of course, just like on the plane, I didn't know. This whole year was just filled with the undecided and uncertainty. I was at a place where everyone knew exactly what they wanted to do and how they wanted to do it. I, on the other hand, was stuck. The counselors preached on and on about how it's okay to not know your major freshman year, but I didn't believe them. If I wanted to go to medical school, I should've been preparing since I was twelve. I felt too far behind. Then, the things I actually did enjoy (music, writing, and running), didn't seem to reap a very positive future in terms of money.
It bothered me that I couldn't answer his question. He asked me what I enjoyed doing and that seemed easy enough for me to answer. After a long laundry list of things, he single out writing. He told me that despite the fact that I love to run or to help people, my heart is in writing. Up until that point, I didn't want to admit it but it was confirmed, I am a writer. I was scared to share my writing because I put too much heart into it for people to just toss aside. I shared with him my whole theory of people being pieces, and he was astonished. He told me that I will be famous for writing about things that people need to read. Although they may not necessarily like it, people need to see it. He told me that I will do great things.
He also told me that I was angry, which I was. He told me that I've come here, to Port Elizabeth, for a reason, whether or not I was aware of that reason (I was not aware). I just couldn't understand how he knew all of these things about me, yet he was a stranger. This is where I insert that he was a prophet sent from God to tell me of my good fortunes to come. Mind blowing.
I never saw that man again but for some reason, I expected that. Life has a funny way of working sometimes. I'll never forget what he told me that day. He helped me figure out why God put me here. It helped me find my voice, my meaning.
I wrote this because I felt like I was doing injustice to my homeland and to my experience. Whenever anyone asked me "How was South Africa?", I'd only respond with "beautiful" or "amazing." It just didn't seem fair.
So, here it is.
I found pieces of me that I couldn't think would be scattered so far. It made me think about how sad it was that people from the Caribbean went to extreme lengths to distinguish themselves from Africans when in fact, all of their customs and cultures were derived from that very continent. I was shaken by the history. Nothing about it was censored or fabricated. There was abuse. There was violence. There was sex. Nothing was implied like in Greek theater. Africa was raw.
I was drowned in a sea of melodious tunes. Drumming, split-tone singing, yelling, pinging, screeching... Harmonious, how it all meshed together at one time. I was exposed to talent that was too often only credited to Europeans. I saw Africans perform everything from ballet to traditional African dance. And everything in between.
I was questioned about who I really was. Where I really came from. I was envious of those who knew the language. I felt utterly uncultured. If there was anything I wanted to belong to, it was this. I was angered by the circumstances of our history. I was deprived. The culture alone was a goldmine, yet there were those who sought out to destroy it. I was cheated out of my true homeland.
Finally, I was at peace. My found pieces were finally melded together and I was able to step back onto U.S. soil with a completely different view. It took everything in my power not to scrutinize America for everything, mainly with the textbooks that misinform and misguide, but at least I'm much more aware of the true story. Even if I didn't want to admit it, I was a new person.
I am an African, no matter where I was born or how I may look, my roots trace back to Africa. Nothing or no one can take that away from me.
One thing that seemed so minuscule at the time but I lacked to see its enormity: I was going to go to South Africa.
I was on the road to rediscover myself this summer. After a year of disappointment, hurt, tears, regret, sickness, and all of the other terrible things to follow, I wanted a fresh start. What better way to start over than to go back to my roots. To the Motherland. To Africa.
On the plane, there were so many things rushing through my mind at once. It was almost surreal. Who would've thought that a year after graduating high-school, I'd find myself in South Africa. For some reason however, I felt a little sad. I was traveling alone and I kept asking myself, "why don't I have someone to share this with right now?" The issue of being alone was something I struggled with this past year. Being at school, barely knowing who I was, and having to warm up to people who sometimes walk out of my life was difficult. Loneliness was a constant, lurking force that always reared it's ugly head. On that flight, its presence was there, sneering at me. I began to question what I wanted from this trip. At that moment, I didn't quite know.
A movie that I watched probed some very random thoughts. The narrator kept talking about moments of impact and how they defined a person. I thought about what defined a person. To me, a person isn't really whole, so they are defined by their pieces. When we come into this world, those pieces are scattered across the world. Some pieces are close by, but for the others, you must travel far to find them. Outside the comfort zone. Outside of what you know. Outside of the normal. This is why you can't become a "whole" person if you've never experienced a different country or culture before. During your journey, you encounter people in your life who will either help you put them together or scatter them even further. Those who help you are the ones you keep around. They, as well as yourself, help you become a whole person. Is that the purpose of life? Maybe. Personally, it does give a whole lot of meaning for my existence.
A met a man at a restaurant called "Nandos." Of course I know I shouldn't talk strangers especially while by myself in a foreign country, but something urged me to do so. After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, the conversation took a completely different turn. He asked me what was my purpose here on Earth. Of course, just like on the plane, I didn't know. This whole year was just filled with the undecided and uncertainty. I was at a place where everyone knew exactly what they wanted to do and how they wanted to do it. I, on the other hand, was stuck. The counselors preached on and on about how it's okay to not know your major freshman year, but I didn't believe them. If I wanted to go to medical school, I should've been preparing since I was twelve. I felt too far behind. Then, the things I actually did enjoy (music, writing, and running), didn't seem to reap a very positive future in terms of money.
It bothered me that I couldn't answer his question. He asked me what I enjoyed doing and that seemed easy enough for me to answer. After a long laundry list of things, he single out writing. He told me that despite the fact that I love to run or to help people, my heart is in writing. Up until that point, I didn't want to admit it but it was confirmed, I am a writer. I was scared to share my writing because I put too much heart into it for people to just toss aside. I shared with him my whole theory of people being pieces, and he was astonished. He told me that I will be famous for writing about things that people need to read. Although they may not necessarily like it, people need to see it. He told me that I will do great things.
He also told me that I was angry, which I was. He told me that I've come here, to Port Elizabeth, for a reason, whether or not I was aware of that reason (I was not aware). I just couldn't understand how he knew all of these things about me, yet he was a stranger. This is where I insert that he was a prophet sent from God to tell me of my good fortunes to come. Mind blowing.
I never saw that man again but for some reason, I expected that. Life has a funny way of working sometimes. I'll never forget what he told me that day. He helped me figure out why God put me here. It helped me find my voice, my meaning.
I wrote this because I felt like I was doing injustice to my homeland and to my experience. Whenever anyone asked me "How was South Africa?", I'd only respond with "beautiful" or "amazing." It just didn't seem fair.
So, here it is.
I found pieces of me that I couldn't think would be scattered so far. It made me think about how sad it was that people from the Caribbean went to extreme lengths to distinguish themselves from Africans when in fact, all of their customs and cultures were derived from that very continent. I was shaken by the history. Nothing about it was censored or fabricated. There was abuse. There was violence. There was sex. Nothing was implied like in Greek theater. Africa was raw.
I was drowned in a sea of melodious tunes. Drumming, split-tone singing, yelling, pinging, screeching... Harmonious, how it all meshed together at one time. I was exposed to talent that was too often only credited to Europeans. I saw Africans perform everything from ballet to traditional African dance. And everything in between.
I was questioned about who I really was. Where I really came from. I was envious of those who knew the language. I felt utterly uncultured. If there was anything I wanted to belong to, it was this. I was angered by the circumstances of our history. I was deprived. The culture alone was a goldmine, yet there were those who sought out to destroy it. I was cheated out of my true homeland.
Finally, I was at peace. My found pieces were finally melded together and I was able to step back onto U.S. soil with a completely different view. It took everything in my power not to scrutinize America for everything, mainly with the textbooks that misinform and misguide, but at least I'm much more aware of the true story. Even if I didn't want to admit it, I was a new person.
I am an African, no matter where I was born or how I may look, my roots trace back to Africa. Nothing or no one can take that away from me.
The Sting in Ivy
As I've continued my journey from the streets of Brooklyn to the huge campus that is Penn, I've come to notice something. When I first arrived, I was told immediately that I'd be competing with people who'd gone to private schools, paid for tutors, scored fives on AP exams and damn near a 2400 on the SAT. Penn was not to be played with. I took all of this into consideration. Of course Penn would be academically competitive. It's an Ivy League.
What I failed to realize was that everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, everyone does here is magnified to the millionth power.
In sports, we have top nationally ranked athletes from across the country.
In dance groups we have students who have been trained since they were five.
In choirs, we have former contestants from American Idol or something.
In performance arts, we have people with years of experience in musical theater and most likely have been on Broadway.
The list goes on.
After summoning up some courage, I auditioned for an A Capella group that is pretty well known on campus. Being that I'm now a sophomore, I felt a bit out of place and slightly intimidated by how high the standards were set, not only by those before me, but by freshmen. There was a girl who went on about her mini career in singing, acting, and musical theater. Others went on about their participation in high-school singing groups, plays, and shows. As for me, I had nothing but the school assembly events and selected songs on Sundays in church. All I had was a voice in my soul and a song in my heart. In the midst all of these trained singers, I felt raw. Inadequate. I had no idea if I was a tenor or an alto. I'd never practiced scales. I'd never sang with a group before.
For all intense and purposes, I was screwed.
Needless to say, I didn't get in. I was (and still am) pretty heartbroken. I wasn't given a reason why nor ways to improve. All I found was the absence of my name on that callback sheet. Bummer.
I'm not sure if there is anyone to blame at this point. Since my arrival at Penn, I've felt myself feeling weak in every field I thought I could compete in. Should I have been pushed to get singing lessons? Should I have paid for extra tutoring in math and chemistry? Should I have joined a track club to run faster? Should I have taken piano, or ballet, or jazz lessons?
I wish people could understand that I come from a background in which a lot of these resources are either 1) not available or 2) not affordable. I've been called out on not knowing how to swim, but if only they knew the scarcity of public pools and lessons in the city. I never wanted to feel like I couldn't compete with the best because I was lacking in those two areas. It's like I've already got two strikes against me when I haven't even started playing the game yet.
So, I'm left with two choices: Wallow in failure and complain about how everything is unfair or, what everyone else in Brooklyn (or even here at Penn for that matter) does, hustle HARD. Those experiences before are only minor setbacks. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm here because I'm capable of competing with the best. I will shamelessly march into study hall, head held high and book in hand. I will gladly be that student who annoys the class with questions and holds up the class. I will not be that statistic, that one black girl who drops out because she can't handle it. Or who constantly pulls the race card and accuses everyone and everything of being "racist." Not my lifestyle.
I'm going to be that one marching towards Franklin Field in my cap and gown, chanting to myself , "I made it. I made it."
What I failed to realize was that everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, everyone does here is magnified to the millionth power.
In sports, we have top nationally ranked athletes from across the country.
In dance groups we have students who have been trained since they were five.
In choirs, we have former contestants from American Idol or something.
In performance arts, we have people with years of experience in musical theater and most likely have been on Broadway.
The list goes on.
After summoning up some courage, I auditioned for an A Capella group that is pretty well known on campus. Being that I'm now a sophomore, I felt a bit out of place and slightly intimidated by how high the standards were set, not only by those before me, but by freshmen. There was a girl who went on about her mini career in singing, acting, and musical theater. Others went on about their participation in high-school singing groups, plays, and shows. As for me, I had nothing but the school assembly events and selected songs on Sundays in church. All I had was a voice in my soul and a song in my heart. In the midst all of these trained singers, I felt raw. Inadequate. I had no idea if I was a tenor or an alto. I'd never practiced scales. I'd never sang with a group before.
For all intense and purposes, I was screwed.
Needless to say, I didn't get in. I was (and still am) pretty heartbroken. I wasn't given a reason why nor ways to improve. All I found was the absence of my name on that callback sheet. Bummer.
I'm not sure if there is anyone to blame at this point. Since my arrival at Penn, I've felt myself feeling weak in every field I thought I could compete in. Should I have been pushed to get singing lessons? Should I have paid for extra tutoring in math and chemistry? Should I have joined a track club to run faster? Should I have taken piano, or ballet, or jazz lessons?
I wish people could understand that I come from a background in which a lot of these resources are either 1) not available or 2) not affordable. I've been called out on not knowing how to swim, but if only they knew the scarcity of public pools and lessons in the city. I never wanted to feel like I couldn't compete with the best because I was lacking in those two areas. It's like I've already got two strikes against me when I haven't even started playing the game yet.
So, I'm left with two choices: Wallow in failure and complain about how everything is unfair or, what everyone else in Brooklyn (or even here at Penn for that matter) does, hustle HARD. Those experiences before are only minor setbacks. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm here because I'm capable of competing with the best. I will shamelessly march into study hall, head held high and book in hand. I will gladly be that student who annoys the class with questions and holds up the class. I will not be that statistic, that one black girl who drops out because she can't handle it. Or who constantly pulls the race card and accuses everyone and everything of being "racist." Not my lifestyle.
I'm going to be that one marching towards Franklin Field in my cap and gown, chanting to myself , "I made it. I made it."
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Middle Distance Chronicles
Within the past year, I thought that I'd began to embrace the 800m run. I've come to realize that I've been mistaken. I've just embraced getting my ass kicked in it
Over
And over...
And over.
Today's workout made me have that revelation. The scene was straight out of a "Rocky" movie. Eight half-mile runs needed to be completed. Beads of sweat rolling down my face, back, and neck. The sky was a treacherous gray as the river splashed violently against the rocks. As soon as I was about to start the next set, gusts of wind and rain whip and dash around me, stinging my eyes and tugging me into all different kinds of directions. I thought as soon as the wind picked up, I'd go flying away with it.
It was that serious.
The run was difficult. Coach pedaled next to me on his bike as he acted like a time-marker. Ever so often he'd tell me to "pick up the pace" or "relax" or something to fix my form. The pressure was on and I had about 3 more to go. Negative thoughts start flooding in. I grit my teeth. This is what it feels like to get your ass kicked at practice.
I was on the verge of tears, but what would crying do? I'd just be choked up during it all and probably mess up the workout or worst, have to do it over. Save the tears for later. Instead, I had to say a prayer to get me through it. I'd never assumed that it would be easy, but I definitely started to feel it when I really didn't want to. I just wanted to stop. But, my goals were blinding me. Rio 2016 Olympics. It's within reach and all I have to do is strive for it. So, as much as it hurt, I finished. Eight half-miles with 90 seconds rest in between. Wow.
I then began to figure out what kind of runner I was. I push myself, really really hard, but only when I know I'm coming towards the end. I'm a "negative" runner. I run slow at first then come back blazing at the end. That's how I was taught. That's where my kick came from. Now, I have to change that to a more speedy beginning. Also, I'm a very weak mental runner. My coach made a remark, "Either I'm your biggest supporter or you're you biggest doubter." I'm my worst enemy. That has to change.
There's a lot of work to be done. In three weeks, I'll have to complete this same workout. I hoping that it won't be in the same conditions as this one. I also hope that I could look back and say to myself , "Well that wasn't so hard." Ultimately, I'm hoping for the mental confidence to step on that line for indoor, and prove what running in the midst of a tornado can do. Because without that, I am nothing.
Over
And over...
And over.
Today's workout made me have that revelation. The scene was straight out of a "Rocky" movie. Eight half-mile runs needed to be completed. Beads of sweat rolling down my face, back, and neck. The sky was a treacherous gray as the river splashed violently against the rocks. As soon as I was about to start the next set, gusts of wind and rain whip and dash around me, stinging my eyes and tugging me into all different kinds of directions. I thought as soon as the wind picked up, I'd go flying away with it.
It was that serious.
The run was difficult. Coach pedaled next to me on his bike as he acted like a time-marker. Ever so often he'd tell me to "pick up the pace" or "relax" or something to fix my form. The pressure was on and I had about 3 more to go. Negative thoughts start flooding in. I grit my teeth. This is what it feels like to get your ass kicked at practice.
I was on the verge of tears, but what would crying do? I'd just be choked up during it all and probably mess up the workout or worst, have to do it over. Save the tears for later. Instead, I had to say a prayer to get me through it. I'd never assumed that it would be easy, but I definitely started to feel it when I really didn't want to. I just wanted to stop. But, my goals were blinding me. Rio 2016 Olympics. It's within reach and all I have to do is strive for it. So, as much as it hurt, I finished. Eight half-miles with 90 seconds rest in between. Wow.
I then began to figure out what kind of runner I was. I push myself, really really hard, but only when I know I'm coming towards the end. I'm a "negative" runner. I run slow at first then come back blazing at the end. That's how I was taught. That's where my kick came from. Now, I have to change that to a more speedy beginning. Also, I'm a very weak mental runner. My coach made a remark, "Either I'm your biggest supporter or you're you biggest doubter." I'm my worst enemy. That has to change.
There's a lot of work to be done. In three weeks, I'll have to complete this same workout. I hoping that it won't be in the same conditions as this one. I also hope that I could look back and say to myself , "Well that wasn't so hard." Ultimately, I'm hoping for the mental confidence to step on that line for indoor, and prove what running in the midst of a tornado can do. Because without that, I am nothing.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Living my life: Unscripted
I feel like I've been following a script my whole life, like a template or something. Doing what I'm supposed to do, only when told. Barely any sense of impulse or rebellion. Never making the first move, never making the first comment or gesture. Just basic routine.
Mechanical. Robotic. A conveyor belt. Feeding out desired responses.
Mechanical. Robotic. A conveyor belt. Feeding out desired responses.
Only now do I feel like I've been improvising, making it up as I go along. Like I've hit the ground running and can't stop. So I'm ducking and dodging so that I could keep up. Like I've been thrown into a 10 feet deep pool and I have to find different ways to stay alive.
First, it took being willing to learn to swim. It was a choice. I've always held myself back from even trying for fear of failure. But how else would I learn. I had to wash away all of my insecurities of others ridiculing me... and try. Then it was making sure I had a good floation device: support. One tricky thing about this was figuring out the flimsy ones from the sturdy ones. At first, everyone's smiling and laughing in your face. Masks painted on. As the tough times come and the waves pick up, the flimsy ones wither away, making you sink. Luckily the sturdy ones are always reliable.
Soon, however, you have to let go and swim: independence. Yes, your friends help you, but YOU are your major source of inspiration. No one else.
I've come to many points in my life where I've just stood still, waiting for life to get less hectic. I realize that this is impossible. Life will never be less hectic. You'll only be able to manage it more suffieciently. There were so many instances where I just wanted to drown. Why fight with the waves and high tides? Why not let them overtake you? It seems so easy to just sink to the bottom. It seems so natural. I thought about it a few times, wanting to just give up. That just wasn't a feasible option for me. So I've realized that sometimes you have to go in head-first, get right into it. Life is a lot of improvisation even though we're handed a script. Even though we were fed structures and templates. Even though we were molded and told who to be. It's about self discovery. That maybe, if you swim deep enough in the most dangerous depths of the ocean, you'll find the loveliest of pearls. The shinest of stones. So what else better to do but jump in.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Lipstick Liberation
As I was getting ready to go out with a friend today, I decided to do something different. I've never really been very fond of makeup, but I've been giving it a try lately. Today, it was red lipstick.
First, I was just playing around, invading mommy's dresser and using the one's I found. Then, as I gazed at myself in the mirror, I realized that I liked what I saw. But I was scared. After all, "dark-skinned girls aren't supposed to wear red lipstick." It just "doesn't look right." Who invented that idea anyway? Why do we continue to embrace it? After being under emotional attack for so long by my own people because of the color of my skin, I'm fearful. How will I walk down the street and endure the looks from everyone's disapproving eyes? How will I bare the sneers and sly comments that slip out of their mouths?
Then I realized, who the hell cares? Why should I reinforce their stigmas and loathsome behavior by denying myself something as simple as red lipstick? Then I realized it wasn't simple for someone like me. It was bold. It was dangerous. It was down right disgusting. As soon as I deviate from normality, I'm at risk. But once again, who cares? I take pride in the fact that I can pull it off. Even if in the eyes of others it seems like I didn't, I was brave enough to try. That's what life is about right? The greatest minds weren't complacent with conformity. They jumped while every sat. Ultimately, they swam while everyone else decided not to learn. They took the risk.
When looked at the mirror, I fell in love. I loved what I saw. My inner goddess is slowly beginning to emerge, and I like what I'm seeing. I'm in love with the person that I have the potential to be. I'm currently experimenting with purple lipstick and I like it so far. Every now and then, I get a bit wary of other thoughts but like stated before, I don't care. Very soon, the glow that surrounds me will be blinding those around me.
First, I was just playing around, invading mommy's dresser and using the one's I found. Then, as I gazed at myself in the mirror, I realized that I liked what I saw. But I was scared. After all, "dark-skinned girls aren't supposed to wear red lipstick." It just "doesn't look right." Who invented that idea anyway? Why do we continue to embrace it? After being under emotional attack for so long by my own people because of the color of my skin, I'm fearful. How will I walk down the street and endure the looks from everyone's disapproving eyes? How will I bare the sneers and sly comments that slip out of their mouths?
Then I realized, who the hell cares? Why should I reinforce their stigmas and loathsome behavior by denying myself something as simple as red lipstick? Then I realized it wasn't simple for someone like me. It was bold. It was dangerous. It was down right disgusting. As soon as I deviate from normality, I'm at risk. But once again, who cares? I take pride in the fact that I can pull it off. Even if in the eyes of others it seems like I didn't, I was brave enough to try. That's what life is about right? The greatest minds weren't complacent with conformity. They jumped while every sat. Ultimately, they swam while everyone else decided not to learn. They took the risk.
When looked at the mirror, I fell in love. I loved what I saw. My inner goddess is slowly beginning to emerge, and I like what I'm seeing. I'm in love with the person that I have the potential to be. I'm currently experimenting with purple lipstick and I like it so far. Every now and then, I get a bit wary of other thoughts but like stated before, I don't care. Very soon, the glow that surrounds me will be blinding those around me.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Deflowered
But once, she was a daisy. Brilliant white petals surrounding a golden center. Alive. Delicate. Everyone smiled as she grew and she thrived to see their grinning faces. She lived to please them.
Soon, everyone's plucking away at her petals, as she willingly gives them every part of her.
"He loves me."
Slowly killing her.
"He loves me not."
She's dying while trying to fulfill everyone's needs.
Soon, she's hardened. Tears melt behind her eyes and are forever stained on her once-warm, once-thumping heart. She is blunted. Way past that of mellow because at least then, she'd feel something. At least then, she'd be able to feel the difference. What is happy? What does it mean when it is at the expense of another's happiness? What is her happiness? What is her soul in this hopeless dwelling, but a floating force, feigning existence?
Where is her happy?
Sweet precious flower, please come back to life.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Ebony: A Praise Poem
Vast black ocean
Hindering a white shore
Grains of sand trickle in slowly,
It’s remnants present in every child.
Mixes the blood
History, tracing its way back to the Cajun flavor of the Mississippi.
Then creeping towards the well known concrete jungle.
Ebony, the essence of your ancestry
Embedded in your name, flesh, and blood.
Almost potent, like poison
Yet pleasant and benign.
Ebony, the polished adornment of the tombs of Egypt,
Your river runs deeper than we know.
You’re of the richest soil.
Ebony, rooted to the most nurturing land.
You are the gold, the treasure,
The prize, the coveted.
The black diamond of the earth
The precious stones that reflects and connects
My past to yours.
A prime entity of which,
We knew not it’s worth.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Misled
What’s a heart once you've melted it
But A cold, puddle of blood
And flesh?
What’s a hand once you’ve caressed it
But another limb,
Tainted by your touch?
What’s an eye once it’s seen new found love
But a simple vessel,
Infected and blind?
And flesh?
What’s a hand once you’ve caressed it
But another limb,
Tainted by your touch?
What’s an eye once it’s seen new found love
But a simple vessel,
Infected and blind?
What’s a soft touch
But a strange notion of deceit ?
What’s a sweet whisper
But a bare utterance of lies...
But a strange notion of deceit ?
What’s a sweet whisper
But a bare utterance of lies...
Sunday, April 8, 2012
The Bad and The Ugly
It's really hard accepting yourself for who you really are. Of course I'm not talking about the good parts. I mean the ugly, the flawed, the cruel parts of you. The parts of you that you neglect to take into account when someone points them out. The very ignorant parts. The parts of you that are almost inhumane, deplorable. The parts of you that tie you to the most disgusting people you've heard of. You're almost in shock when you realize this is who you are. Or at least who you've become.
There are those who flee, within good reason, as soon as they are exposed to this side of you. They push you aside, and find someone who can be kind and loving all of the time. But as it was said before, it's understandable. Why surround yourself with someone who is so ugly? It's only natural to want to gravitate away from them.
Then, surprisingly, there are those who choose to stay. Those who are tortured relentlessly because of that choice. Those who endure it. Those who still love you even though you don't deserve it.
Somehow, they see the changes you can make. They see the potential of a beautiful person behind all of the screw ups and mistakes. They see your honest effort. They may correct or criticize you. You may unconsciously try to push them away, but they still stay. At that point, it's not your place to ask why this person is there. You just accept them. You become utterly thankful for them. They somehow teach you to forgive yourself. They teach you to love yourself. That's the most important gift anyone person can give to another. Those are the people you hold close to your heart forever.
So you come to terms with yourself, just as they have. You realize that sometimes, you're very rough around the edges. You acknowledge that you've made a conscious decision to tame this uglier side of you and realize that it may not fully go away. Yet, the fact that someone else can love you just as you are is proof that you can love yourself the very same.
Then, surprisingly, there are those who choose to stay. Those who are tortured relentlessly because of that choice. Those who endure it. Those who still love you even though you don't deserve it.
Somehow, they see the changes you can make. They see the potential of a beautiful person behind all of the screw ups and mistakes. They see your honest effort. They may correct or criticize you. You may unconsciously try to push them away, but they still stay. At that point, it's not your place to ask why this person is there. You just accept them. You become utterly thankful for them. They somehow teach you to forgive yourself. They teach you to love yourself. That's the most important gift anyone person can give to another. Those are the people you hold close to your heart forever.
So you come to terms with yourself, just as they have. You realize that sometimes, you're very rough around the edges. You acknowledge that you've made a conscious decision to tame this uglier side of you and realize that it may not fully go away. Yet, the fact that someone else can love you just as you are is proof that you can love yourself the very same.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Turn Up The (Real) Music
Where's the real music? Where's the originality? All that's ever created these days are 1) Knock offs of older songs 2) Songs that are over-sexed and demeaning. The music industry, as we know it, is fading.
Where's the substance? Where are the songs that had actual meaning? While watching an episode of BET's "Single Ladies", it probed a thought that uncovered a very true reality. What happened to the poets, to the artists who left a little something to the imagination and didn't want to just "Li-li-li-lick you from your head to your toes"? Where are the singers who valued your mind just as much as your body? Where are the Marvin Gayes and Luther Vandrosses?
And what about the women? Objectification. Misogynistic. Just plain disrespected. What expectations, as a result, am I held to especially as a young black woman after seeing these kinds of videos? I'm all for sexual liberation but they have to be portrayed better that this. What kind of ambitions am I supposed to have if the majority of my women are displaying themselves like this? What then, was the point of having tell-alls from the eyes of video vixens if we continue with raunchier videos that's borderline pornography? "Make it Nasty", "Drop it Low", "Back That Ass Up", do these all sound familiar? How much more sexually explicit can we get? There is nothing wrong with expressing sexual feelings, we are, after all, sexual beings. However, why has it become so grossly perverted? The tasteless nature of these songs and videos are becoming a turn off.
Another problem: Where is the originality? The fresh, new rhythms are missing. There is a sort of recycling going on, regurgitation of old songs, beats, and melodies.Of course the authenticity comes in the lyrics (at times) but where is the freshness?
Music is a melodic philosophy. We uncover wisdom, knowledge and strength from it. Now all it is coming to now is dirty noise.
We need to get our music back because as of now, it has taken a turn for the worst.
Where's the substance? Where are the songs that had actual meaning? While watching an episode of BET's "Single Ladies", it probed a thought that uncovered a very true reality. What happened to the poets, to the artists who left a little something to the imagination and didn't want to just "Li-li-li-lick you from your head to your toes"? Where are the singers who valued your mind just as much as your body? Where are the Marvin Gayes and Luther Vandrosses?
And what about the women? Objectification. Misogynistic. Just plain disrespected. What expectations, as a result, am I held to especially as a young black woman after seeing these kinds of videos? I'm all for sexual liberation but they have to be portrayed better that this. What kind of ambitions am I supposed to have if the majority of my women are displaying themselves like this? What then, was the point of having tell-alls from the eyes of video vixens if we continue with raunchier videos that's borderline pornography? "Make it Nasty", "Drop it Low", "Back That Ass Up", do these all sound familiar? How much more sexually explicit can we get? There is nothing wrong with expressing sexual feelings, we are, after all, sexual beings. However, why has it become so grossly perverted? The tasteless nature of these songs and videos are becoming a turn off.
Another problem: Where is the originality? The fresh, new rhythms are missing. There is a sort of recycling going on, regurgitation of old songs, beats, and melodies.Of course the authenticity comes in the lyrics (at times) but where is the freshness?
Music is a melodic philosophy. We uncover wisdom, knowledge and strength from it. Now all it is coming to now is dirty noise.
We need to get our music back because as of now, it has taken a turn for the worst.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Stupid Cupid
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Prada, Louis, Gucci
Name brands. Price tags. It's slowly controlling our lives, especially the youth. What is really aggravating about our generation is the high degree to which we hold up materialism. We're so engulfed in wearing all of the latest name brand clothes, we lose sight of our priorities. I remember a facebook status that caught my attention:
Though the prices may not be concise, it still proves my point that we've invested way too much money into temporary, material items.
In a sense, we can't blame ourselves. It is what we are exposed to on TV shows, music videos, magazines, newpapers, etc. Our generation also has a strong bond especially with artists and their music. Young people identify with them through their music, inadvertently making them our role models.The people we hold up as our role models idolize these material items so it sends the message: Why not us too? Celebrity boast about their millions of dollars while flaunting their multiple houses, cars, clothes... and the list goes on.
It has gotten to a point where it is almost sickening. Within the African-American community, it is especially abysmal. We're only convinced about the value of something based on it's price and prestige. Why? There's nothing wrong with treating yourself from time to time, but if $700 shoes are priority over paying your rent, there is something wrong. Even in less extreme cases, there's a ridiculous correlation between pricey name brands and a feeling of worth and legitimacy. The part that worries me the most is that people have been killed over such items. Shouldn't that raise some sort of attention? Shouldn't we just take a step back and think about what holds real values in our lives? Jessie J got it right, it ain't about the money.
You may say that I'm uncultured or uneducated when it comes to higher fashion but what happened to looking beyond the name brand? Why preach on and on about how we want someone with a great personality but we've become blindsided by what they wear, not who they are? Personally, the designs of the majority of these brands are pretty boring. Nothing spectacular in my eyes. But that's just a personal preference. The point of the matter is that these things hold no value. They are just things. Forget about the bragging and the big spending. Focus less on channeling your happiness on material items. You maybe missing out on something or someone more important.
- Polo Shirt: $150
- Concords: $180
- True religion jeans:$210
- The look on your face when you still get no girls: Priceless
Though the prices may not be concise, it still proves my point that we've invested way too much money into temporary, material items.
In a sense, we can't blame ourselves. It is what we are exposed to on TV shows, music videos, magazines, newpapers, etc. Our generation also has a strong bond especially with artists and their music. Young people identify with them through their music, inadvertently making them our role models.The people we hold up as our role models idolize these material items so it sends the message: Why not us too? Celebrity boast about their millions of dollars while flaunting their multiple houses, cars, clothes... and the list goes on.
It has gotten to a point where it is almost sickening. Within the African-American community, it is especially abysmal. We're only convinced about the value of something based on it's price and prestige. Why? There's nothing wrong with treating yourself from time to time, but if $700 shoes are priority over paying your rent, there is something wrong. Even in less extreme cases, there's a ridiculous correlation between pricey name brands and a feeling of worth and legitimacy. The part that worries me the most is that people have been killed over such items. Shouldn't that raise some sort of attention? Shouldn't we just take a step back and think about what holds real values in our lives? Jessie J got it right, it ain't about the money.
You may say that I'm uncultured or uneducated when it comes to higher fashion but what happened to looking beyond the name brand? Why preach on and on about how we want someone with a great personality but we've become blindsided by what they wear, not who they are? Personally, the designs of the majority of these brands are pretty boring. Nothing spectacular in my eyes. But that's just a personal preference. The point of the matter is that these things hold no value. They are just things. Forget about the bragging and the big spending. Focus less on channeling your happiness on material items. You maybe missing out on something or someone more important.
What's YOUR Motivation?
On my strenuous journey that I call life, I often find myself wondering, "What's my motivation?"
The majority of my life I've been a self motivator. Of course I'd have some outside support, but most of the time, it came from me. I was the one who had to learn. I was the one who had to run. I was the one who had to graduate. I was the one held responsible. It goes on and on. It is, after all, my dreams.
I have a strong stance against quitting. Whatever I chose to pursue, I plan to finish it and to be the very best at it. I even had a childhood friend who always used to tell me "Shakele, you're good at EVERYTHING." I always took that in stride with everything I did. Of course, I wasn't good at everything, but having that state of confidence, with out over exaggerating and crossing over into cockiness, is what has molded me (and is still molding me) into the individual I am today.
But, in the midst of the pursuit of all your aspirations, what about the days where you just want to throw in the towel and not bother with anything at all? I read a post today about desire and how too much desire with little action can consume your life. This then affects your motivation.
We've all been at a point where we feel like we cannot carry on with our goals. Whether it be a temporary sickness, injury, fatigue, negativity and other conflicting factors. The want to "dig deep" just disappears. Frustration hits, maybe even depression. Soon you find yourself in a rut (I certainly have).
After wallowing in self-pity for weeks, you realize that the very thing that you are trying to accomplish, has kept you going this whole time. That your passion, your love, and your commitment are what keep you going. No one expects how the down times will feel, and when they finally do hit, it's like the end of the world. I'm here to say that it isn't the end of the world. More of a test of the universe (or God, whatever your preference maybe) of how ardently you are willing to get what you want.
Some may call you crazy for what you do. How you could put yourself through so much pain? It's almost masochistc! But it doesn't matter. You do what you want to do, no matter how painful.
Also, you don't have to do it by yourself. Build a support system. Surround yourself with people you love so they're there when you need a helping hand
So if you find yourself wondering, or even complaining about why you aren't succeeding in what you want right now, just relax. Take your time and never lose sight. Know that it will be completely fulfilling in the long run.
This is what keeps me going
The majority of my life I've been a self motivator. Of course I'd have some outside support, but most of the time, it came from me. I was the one who had to learn. I was the one who had to run. I was the one who had to graduate. I was the one held responsible. It goes on and on. It is, after all, my dreams.
I have a strong stance against quitting. Whatever I chose to pursue, I plan to finish it and to be the very best at it. I even had a childhood friend who always used to tell me "Shakele, you're good at EVERYTHING." I always took that in stride with everything I did. Of course, I wasn't good at everything, but having that state of confidence, with out over exaggerating and crossing over into cockiness, is what has molded me (and is still molding me) into the individual I am today.
But, in the midst of the pursuit of all your aspirations, what about the days where you just want to throw in the towel and not bother with anything at all? I read a post today about desire and how too much desire with little action can consume your life. This then affects your motivation.
We've all been at a point where we feel like we cannot carry on with our goals. Whether it be a temporary sickness, injury, fatigue, negativity and other conflicting factors. The want to "dig deep" just disappears. Frustration hits, maybe even depression. Soon you find yourself in a rut (I certainly have).
After wallowing in self-pity for weeks, you realize that the very thing that you are trying to accomplish, has kept you going this whole time. That your passion, your love, and your commitment are what keep you going. No one expects how the down times will feel, and when they finally do hit, it's like the end of the world. I'm here to say that it isn't the end of the world. More of a test of the universe (or God, whatever your preference maybe) of how ardently you are willing to get what you want.
Some may call you crazy for what you do. How you could put yourself through so much pain? It's almost masochistc! But it doesn't matter. You do what you want to do, no matter how painful.
Also, you don't have to do it by yourself. Build a support system. Surround yourself with people you love so they're there when you need a helping hand
So if you find yourself wondering, or even complaining about why you aren't succeeding in what you want right now, just relax. Take your time and never lose sight. Know that it will be completely fulfilling in the long run.
This is what keeps me going
Simplicity
I don't any of that. I don't want the googly eyes or the sweet nothings. I don't want the intense, over dramatic romance. I don't want the "cuffing pictures" or the claiming on social networks. I don't want the "good morning" texts or the late night conversations. I don't want the flowers, or the candy. I don't want the superficial. I don't want what everyone else has, what I think looks good on the outside. I just want you. Everyday. A simple "I love you" keeps me going. No outside interferences. No models of what we "should" look like. Just you. Most importantly, I want us to happily exist without any of that.
Red Eyes
Red eyes
Black and blue scars
Glossed over with powder
A sweet glittery powder
Red eyes
Swollen lips
Covered in gloss
A shiny red gloss
Red eyes
Tattered hair
Straightened to a T
Maybe a curl here or there
Red eyes
Ripped clothes
Patched and sewn
No one knows the difference
Red eyes
Painful tears
Dried quickly
Before the mascara runs
Red eyes
Broken soul
How now, my friend
Can we cover that?
Smile
Glossed over with powder
A sweet glittery powder
Red eyes
Swollen lips
Covered in gloss
A shiny red gloss
Red eyes
Tattered hair
Straightened to a T
Maybe a curl here or there
Red eyes
Ripped clothes
Patched and sewn
No one knows the difference
Red eyes
Painful tears
Dried quickly
Before the mascara runs
Red eyes
Broken soul
How now, my friend
Can we cover that?
Smile
I Told You
I told you to be gentle
I told you to be kind
I told you to be patient
I told you to be mine
I didn't listen
So here I lay....
Love left lifeless
Lust divine
I told you to be patient
I told you to be kind
I told you to be kind
I told you to be patient
I told you to be mine
But then you left me
Cold and bare
Missing words
Vague blank stare
Cold and bare
Missing words
Vague blank stare
But then you left me
Fresh hot wound
Scattered brain
Mind Aloof
Fresh hot wound
Scattered brain
Mind Aloof
But then you fled, you crept, you ran
A swirling, rushing wind
With no alert, alone I stand
No heart beat lies within
I told you, I told you
Soon tears would glisten
But to my dismay
It is I who didn't listen
A swirling, rushing wind
With no alert, alone I stand
No heart beat lies within
I told you, I told you
Soon tears would glisten
But to my dismay
It is I who didn't listen
Listen to the lurking doubt
Listen to the quiver in your voice that was uncertainty
Listen to the reluctance
Listen to the silence that swallowed us both
Listen to the quiver in your voice that was uncertainty
Listen to the reluctance
Listen to the silence that swallowed us both
I didn't listen.
Listen to the urgency of our kisses
Or maybe the hushed hours spent alone
Listen to the vacant feelings, the nothing
Listen to the urgency of our kisses
Or maybe the hushed hours spent alone
Listen to the vacant feelings, the nothing
I didn't listen
So here I lay....
Love left lifeless
Lust divine
I told you to be patient
I told you to be kind
Not Only Kony
Since 1986. Joseph Kony has been reigning for 26 years. We've allowed this to go on for 26 years. This is what baffles me the most about America. Whenever the news makes a big deal about something, we all of a sudden feel the need to help. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to help millions of children who have been abudcted, raped, killed, and forced to kill their parents. However, why is media bringing this to our attention now? How many lives could have been saved at this point and time?
I don't like the media's endorsement of instant gratification. We are fed the news in choppy pieces, often leaving gaps of information out. The earthquake in Haiti for example. We were there to support them the first couple of months they needed immediate help. But after the second month, all of the awareness stopped. I'm pretty sure Haiti wasn't renewed within a two-month time period. But the media failed to show us that. That exemption leads us to believe that everything is, in other words, "peachy keen" in Haiti. Since then, they've been struggling with establishing a new President, are dealing with cholera (which has killed over 7,000 to date), and many other threatening issues that are hindering their revival.
Japan went through the same process as well, maybe even shorter. Everyone helped Japan for a span of a few months and that was it. Nothing. There were no updates as to how these people are doing. There are no follow up videos months down the line to see what still needs to be done. Japan could still be in shambles and we'd be completely oblivious. The point of the matter is that the media feeds us this "happily ever after" ideal when the truth is everything is not completely fixed.
It is not our fault that the media leaves out these chunks of information. But do realize that when a big issue comes at hand, it is more than face value.
So by all means, stop Joseph Kony. Keep in mind that this is an enormous task and that we're going to need more than just a kit to help these children. It is, however, a step in the right direction. But let us remember that a scene so gruesome and inhumane shouldn't be something that disappears within a few months. This is and has been happening all over the world. Keep yourself educated. Delve deeper than what you see on the news.
I don't like the media's endorsement of instant gratification. We are fed the news in choppy pieces, often leaving gaps of information out. The earthquake in Haiti for example. We were there to support them the first couple of months they needed immediate help. But after the second month, all of the awareness stopped. I'm pretty sure Haiti wasn't renewed within a two-month time period. But the media failed to show us that. That exemption leads us to believe that everything is, in other words, "peachy keen" in Haiti. Since then, they've been struggling with establishing a new President, are dealing with cholera (which has killed over 7,000 to date), and many other threatening issues that are hindering their revival.
Japan went through the same process as well, maybe even shorter. Everyone helped Japan for a span of a few months and that was it. Nothing. There were no updates as to how these people are doing. There are no follow up videos months down the line to see what still needs to be done. Japan could still be in shambles and we'd be completely oblivious. The point of the matter is that the media feeds us this "happily ever after" ideal when the truth is everything is not completely fixed.
It is not our fault that the media leaves out these chunks of information. But do realize that when a big issue comes at hand, it is more than face value.
So by all means, stop Joseph Kony. Keep in mind that this is an enormous task and that we're going to need more than just a kit to help these children. It is, however, a step in the right direction. But let us remember that a scene so gruesome and inhumane shouldn't be something that disappears within a few months. This is and has been happening all over the world. Keep yourself educated. Delve deeper than what you see on the news.
He hadn't seen her since she'd left highschool... (Random Prompt)
It was like she was glowing. Her cheeks were still rosy and pink. Her lips were still full and voluptuous. Her silky-smooth hair. Her curvaceous frame.. She hadn't aged a bit.
The summer had brought it's warm rendezvous for him. They'd soon fade after the cooler months arrived.
But she never faded.
She was always there through the wintry storms of December all the way through the darling buds of May. Yet, somewhere along the way, he grew tired of her. So he left. Her tears fell on his deaf ears. A river was nothing to be compared to the summation of her pain.
But to see her there, he was struck. Dumbfounded.
Then he thought, "Why did I ever let her go?"
The summer had brought it's warm rendezvous for him. They'd soon fade after the cooler months arrived.
But she never faded.
She was always there through the wintry storms of December all the way through the darling buds of May. Yet, somewhere along the way, he grew tired of her. So he left. Her tears fell on his deaf ears. A river was nothing to be compared to the summation of her pain.
But to see her there, he was struck. Dumbfounded.
Then he thought, "Why did I ever let her go?"
Be kind
Ever beat yourself up over the slightest thing? Are you your biggest and harshest critic? If so, it's time to stop. We all make make mistakes. But you need to take the time to forgive yourself. Judging yourself for every little thing is counterproductive and just plain old useless. Loosen up! Laugh at yourself. Most of all, be kind to yourself. You're the only person who has to deal with YOU all the time. Don't become someone you can't stand. Love yourself. Love your flaws. Lighten up!
It was the first snowfall of the year... (Random Prompt)
It was on December 27th. So much for a white Christmas. It was silent and fluffy. I couldn't help but to marvel at it's pureness. Milrose Games was coming up and he was upsetting me. Tia had just helped me create a tumblr to clear my mind. It worked.
It wasn't soon until it became a gray-black slush. The softness turning gritty. But for those days it did retain it's softness, my spirit felt refreshed. Yes it was cold, but it tamed the heat of my anger. Anger, left frozen in my footsteps. The wintry tundra relieving my soul.
It wasn't soon until it became a gray-black slush. The softness turning gritty. But for those days it did retain it's softness, my spirit felt refreshed. Yes it was cold, but it tamed the heat of my anger. Anger, left frozen in my footsteps. The wintry tundra relieving my soul.
Sweet Sweet T&T
Here is where my Caribbean fortress lay. Although I'm not a native, my bloodlines trace back to this beautiful island.
I might as well should have been born there seeing that I was taken there since my infancy. Belmont, Port of Spain. Houses on hills and trees of mangoes. Tall stalks of sugar cane in the neighbor's yard. Hailing down a taxi to go to town. Mario's pizza with ketchup, or real KFC. Jogging around the Savannah and having coconut water and snowcones. Sweet, sweet Trinidad.
Then there are the outer skirts outside of the city. Having shark and bake at Las Cuevas and Maracas. Staying at the beach house in Mearow. Being lulled to sleep by the waves caressing the shore. Running on the warm sand. Seeing your feet through the clear ocean, not clouded or obscured like that of the US.
Christmas time filled with many festivities, especially in the Seaton family. The backbone of our celebration? Parang, parang, parang. Uncle has the quatro while Auntie sings the tune. Cousins have the maracas, and the tuck-tuck. Mommy's clapping along Mama's dancing, bones never to old to move to the rhythm. "Eating, drinking, having a good time."
Family. Togetherness. Being blessed to have everyone at once place, alive and well. Strength. Happiness. Comfort in the warmth of your loved ones. Gratefulness. Thankfulness. That you are a part of a heritage so rich.
I might as well should have been born there seeing that I was taken there since my infancy. Belmont, Port of Spain. Houses on hills and trees of mangoes. Tall stalks of sugar cane in the neighbor's yard. Hailing down a taxi to go to town. Mario's pizza with ketchup, or real KFC. Jogging around the Savannah and having coconut water and snowcones. Sweet, sweet Trinidad.
Then there are the outer skirts outside of the city. Having shark and bake at Las Cuevas and Maracas. Staying at the beach house in Mearow. Being lulled to sleep by the waves caressing the shore. Running on the warm sand. Seeing your feet through the clear ocean, not clouded or obscured like that of the US.
Christmas time filled with many festivities, especially in the Seaton family. The backbone of our celebration? Parang, parang, parang. Uncle has the quatro while Auntie sings the tune. Cousins have the maracas, and the tuck-tuck. Mommy's clapping along Mama's dancing, bones never to old to move to the rhythm. "Eating, drinking, having a good time."
Family. Togetherness. Being blessed to have everyone at once place, alive and well. Strength. Happiness. Comfort in the warmth of your loved ones. Gratefulness. Thankfulness. That you are a part of a heritage so rich.
Blackness and it's Beauty: A Different Perspective
Shall I start with my immense intrigue with Alek Wek? The Sudanese beauty has changed the modeling game into a whole new playing field. By leaking diversity through the industry, Alek Wek has introduced a new meaning to the word beautiful. With dark, midnight skin, an exotic womanly frame, and of course, beautiful white teeth, she has catapulted herself within the midst of high fashion.
It was a teacher of mine who brought her up one day in class. We were discussing the issue weave, and why young girls go on endless journeys to attain it. It was getting to the point where these girls had developed a whole new ego. The hair was making them a different person. The hair held their confidences and hid their insecurities. So, my teacher used Alek Wek as an example of someone who didn't need her hair to portray pure beauty.
One of the most outstanding features that captures me the most is her flawless skin. She is THE chocolate of the chocolate. The blackest of the black. But yet, she has managed to so eloquently showcase her beauty in modeling.
Of course this addresses another issue as well: Skin Color.
Color is gradable. There is a scale of different tones, tints, and shades. People of color can fall into any part of this scale. Color smoothly meshes together as it ranges from darkest to light. So why, with people, is there a division that's created by each end?
This has been a long, drawn out battle for decades. It's come to the point where it has reached ignorance. I've had to listen to black men and women degrade darker skinned women. I've heard statements of beautiful dark skinned women being "rare." Listened to endless complaints of wanting an exotic women but yet, without fail, they go for the same, generic idea. Seen how we've subconsciously began to hate ourselves and used our own women as scapegoats, recipients for our hate.
I'm not here to completely denounce those of the lighter complexion, darker complexion, or anyone in between. As far as I'm concerned, we're all black. Why hold ourselves up to the stigmas enforces by slavery? Embracing something that holds so much pain? There's no need. It's time for us to lift ourselves up as a people instead of widening the chasm between us. Let color be color.
So some are going to look at this picture, and say this woman is ugly. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But if someone could just take the time to open their minds to a newer experience and understand something else besides the European standard of beauty, maybe things will change. Understand that it's not about the longer hair, or the thinner nose, or the lighter skin, or the straightest teeth. That beauty is so much more than what the media feeds us. That anyone, in their own way, can be beautiful.
Cheers, to you Ms. Wek. Beautiful African Empress.
It was a teacher of mine who brought her up one day in class. We were discussing the issue weave, and why young girls go on endless journeys to attain it. It was getting to the point where these girls had developed a whole new ego. The hair was making them a different person. The hair held their confidences and hid their insecurities. So, my teacher used Alek Wek as an example of someone who didn't need her hair to portray pure beauty.
One of the most outstanding features that captures me the most is her flawless skin. She is THE chocolate of the chocolate. The blackest of the black. But yet, she has managed to so eloquently showcase her beauty in modeling.
Of course this addresses another issue as well: Skin Color.
Color is gradable. There is a scale of different tones, tints, and shades. People of color can fall into any part of this scale. Color smoothly meshes together as it ranges from darkest to light. So why, with people, is there a division that's created by each end?
This has been a long, drawn out battle for decades. It's come to the point where it has reached ignorance. I've had to listen to black men and women degrade darker skinned women. I've heard statements of beautiful dark skinned women being "rare." Listened to endless complaints of wanting an exotic women but yet, without fail, they go for the same, generic idea. Seen how we've subconsciously began to hate ourselves and used our own women as scapegoats, recipients for our hate.
I'm not here to completely denounce those of the lighter complexion, darker complexion, or anyone in between. As far as I'm concerned, we're all black. Why hold ourselves up to the stigmas enforces by slavery? Embracing something that holds so much pain? There's no need. It's time for us to lift ourselves up as a people instead of widening the chasm between us. Let color be color.
So some are going to look at this picture, and say this woman is ugly. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But if someone could just take the time to open their minds to a newer experience and understand something else besides the European standard of beauty, maybe things will change. Understand that it's not about the longer hair, or the thinner nose, or the lighter skin, or the straightest teeth. That beauty is so much more than what the media feeds us. That anyone, in their own way, can be beautiful.
Cheers, to you Ms. Wek. Beautiful African Empress.
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