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? 

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.

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.

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?

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.

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."

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.