He kept touching my hands
I didn't know what to do with my hands
He kept holding my hands

He kept smiling at me
She'd already marked her spot next to him
But he kept smiling at me
Every so often
He'd glance over at me
While sitting next to her
He kept smiling at me

He's good at this
And I was drunk
So I kept touching his hands
And smiled extra hard

But he left without
Me
With
Her
I don't know what to do with my hands

Cultural Autobiography

At this moment, many people knew me as a member of the women's track and field team here at Penn. There were only a few people who knew about the rich Caribbean heritage in my mother's veins and how our home was the belly of warm spices and coconut. That Crown Heights is the hub of African, Afro-Caribbean, and Black American culture, our histories bleeding into the air and staining our walls. No one knew how sharp our tongues were or how heated conversations sounded like a mixture of softness and war. No one knew of the glow in our skin, tinged with sweetness. No one could possibly know who I was in Brooklyn. At Penn, I shuffled through campus in my grey "Penn Athletics" sweats and plopped myself into lecture halls seats of classes advised for us to take. For the majority of my college career, I let this lifestyle consume me. School schedules, projects, homework, other activities (if there was time and energy for those) were all planned around track practice. The extension of that, evening study hall, was a daunting reminder that, although we are students first, track "is life".

 

As time went on and I realized my lack of progress as I struggled to adjust, it came to be that track, once a reprieve, had become a prison. It drained my energies and left me no psychic space to focus on school work. There were teammates, coaches, and friends who reassured me that it would get better. Holding steadfast to that promise made it harder for me to walk away from the team. My mother always ingrained in me the ideology of never quitting: always finish what you start. Little did I know that it sometimes hurts much more to hold on than it does to let go. I could not bear the underhanded ridicule and side glances I would receive if family and friends from home found out I had quit. I had always heard stories while in high-school about athletes who met their demise as they went on to college. High-school track made me realize my first real dreams –that I could be great, in any capacity. I was determined to be successful, if not scared into wanting to be successful.  

 

As I got to Penn, I feel as though a part of me withered away. It was scary to feel like this, and to have everyone point the finger at you saying "it is your fault." It destroys you for a while –eats you alive. I was keeping up with this charade as a shell of a person. Hollowed out, as if someone had scratched out my insides. So much of my identity had been wound up in being an athlete, but it was literally sucking the life out of me. I felt guilty because I thought I owed it to myself and to the University to be a great athlete, seeing how far it had gotten me at that point. It opened the door to college and my grades carried me through. This guilt soon manifested into anxiety, then into depression. I felt ashamed in my situation and it was hard trusting people enough to open up. When I found that I had no choice but to be open, many people shut me out or just could not offer me the kind of support I needed. My peers were also depressed and plagued by different ails, so my worries felt unnecessary to add to their burdens, already piled high. So, I understand why students often speak of feeling alone. 

 

But, this is not to be a story of defeat. I spent a long time feeling like I had given up or was a failure because I did not finish what I had started. It was not until very recently that I realized it takes maturity to walk away from something that has served its purpose and, in my case, had begun to cause so much pain. I spent a long time thinking of how much of a hypocrite people might think me to be if I were an advocate for Black athletes while not being an athlete myself. I was also overcome by a personal dissonance of preaching to others that they should do what makes them happy, while I continued on in something that no longer brought me joy. So, for the sake of being authentic to myself, I let go. I thought it would have been more dramatic: backlash, outburst, opposition. I thought the moon would have fallen out of the sky and the world would end. None of that happened. Life continued on and nothing disrupted the continuum. Instead of feeling an eruption of grief within me, I felt relieved. At first, it felt wrong. How could I feel relieved after giving up something I loved so much? After the initial panic subsided, it all came down to one question: what makes me happy? Track and field, at that moment in time, no longer fulfilled me, and that is okay. 

Once I let the rush of relief fill me, I was also overcome with something else: hope. It sounds a little strange. A now second-semester senior, after riding on track and field throughout her whole college experience, quits, and now feels hope? I am hopeful in the sense that now, I feel like I could finally be great. So much of my time here was spent on barely making it, getting JUST enough to pass. My undergraduate career had become a summation of bare minimums. I did not want it to be that way, but that is just how it happened. I was even told that it was supposed to be this way for me. I had begun to feel like that was all I was worth at one point. The day I realized that it does not have to be that way, was the day I truly felt hope. There was a counselor that told me I did not have to count myself out because of grades. That I am worthy to chase every opportunity and open any door. That I am allowed to let my passions lead me to opportunity. I learned in a bible study that hope is carried by faith. So, it is hope that led me into the Inspiration's audition room and faith that helped me make it through as a member. It was hope that I would be able to share my writings with others, and faith that led me to create a blog and become an English major. It was hope that helped me believe that my dreams are valid and that it is never too late, and faith that will eventually lead me to a job, and soon after, into law school. I am not afraid anymore. Even if I am, I refuse to let it hinder me any longer. I used to think that I was supposed to have arrived here knowing exactly what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. One can only imagine how panicked I was these last three and a half years when I had nothing concrete nor worthy of mention. Plans are often thwarted, nothing is set in stone, and no one has their life together in their 20's. Although making it to college was expected of me, it does not have to be the driving force of the rest of my life. 

 

An important lesson I learned was to never ever let anything consume me. I never realized that even the things I love can bring me to a very dark place. I learned that there is a lesson in everything we experience, no matter how painful or trivial. It takes strength to see past the pain. I learned to be kind to myself. College is a place that forces adulthood responsibilities on individuals a couple months removed from their high-school years. Personally, it always came natural to take the fault for certain situation or blame/beat myself up for a lot of things. This is emotionally debilitating and creates a vicious routine of self-loathing, chastisement, and doubt. Forgive yourself for your mistakes, you owe it to yourself and it informs your relationships with other and how you forgive them. Finally, I learned how to believe in something bigger than myself. Knowing that I do not have to take on all of my burdens alone, it is comforting to know the strength of God's (or any other higher being/force) unconditional love and comfort.

 

Although I was hesitant to start here, to frame my life as though track and field was the pinnacle of it, I realize the importance of doing so. Track is not life. The trials based around trying to keep track as a major part of my life blessed me with a chance to learn and grow. Penn has changed me. It equipped me with the tools to, not only survive, but to grow comfortably and uncomfortably into myself. I will not call the transformation complete. I still have a lot of mistakes to make and experiences to have. However, I am grateful to be someone completely different from the Shakele of four years ago. I am grateful to know that in my life, I have the choice to put happiness first. 

Onward & Upward

I looked at her said 

"Mama, next time you see me, I'll be graduating from the University of Pennsylvania"

She looked at me, and smiled

2015

After seven semesters of tumult, rifts, pain, grief, depression, laughter, joy, and tears, I have finally made it to my final semester of my undergraduate career. I look back, and instead of being regretful or ashamed of all that I have experienced, I am delighted. I am living. I am alive. Life will continue to teach me and be rough with me. That's okay. For once, I am looking forward and am not crippled by my fear. Yes, I am making adult decisions concerning the next steps of my life. Yes, it is nerve-racking and scary. However, I am ready to charge bravely towards it, as opposed to quivering in a dark corner. I choose to be happy. Starting my year off in church, and walking with Christ since then, I know that I will have a strong start and powerful finish, with a few bumps in the road. It is so important to take the time to look inward, to take the time to rid your life of the poisons and toxins, and to just let go. Personally, I found it difficult to let go of the bitterness and pain that plagued me last year. I realized that as soon as I was ready to take flight, there were things ready to clip my wings. Some of those things being people-- even friends. I spent a lot of time questioning who I was and if the person I stared at in the mirror was just a caricature. It took a lot of time to let go of the pain. It is so easy to dwell in the darkness and feel defeated. Thankfully, I bravely got up, and took steps towards the light, leaving anger, disbelief, doubt, and hopelessness behind. Now, it is not to say that it those are completely gone, but that I have been actively letting pieces of them go, day by day. Life becomes very rewarding when you let go of the negativity. I realized that people float in and out of your life, and it is not your place to question why, or wallow in the pain of their departure. Instead, it is the lesson these individuals and events teach you that you carry with you. That is what you focus on.

So let 2015 be a year where you let go of pain, and let in love. It all starts with you.

Cheers to a kick-ass year

Stand With Jada

When I saw the atrocity that was #Jadapose, I, like many others, had begun to feel myself losing hope for humanity

The 16-year-old teen was invited to a party where she was later raped, and pictures of her naked body surfaced on social media. 

I barely have any words for this. 

It shouldn't have to take someone to think that if it were their mother or sister or some female relative close to them, for them to consider or care. Where is the regard for her humanity? For the fact that her body was violated, showcased, and then MOCKED for all to see? Her raped BODY was ridiculed through a hashtag on Twitter and accompanied with other Black teens striking the "#Jadapose". To add insult to injury, there were individuals who were siding with the rapist, shaming Jada for what was DONE TO HER, and making comments such as "he could rape me anytime", trivializing this devastating situation. While the media attention gained to counter this has been garnered, it is sad that people were initially learning about Jada's rape as a joke.

This is reminiscent of Sarah Baartman (the "Hottentot Venus"), the slave woman who was displayed as a freak, her body on exhibit for people to publicly oogle, touch, examine, mock and ridicule. After her death, casts of her body were made and they (along with jars filled with her organs) remained on display in Paris for many to view like some exotic showcase. This correlation is VERY troubling.  

I applaud Jada for her bravery, but it rips me up inside to see how hollow her eyes looked as she spoke. Void of hope, or comfort. This violence against Black girls and women, the cultural dismemberment of black bodies, and the trivialization of rape needs to stop. I want to say that I hope those responsible for this are brought to justice, but what about the ramifications? What steps will be taken afterwards to prevent this from ever happening again? This dehumanization is so deeply ingrained in our media and culture and fed to us systematically, how are we going to dismantle it? How can I and my fellow sisters dwell safely in a world where rape is trivialized and the victims can find no escape from blame, both physically and via social media? One can identify their cultural affinity within "Black twitter" or other groups within social media that are alike. It can be seen as a source of support or a platform to propel ideas of uplifting and activism. After this case however, I see them as attackers. Black faces ready to humiliate, target, scrutinize, brutalize, attack, and shun other Black faces. For far too long, it has been too easy to sit behind a computer or mobile device, and potentially damage someone's life (sometimes ultimately ending it). This sets the example for other races to follow, a guide on how to treat us too. That Black bodies and lives are not valued, and that we should be treated as such. I wish more people were aware of this.

At this point, I urge you all to stand with Jada and pray for this world. My hope for humanity has just about run out. 

#YouOkSis?: My Personal Experiences with Street Harassment

"Ayo ma!"

"Psssst"

"Aye Slim"

"Hey Chocolate"

"Aye Darkie"

"Nice **insert body part here**"...

I was always told that I looked older for my age. At 11-years old, I had to go down to the DMV to get an ID because movie theaters tried to charge me for an adult ticket. People just didn't believe me when I told them my real age. 

I remember being in the library. I was strolling around, looking for a book for my sixth grade summer reading project, until I was approached by a man. "Hey ma, how you doing? You look so beautiful" he said. He was double my height and looked like he was about twice my age. I was weary of this. "I'm fine" I replied. I was always told to ignore strangers, especially strange men, but he kept following me down each aisle of the library, making comments about my body. After some time, and still not being able to shake him off, I asked "How old are you?" He said 22. At that point, I explicitly backed away from him, tried to laugh off the fear swirling around in my belly, and told him I wasn't interested. He tried to go after me for a moment, but I escaped into one of the bigger common areas that had more people inside. My heart was pounding. I was so confused as to what just happened. For many years, I would believe that I was being "hit-on" or "holla-ed at" and should have been proud, but in hindsight, I was being harassed. 

At age 15, I was confronted by two men at the front door of my apartment building. One of them kept saying "Come on, it's Valentine's Day, gimmie a kiss" and he wouldn't let me through until I complied. He kept toying with me. Calling me beautiful one moment then charging towards me, prepared to strike me when I wouldn't submit to his advances the next. His friend stood there and laughed at me as I cowered in fear. I was defenseless. I just stood there and silently prayed that I would be let through. Eventually, he got tired of me not giving in, and decided to let me into the building. I was paranoid for the rest of the night. I waited a couple of days before I told my mother. She bought me mace, taught me how to hold my keys in my fist, and taught me where to strike if I was ever confronted with danger. I still shudder whenever I think about that night. It could've turned into something so much worst, and I probably wouldn't even be here today. I'll never forget how much fear that man instilled in my heart-- or his friend who stood by and laughed as it was happening. 

As I got older, things didn't really change. Actually, men got much more aggressive with their advances: stalking me down two or three blocks, yelling from across the street with a group of other boys/men, asking me explicitly sexual questions (a cab driver did this to me as he was driving me home), asking me to give them a kiss or a hug, and even going so far as to touch me. But they were just flirting right? It was all just fun right? Wrong. The feeling of shame I had would override the relief of being back in the safety of my home, and that was wrong.

I watched my friends go through it too, and it was so normalized that I couldn't mentally place it as anything bad at the time. This was usually how some Black guys talked to Black girls on the street. Some of my friends would smile at being barked at from across the street, or laugh at the crude comments about "how nice your ass looks in those shorts." It was confounding. I had a friend who was used to this, but instead of ignoring them, sometimes she'd say things like "Don't 'pssssst' at me! I'm not a cat" or "Leave me alone". I tried this. This got guys really angry. They would hurl the word "Bitch!" at me and say things like "Well you were ugly anyway" just to repair their hurt ego. It made no sense. The girl you just accosted with insults was the same girl you were just begging to give you the time of day. 

This cycle of harassment continued for a long time. Seeing that my first time being approached by a man was with harassment, I just thought that that's just how men normally expressed their interest in women, and I should be grateful for even being approached. I was taught to giggle and think it was cute. To laugh it off or accept it as a compliment. I was constantly told to "smile" and made to feel like the sole purpose of my being was to "make his day". And to reject them was to either be a) accosted even more or b) called a bitch. I never realized that the men who did this had no respect for themselves (or me) to be talking to me in that manner.  Most of the time, I didn't respond. I was made to believe that if I ever responded to them, I was "asking for" and "allowing" the continued abuse through this interaction. So I opted for silence. However, there was always something about being silent towards my harassers, that made me feel like I was losing power over myself. Sure, I was choosing the safer option by ignoring them, but to hear their slimy words crawl out of their mouths and to not respond felt like it was stripping something away from me. I'm tired of forfeiting my power to these men. 

But then the shaming from everyone else begins. 

"You have no respect for yourself" 

"Well it was showing so I had to touch it/say something about it"

"You allowed this to happen to you"

"You shouldn't have been wearing that anyway"

"You shouldn't have been alone"

"You should expect things like this"

The list goes on.

I've seen girls cross streets to avoid walking through large groups of boys/men, girls putting on their headphones and blasting music, all just to protect themselves, while still making themselves uncomfortable to accommodate the culture of street harassment. 

I just don't understand how certain men could walk around thinking that they have so much agency and ownership over women's bodies that they could talk to them about it (and even touch it, without permission) in any way they please. It's sickening. A man approached me disrespectfully while I was with my mother. This happened twice. My mother was furious. Not only because of the fact I was underaged, but because he had the audacity to disrespect me while my mother was standing right next to me. She had to scream at the top of her lungs "SHE'S TWELVE", but they would just snicker and smirk to themselves. Street harrassment knows no bounds. While this world has these men conditioned into thinking that it is harmless, going about your daily life as a woman becomes a frightening ordeal. 

This NEEDS to be addressed. Many don't understand that this is what breeds violence against women, perpetuates rape culture and victim-blaming, and causes the dehumanization of women to continue. This is especially prevalent among WOC.

So it is my hope that by sharing my story that, not only will I encourage other women to share their stories, but we could also bring to light an issue that has been plaguing women for years. Do not be intimidated into silence. Our voices are important, and the strength of our words can put an end to the abusive reign of street harrassment.

#YouOkSis?

Why I Love Nicki Minaj So Much

As much as I've tried to repress it, and feed into the negativity surrounding Nicki Minaj (folks being nit-picky over her overall image and the meaning of her lyrics), I can no longer contain my adoration of Nicki Minaj. She lets every woman and girl channel a "little Nicki" inside them that lets them be crazy, ridiculous, and insane, all while leading a fierce movement of our own. She used the all-too-popular "Barbie" doll image and turned it into her own brand. She bursted on the scene and made a huge statement. She's so much more universal (to me) than female rappers that have come before her. She stretched herself outside of rap, into pop, gaining a wider audience and I think that's simply genius. If you could reach the point where you have a 7-year old white girl singing your songs on Ellen Degeneres, then you're doing something right. People call her fake because of the whole "Barbie" thing, or a sell-out because of the whole rap-pop transition she made, but Nicki Minaj has been able to keep herself fresh with her outlandish outfits and wigs, and has still been able to maintain herself as a well-know artist. People don't realize that one must do what they have to do first, before they can do what they want to. In this case, in order to gain the enormous audience and fame she has, she had to reach over into pop and experiment with something new. As much as many may love hardcore rap, that only reaches but so many in comparison to pop. She found an angle by which she could appeal to many while still inserting her rap here and there. She couldn't just be raw. I've seen it with Rihanna. We all loved her as the sixteen-year old Island Girl, but paid much more attention to her when she was the "Good Girl Gone Bad" and fully transitioned into pop. Some can't handle the raw, Caribbean flare. In Nicki's case, they couldn't handle her raw style and bars, so she found another way to deliver them. 

Nicki is also an amazing business woman. She has her own perfume, her own moscato, her own line of clothing, her own MAC lipstick, her own headphones, and even her own Beats Pill. Honestly, whenever I think pink,  besides Breast Cancer Awareness, I think Nicki, and she has branded herself well enough to make it marketable. That's an inspiration. How many women, with her kind of fame, in the rap industry, maintain this level of entrepreneurship? Close to none. 

I'll never forget the time "Itty Bitty Piggy" came out. I was never the one to really listen to rap, but I tolerated it. When I heard Nicki spit those verses over Soulja Boy's "Donk" beat, I was hooked. I knew every word, every breath, I even knew how to change my voice so that it could sound like hers. Other girls in my school caught the bug too. I saw some walking around with her iconic bob with the pink hair in the back, and Barbie necklaces. My friends and I downloaded almost every song from her mixtapes and any song she was featured on, we just waited until her verse came so that we could go HAM. Years later, she has my (then nine year old) sister singing along to "Super Bass". Now, after listening and falling in love with "Pills N Potions" and singing with her word-for-word at the Fourth of July Philly Jam, I'm eagerly anticipating her new album. Clearly, she was influential and has remained so for a while now. Give her some credit.

Now, I'm not here to sound like a fanatic or a die-hard Barb, but I really want people to appreciate what Nicki has done with her work. People will say that she "sold-out", but when she was underground for so long, rapping about some real shit, no one cared to listen. So I understand why she had to change, why she had to branch out. She explained it in "Dear Old Nicki". We're in a world where we have to be constantly stimulated. In music, we want to be reminded of the classic oldies but with fresh and unique intertwined. What we're asking is demanding, and I think Nicki's approach to it was appropriate. Once I let go of everyone's doubting and the "she's doing too much/she's fake" mantras, I really got to see and embrace her for who she really is. That was heightened even more when she made her speech at the BET Awards addressing the fact that it is difficult to thrive in a male-dominated world. Even in your craft, in your passion, you have to work twice as hard (or even harder) just to get people to BELIEVE and even consider that your work can match the caliber of men. It goes deeper than allegedly "throwing shade" at Iggy Azalea. 

Nicki is living her dream and doing what she loves. That alone is motivation for women and girls everywhere to do the same. Besides the money, fame, and power, that's all a product of resilience and hard work. She shows us that the ultimate prize is to embody your dream and encourage others to do the same. We may be scrutinized, we may slip-up or become deterred, but that should never stop us from being fulfilled. Nicki is more than what we see of her and more than what I can say of her. We've witnessed glimpses of her growth, development and how she has CHANGED. She's only human. She has showed us how, in different courses of our lives, change is important, but must be embraced in order to be better than you've ever been before. It was just magnified under the scope of fame, and some can't bare to see celebrities being human. But she's still made it. One thing's for sure, Nicki is doing the damn thing, and I ain't mad. So for those who need inspiration, or those who just don't get the hype around Nicki, look and listen a little closer. Her existence alone is the spearhead of an empowering movement, and I am here for it. She is one of the most influential women of our generation, a loaded statement, but an appropriate and deserved one. Reign on Queen Barb, I'm standing right there with you.

Also, she a Trini so that's always a plus :)

Cornrows and Double-Dutch

Right before I went back to school on Monday, my mother braided my hair up in a very intricate up-do with a combination of cornrows and twists. I feel like braiding my hair is almost therapeutic for her. It's our time to bond and a bit nostalgic for her, always bringing up how thick my hair was when I was little, and how that hasn't quite changed. While at the grocery store today, a white woman tapped me and complimented my hair style. "I really like that" she said as she pointed. I was flattered, then wondered if she had ever seen anything like it. Approaching almost two years after I shaved all of my hair off, I've gotten a plethora of remarks and compliments that were different from when I had straight hair. A lot of how-did-you-get-your-hair-to-do-thats and questions about products. I'm getting used to the inquiries and want for knowledge. This particular situation, however,  triggered a memory for me. 

It took me to a time back in sixth grade. Just being let out from school, we decided to wonder around before going home. Middle school brought freedom not given lightly to elementary schoolers, and there weren't many after-school programs to get involved in. My friends and I wandered around until we were in front of the Brooklyn Public Library. So we decided to play double-dutch. After a couple rounds filled with games, turns, and tricks (pop-up, mumble, typewriter, criss-cross, the kick... you girls remember those?) a white woman walked up to us. She had this incredulous look on her face and her tone mimicked that sentiment. "Oh my goodness" she beamed "I've never seen anything like this! May I take a picture of you guys doing that?" My friends and I sort of stared at each other. She was a stranger but we were out in public so it shouldn't be anything bad. We agreed. My friend, Tasmine, was the best one out of all of us so we let her "jump" for the picture. I was one of two turners. The woman took out her large camera and snapped away, a smile strecthed across her face as if it would stay there forever. 

What really struck me was how common in our community double-dutch was and how alien it was to her. It made me think about how normal it was to rummage through my mother's drawers at home for old telephone cords to bring to recess or barbecues or playgrounds or block parties. How it made grown women kick off their work shoes just to bask in the essence of memory, both amazed and pleased that their bodies still remembered the rhythm of the ropes. How you NEVER bought an actual "jump-rope" from the store. To pray that you don't get hit with the rope or a huge welt would form on your skin. How normal it was to claim "zero" so that you got to jump before the person who actually claimed "first". Three jumps for everyone, five if there was a smaller group. If you didn't know how to turn, you learned (I was intially "double-handed" lol). If you couldn't do double-dutch, you did single. I thought about how normal it was to have other girls come up to you, asking you to play and how you'd let them, without hesitation. There were few competitions, but they always ended up melting into afternoons of bliss. No hard feelings. It was easy to make friends through double-dutch. It was something that brought us together. Under this one, simple thing, black girls united, and I wonder if it was that unity that amazed her. That ability to teach, learn, embrace, showcase, and impress through the simple notion of double-dutch. I know that I would be amazed by such a thing, its beauty manifested in children. Little girls with cornrows and braids, plastic beads hanging down each one.

I yearn for a time in which women really could come together like that. I feel so conflicted by posts and pictures of women viciously berating other women, then preaching for us to collaborate in the same token. While I understand that we are no longer children, why can't we unite for something meaningful, for the sake of ourselves? I had a conversation with my mother the other day. I said, "I've been made to feel like, on countless occasions, that this world has no place for me." I already have two strikes against me in this world, black and woman. It is hard not to constantly feel like I don't belong. So, calling all of my sisters, I need you. We need each other. There are bigger things in this world. I once heard someone say jokingly "Damn, it's a shame that the only thing we could get black people to mobilize for is a party." Let's change that. Those hundreds of missing girls in Nigeria? We're talking about them. We're not hiding behind silence. We're trying to do something about it. Let's continue the conversation and bring to light other events such as those. Our women are powerful and we deserve to be in this world. 

 

It may not be as simple and free-spirited as the afternoons spent playing double-dutch, but it is the substance, the sigificance behind unity, that matters the most.