Living Life Purposefully

Where Purpose Meets Passion

In God’s Time

“Don’t worry, Baby. It will happen in God’s time!”

This was a phrase I used to hate hearing. In these moments, I could understand the person who said them meant well, but it usually left me feeling like, “Well, shit. If it’s going to happen anyway, why do I have to go through all of this mess?”

But that all changed one day while I cooked dinner for my family. Standing in my kitchen, my countertop was cluttered with the various things that would go into the meal. I had raw chicken, uncooked rice, vegetables that were in the process of being prepped, various seasonings to enhance the flavor, and the tools to actually prepare the meal. Mentally, I went over the order of the steps to take to make sure the different components of the meal would finish at the same time. Reaching over the stove to turn on the appropriate number of burners I’d need, I thought to myself, “OH MY GOD!”

I stepped back and once again surveyed my counter. I realized I had all of the ingredients for the meal but I did not have the meal itself. I also had all of the necessary tools to make sure I’d have the meal I wanted, but I had not yet used them. In that moment, I understood exactly how I would interpret the phrase, “In God’s time!” moving forward.

You see? When we talk about our purpose and living purposefully, we fail to realize we are a lot like the ingredients for a meal. We fail to realize the trials, tribulations, and devastating events we experience in our life are a lot like the stoves used to prepare food for consumption. Finally, we fail to realize that being stuck in a place or meeting the same obstacle is a lot like the time it takes to actually cook the meal.

Knowing now that God’s timing is all about preparation for a task ahead has changed the way I think about my personal struggles. Speaking candidly on one issue in particular, I have found myself in the same kind of job environment for the last ten and a half years. It’s been a struggle to reconcile the dissatisfaction stemming from the understanding I’ve worked for the same kind of managers in the same kind of job cultures. The tapes recorded throughout my job experience had started to play a devastating message in my mind: “I wasn’t in the right places doing the right kind of work and having the right kind of impact.”

The struggles I felt and still face today led to a lot of self-loathing that I work daily to unpack. I thought maybe, just maybe, I was the problem.

Until this realization clicked for me.

Knowing what “God’s timing!” is actually about has allowed me to move forward with more conviction about what it is I’m here to do. Sometimes, I fumble things when I share new ideas with more people, but I’m always reminded of the importance of “God’s timing.” In the moments where I’m not as sure of myself as I wish to be and things around me still feel completely devastating, I tell myself I’m still on the stove. It’s practice and the bits I’m prompted to share are just me allowing others to taste what God wants them to have.

That’s why I’ve decided to share this personal reflection for others to see. If you find yourself facing challenges while trying to move forward on the path you know God has for you? If you find yourself wondering if you’re supposed to be in those rooms talking to those big people but worry they’ll think you’re a fraud? If you find yourself asking the question, “But why is this happening to me?” Don’t give up. It doesn’t mean you’re not supposed to be there. It just means you’re not yet ready for where you are to go.

Your time is surely coming.

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The Power of Relationship

“The nature of the relationship dictates everything!”

As I sat at my work desk attempting to remain present-minded enough to do my work, that phrase rose in my spirit. I realized I was caught in the uncomfortable familiarity of walking a thin line of depression while wedged between job dissatisfaction and the inability to just quit. Once again, I felt stuck – and feeling stuck left me feeling trapped.

In this body I inhabit as a Black Woman in the USA, I find myself often revisiting the idea of freedom. That is what I crave. That is what I clutch onto when any semblance of it lands in my hands. With a low-paying job, high student loan debt saddled to my back, and a bunch of other stress-inducing issues? I was often left feeling like I am a walking embodiment of unrealized potential; and this moment was no different.

I had become a star that burned too strongly. Too brightly. Too soon.

As I sat as my work desk a few days after my 32nd birthday, I was almost brought to tears by the magnitude of this quiet realization. My Soul was reminding me of the kind of wisdom you bring with you into life. The kind you just know without it being explained. It dawned on me that the conundrum is we often forget this knowledge because it isn’t explained. We are taught so much about what’s acceptable that this is the wisdom we forget to apply to life.

“The nature of the relationship dictates everything!” The voice reminding me of this was resolute. In my confusion, I paused long enough the voice was able to follow with, “And everything in life is relationship.”

Now I said before that I was almost brought to tears. In my mind, I saw my life move in reverse as though God, my Inner Self, or some other deeply revered source of wisdom flipped through a picture book. I started to see pivotal moments and the barrage of emotions – ones I can name and some I can’t – poured over me. To feel everything at once without any way to stop it left me stunned. Similar to other moments where small realizations are posed to become significant breakthroughs, my Spirit asked, “And what will our relationship with life be going forward?”

What will my relationship with life be going forward?

Answering it quietly in my heart, I made up in my mind to find myself and reclaim my power. My life feels like a tapestry of grief being held together by very thin threads of punctuated joy. I know going forward that I have to prioritize recoloring those experiences. In other words, what was once soft grays, biting blues, ominous blacks, and occasional threads of gold? I will look at those very same experiences as a canvas and choose to repaint parts of it in my heart with the vibrant colors signifying who I wish to become.

I am here.

And my relationship with life going forward will be acceptance, accountability, and peace.

This is my toast to life and what’s to come.

The Immortality and Identity of Henrietta Lacks

 

You walk into an inviting room and approach the receptionist’s desk. Most times, they smile in your direction and inquire as to why you are there. You sign in on the clipboard and the thought may cross your mind, “What do they do with this?” Since it’s routine, it’s fleeting. You finish signing in by confirming your information.

And then you take your seat.

You wait. 10 minutes on a great day or close to an hour on a really bad day. Finally, you hear your name called. You walk through a door and you glimpse an official-looking sign that may read: NO ENTRY UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY STAFF. This part of the office is less inviting. Your escort knows this and tries to lighten the mood by engaging you in small talk.

“How have you been since the last time we saw you?” You step on a scale. They take a note. “Oh right! I remember. Did you manage to get that job you were applying for?” You walk down a hall illuminated by fluorescent lighting. “I know that’s right. That’s all you can do.” You walk into a room with two chairs next to a very small desk which holds a computer used for notating in your electronic chart. “You can have a seat in one of those chairs.” You sit down and explain why you’re there. If it’s a good day, it’s just a check-up.

But if it’s a bad day? There is really no telling where it will go.

You answer those questions as best you can. Your escort finishes their notations and says the words that you either welcome with anticipation or meet with dread.

“The doctor will be in shortly.”

***

Most of us have this very sterile experience when visiting our doctor’s office. While there are many people who are there for routine visits, a great majority of us often go when we feel something is wrong in our bodies. In these cases, we trust that our doctors and their staff will do right by us and give us the type of treatment that allows us to live the long lives we hope for ourselves. The expectation here is that Mothers will walk out the door to spend time with their Children. Daughters will walk out the door to spend time with their Mothers. Wives with Husbands. The expectation here is that doctors not only heal, but that they heal our bodies with good intention. But a sad trend is that if you are (1) Black, (2) poor, (3) uneducated, or (4) any combination of the first three, the likelihood is that you won’t have that experience. You won’t have the experience of being seen as a whole person with a family outside of the walls of the hospital. You, and to some extent your body, can become a fascinating specimen where the need to make a significant contribution to society and science erase the empathy that allows medical professionals to see you as a person.

That was the case with Henrietta Lacks.

Henrietta Lacks

Henrietta Lacks. Shutterstock Image.

It took me a day and a half to read the tapestry Rebecca Skloot weaved in her writing of “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.” The author does a stunning job of adding the depth of Personhood that is intentionally stripped by most scientists in their discussion of her. To many? She is a “thing”; a marvelous thing but a thing nonetheless. Skloot reminds you (the reader) that the woman behind the HeLa cell very much mattered to those she touched in life. In The Immortal Life, you learn of her impact on her children, husband, extended family, and community. Finally, you get the idea that what made her remarkable wasn’t that a damaging piece of her was immortal; but that she loved fully and completely – even in damaging circumstances. She was real. She was raw. But more than that? She had a name.

For that alone, I would recommend the book to any person who is interested in learning about the woman responsible for many of the leaps and bounds medicine has made in the last 60 years.

However, as I read this book, I felt a gathering of emotion that will easily consume anyone identifying as part of an underserved population. As a Black American woman from a low-income background who currently finds herself a part of the working poor? This book brought to surface the feeling of “Other” I was introduced to early in life by those possessing some form of societal privilege. In many instances, I was reminded of the extensive disenfranchisement and abuse Black Americans endured at the hands of those in power. This reminder left a constant knot of frustration in my throat while reading.

Other parts of me, trained social scientist, abuse survivor, and the patient living with a chronic health condition, read the book differently. “For once,” I thought, “here is a book that puts it plainly what it means to be Black and poor in the US and experience different institutions.”

As a social scientist, I appreciated the qualitative approach Ms. Skloot took in introducing those close to Henrietta Lacks. You were reminded she had a family because their voices and emotional burdens were loud, clear, and distinct on these pages. Their frustration in never receiving an answer to the ever-present question of “What happened to my Mother/Wife/Cousin/Friend?” was palpable. Their condemnation of those who would take advantage of people who trust someone because of their expertise was rightfully placed. More than that? The void of having missed a Mother/Wife/Cousin/Friend in their lives would never be filled and was only exacerbated by the assumptions they understood what was happening to their family. With the writing of this book, Ms. Skloot seemed to help fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle. This left me somewhat relieved.

As an abuse survivor, I readily recognized the cyclical and long-term damage of being harmed at the hands of close relatives. To see it take place generationally reminded me of the “Keep family business in the family!” stance many Black families take. I thought about how differently life might have been for a few of the women in the book had they received the kind of help that would let them lead a life free from worry. I wondered what would have happened if they had been advocated for. More than that? I recognized their bodies being harmed as a byproduct of having to protect the Black Family and the Black Man above protecting their own Black bodies. The intellectual toll, emotional scars, and lack of skills to cope with physical abuse was also illustrated. This left me mostly sad.

As a patient living with chronic health issues, I felt conflicted reading about a woman whose death directly contributed to my personal management of my health crises. As a Black woman living with chronic health issues? I felt anger at the thought that my cells could be used (and probably are being used) in such a fashion. I thought about the lack of accountability in meeting people where they are when explaining confusing ideas and field-specific terms. I thought about the lack of foresight many of the medical professionals seemed to possess when it came to deciding between furthering their ambitions or receiving a “No.” from a patient fully aware of the risks involved. This left me mostly angry.

As a person from a low-income background, I felt a deep connection to the environments many of the voices introduced in the book found themselves in. At any moment? I can take a trip to a neighborhood not too far away and see the implications of what happens when people are tossed to the side only to be remembered when they need to clear space for other people. In many of these instances, the faces there will look like mine – Black or Brown but noticeably absent of white faces. Understanding this, the distrust of Ms. Skloot was warranted. After all, who put people like us in those neighborhoods to begin with? Who benefitted most from programs allowing upward mobility and a chance at a life better than the one their parents experienced? The blight and subsequent effect on the welfare and well-being of the remaining Lackses spoke to the determination to make it by any means necessary. All too often, this is a story many Black Americans still find themselves tied to. This “fact of life” left me reminded with what it means to be burdened while Black.

Overall, this book was a really good (almost great) read. It was written well and comes across as thoughtfully intentioned. The biggest thing is that it finally gives the everyday person an idea of the woman being called Immortal in the medical and scientific community.

We are finally told of the woman Henrietta Lacks.

The Journey to Self-Healing

When you embark upon a path of self-healing, you can become transfixed on it having to look a certain way based on the teachers you initially meet. What makes self-healing a difficult experience is that we often find ourselves at a fork in the road. 

The decision before us becomes: “Do I continue to follow this teacher? Or do I strike out in search of another teacher?”

Having been in some form of counseling since I was 9 years old, I’ve come to this place many times. To put it more bluntly, at 30 years old, I realize I’m at the point in my journey where more is required of me. 

The thought came to me in the quiet stillness of the morning – “Teachers can only teach you what they know. They can only teach you what they’ve experienced. They can only teach you what they are ready to be honest about.”

It felt jarring. It felt harsh. The statement felt like an indication of where I fell short. Often? The most important lessons come wrapped in a demeanor of frustration and a tone of exasperation. 

To that, I hear you God.

As a Black Woman, that’s what makes self-healing scary. I don’t have the luxury of no longer acknowledging vague needs and must now explicitly state what it is that opens these personal wounds. And it’s a lot to burden yourself with when you seek answers from those who offered their help, yet remain committed to not touching the same kind of hurt within themselves. 

All heartbreak is not the same. All betrayal is not the same. All disappointment is not the same. ‬It’s why I’ve realized  you can’t look for specific wisdom in a person that’s never experienced the same type of wound. ‬

Knowing this, it’s important to remind ourselves our task remains the same – heal yourself fully and help others do the same. ‬So get to it. 

With love,

Ms. C. Jayné

Isolation & Growth

Here’s a thought: “Isolation is necessary for growth.”

Isolate. Verb. Cause a person or a place to be or remain alone or apart from others. 

Isolation is a feeling that none of us like. It’s the part of growth where we start to question, “What is all of this shit for?” It makes being in the emotional tunnel that requires living more intentionally or with a higher code of values almost unbearable. 

Almost. I said almost.

The thing about isolation is that we notice it the most when we feel like we’re in a dark place. I use dark here because I’m reminded of the church hymn, “This little light of mine.” As the case with any light that shines in darkness, it is a beacon for those who are finding their way to look to. The assumption that a lot of us make is letting our light shines means we know what our light is shining for. Often, we do not and we are not comfortable with the not knowing. At least, I know I’m not. 

There’s good news though. Isolation doesn’t mean that all is lost and we shouldn’t feel that it does.

When you ARE being isolated? It’s imperative that you understand it’s like your Spirit is trying on a new size of clothing. You aren’t necessarily alone BUT it is necessary for you to be separated from people, places, or things that could hinder your growth. 

Said another way, when you ARE being isolated, your Spirit is adjusting itself to the new amount of space it needs for you to live more fully in your purpose. It’s why civilizations have always separated neophytes and initiates from the rest of the tribe during coming of age and initiation rites. It’s why newlyweds separate from what they’ve known as their family in the “get to know you differently” phase with their new spouse. It’s why new hires go through training and are slowly introduced to new coworkers. 

In each instance, you’re shedding an old way of being and know. Isolation, or separation, is what allows you to come into a new understanding of who you are and how you must perform in your new role. Isolation is imperative for the person you strive to become. 

And when you’re waving around blindly in darkness trying to reach for anything or anyone to let you know you aren’t alone? Don’t worry. Once you’ve become accustomed to the way your new Spirit fits, the people, places, and things which support who you have become more fully will show up.

Isolation isn’t ever really fun but it is necessary for growth.
Love,

Ms. C. Jayné 

Truths Revealed

January 1st is always a day that feels like it comes with a built in reset button for life. It is the only reason that I look forward to it with so much anticipation. This last year though? I wondered if it would hold the same promise that other “new year” days held.

With 2015 being as bad as it was, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t see thirty if life continued to feel as hopeless. What changed for me was a response to a message I sent to a friend that was really close to me. In it, she told me that she wanted to work on our friendship.

And that has been the theme of many of my conversations lately. People are just as afraid of being vulnerable as I am. Their fear of the truth crippled them as much as my fear crippled me.

The thing I learned though was to face the fear and find something, anything, to pull me to a place of courage. We’re all afraid because we’re human but the fear should never stop us from living a vibrant life.

That’s one truth revealed.

Thank you January 1st for this.

5 Things to Know By 30

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I bet the title grabbed your attention right?

This isn’t one of those posts that you get a list of the things you need to do before your 30th birthday. It isn’t a list of lessons you needed to have learned. It isn’t a list of places you needed to have visited.

Rather, it’s a reflection of where I am in life based on those things.

Essentially, I’m in a place of Reflective Struggle. It sounds nice when I write it that way but my truth is that I’m in some shit, I’ve been in some shit, and it doesn’t look like I’m getting out any time soon. Basically, I have started to wave my white flag in surrender to life. I’ve been busy facing my personal inadequacies as markers of real-to-me success.

By some measures, I’m a success and there are people (who know me personally) who will be absolutely confused by this post. They’ll say, “But she has these things.” And it isn’t about things. This post is about the frustration I felt with not being supported in a way that made me feel like they valued my spirit. It’s about the sorrow I have from feeling like I wasted my time doing things that weren’t for me. I spent years in spaces that didn’t make me happy because that’s what made sense to people on the outside. I accepted jobs that made me absolutely miserable and chipped at my self-esteem on a daily basis to pay bills that a dent hasn’t been made.

I’m the most successful failure I know because I accomplished all of those things and failed at faking happiness.

Since my 25th birthday, I’ve dealt with a constant nagging that I wasn’t living; I wasn’t even existing. I was lost. And it was then that I started to look at the lists. I wanted to see all of the lists and compare them and study them and use them to set my intentions.

My existence became an exhaustive list of To-Do items, many of them out of my reach. It’s important that I share since graduating with a Master’s degree in 2010, I’ve always been poor. I’ve been less than working poor. I’ve been “I’m so poor I’ll never own my name.” I’ve been “check to check” and “I have more month than money” exhausted. I’ve been “What the hell did I go to school for?” weary. Yet I was determined to live by these lists. The result? I’ve lived a pretty embarrassing life since following these “rules”.

And the other day, I sat down in a fit of exhausted rage when I cried tears of frustration because I’m tired of trying.

At 29 years old, I now base my accomplishments on what I’m able to get through during the day. Did I wake up and sing a song that made me happy? Did I talk to someone on the phone? Did I brush my teeth and comb my hair? I feel like I’ve lived if I did those things. I’m so weary I can’t even look at the lists anymore.

What’s the lesson?

Life is the one thing you don’t really get an instruction manual for. If there isn’t anything else you get from this post, take that nugget. There are no “How-To” manuals for this shit and no list will make up for a void of purpose.

You get up. You move. You fuck up. You try again. You don’t fuck up. You keep doing that. That’s life. That’s what you need to get by 30. And 25. And 21. And 18. And don’t forget to dream. The last thing you want to do is what I did – get caught up in the rat race of getting by in life.

You dream. You get up. You move. You fuck up. You try again. You don’t fuck up. You keep doing that. And in the meantime, you smile and make music and dance and love and laugh and cry. But you keep going. You keep doing that.

I wish someone had told me that before now.

Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This!

Hey Ladies!

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Let’s have a chat, shall we? The other day, I started to think about what I want my life to look like in 2016. This year, I’m taking a whole new approach to resolutions (or something, I haven’t decided). As I looked at the calendar and compared it to the list of my goals, I wondered, “How in the hell am I supposed to get all of this shit done?”

I also wondered if I even wanted to get it done but that’s what December is for. November is for getting all of my dreams out on paper; December is the reality check (lol). After I got over the initial “ugh” feeling, I started to think about the best way TO do these things. That’s right! I got practical. I asked:

When is the best time to get this shit done?

And then I realized something – I should use my natural inclination to “wanting to do shit” to, you know, do stuff. Now, by this time, you’re probably wondering, “What is she talking about?” I’m talking about our cycles – the ENTIRE cycle (and not just Hell/Shark/JESUS IS IT ARMAGEDDON AGAIN?! Week). This is basically what I’ve come to learn about being a woman that wasn’t in those little books they give you in your middle school health class.

The point?

WE, women*, ARE NATURALLY INCLINED TO DO SHIT BASED ON OUR ENTIRE CYCLE. The whole thing. All 21-30 days. So here are some things to remember about them.

Week 1: I LOVE EVERYONE!

Principle: Do NOT Make Important Decisions. The rule here is that you do not, under any circumstances, make any major decision. Do not agree to shit.

Do NOT agree to a damn thing.

Why? You are ovulating (I know the cycle doesn’t start here BUT I refused to start my post detailing the horrors of Shark Week). You love everyone so much that your helpful ass won’t actually do any work because you’ll overwhelm yourself with “Of course!” and “Yes!” These are the couple of days that you’re happy you’ve once again survived the Rogue Midget in Cleats running through you womb like it was the 6 (shouts to Drake and/or Q. Miller).

Remember that everything only looks appealing. That event with those people you can’t stand because their energy is wrong? You’ll say yes to that because everyone deserves a second, third, twenty-seventh chance. The really bad ideas you hear that the Sharks on Shark Tank wouldn’t even entertain? You’ll say yes to that because everything looks appealing.

So do not make any important decisions. Have the conversations, take notes, but don’t commit. Besides, you’ll be so pleasant that people won’t be offended by your “No.”

Week 2: I’M JUST BEING HONEST!

Principle: Find A Different Way To Say/Do/Think That. Sure! They need to hear whatever it is you want to tell them, just not from you. The thing to remember here is that you’re suddenly more shrewd. Ovulation happened and everything became stupid. Your egg dropped, went unfertilized, and everyone, except you, became the dumbest person alive.

But you won’t say that.

You’ll just give off the vibe that you are too cool for school. YOU ARE TOO COOL FOR ANYTHING! Because you’re (pre)PMSing. Now while this isn’t a great time to start anything, it is a wonderful time to THINK about what you want/need to see happen in your life. This is the perfect time to write it ALL down (don’t delete anything) and get it ALL out. This is also a great time to start sorting through your things and purging them, especially within the first three days of this particular hormonal phase. This is basically when you prepare for the bullshit that is to come in the next week.

Week 3: JESUS FIX IT!

Principle: Love Yourself Because You’ll Think No One Else Does. This is the week that everyone in life holds their breathe about, whether or not they have a period. This is also the week that you have everything, and I mean, everything about yourself. And it is not your fault. And your boy/girlfriend are not insensitive bastards who wish to crush your feelings because they were raised by unloving people who left them alone in dark rooms. I hate to say this because it violates all of the Girl Code but…

It is NOT them; it is You.

And blame whoever you need to. Do whatever you need to do to get through this week since Self-Care is the name of the game (it’s the only game). Love yourself a lot because the mirror won’t. This is the time of the month (see what I did there?) you don’t want to be alive. These are the days that you’ll wonder why everyone hates you, why they dump all of their shit on you, and why you, yes You, can’t get it together. Your hair is dry. Your skin is splotchy. Your clothes don’t fit. And you want to eat everything in life that ensures they will never fit again. It’s okay, Dear.

As I said, your only goal here is to love yourself. Because this love makes the next week of eating crow and getting shit done a lot easier.

Week 4: LIVE YOUR LIFE!

Principle: Do Everything You Really Want To Accomplish. Depending on how bad Hormonal Armageddon was will dictate how apologetic you need to be on the first day of this week. It’s okay. We’ve all been there and your hair actually looks okay enough to make people want to stick around to go through it again. In three weeks. Because hormones. So start with the apologies and then get started on that list of things to do!

This is when you implement the new ideas and commit to the contracts. You are the most levelheaded you’ll be and as this week goes on, you’ll only become more pleasant. You see clearly here because you have 20/20 vision. You feel great here because your energy is back. This is where your personal “I Am the Shit” playlist comes in handy. You are unstoppable so go out and conquer the world.

You’ll only have five days to do so.

.

*Men are hormonal too but that required several drinks and a bulletproof vest to write about (I’ll put it on the list for next year).

Ten Things About Me

Interesting.

To arouse curiosity and interest or to hold and catch the attention of someone.

I hear the word interesting and think “quirky” or “unique.” Other words that come to mind are “special” (to stand out). As someone who spent the majority of her life trying to blend in for fear of being deemed too much of the wrong something, this post, something that should be a simple list, was almost hard to write.

What do I find interesting about myself? Absolutely nothing. I don’t think I’m remarkably talented and can do anything particularly special. As a matter of fact, one of the things that people like about me is that I can teach you to do things in much the same way I do them (at least that’s why my last job loved me so much).

Quiet. Meek. Silent. Invisible.

Those are words that others could use to describe me. Those are the words that I would use to describe me…because those are the things that keep me safe. What’s not safe? Sharing what makes you interesting because that opens you up to judgment. However, in the vein of growth and authenticity and whatever-the-hell-else, I’m throwing caution to the wind and sharing 10 things I find interesting about myself.

Here goes nothing.

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Number 1: I’m left-handed.

Okay, sure. One in seven people are left-handed (or something like that) so that wouldn’t be particularly interesting…except I was the only one in my house growing up that was left-handed. That means, my Mom couldn’t hold my hand while I traced my letters to write so she’d make me practice my letters until she “could read them” (which is also why my handwriting is so great today). Which brings me to number two…

Number 2: Most of the time when I write (or take notes on something), my paper is almost upside down.

Again, people marvel at the life skills I’ve developed because I am left-handed. One such time happened in the 10th grade while taking a test (that I almost failed). My teacher was passing through the aisles to check and make sure we were all being honest and stopped at my test. I was so wrapped up in the questions in front of me that I didn’t notice him there until his shadow made me look up (I thought the light blew out). I just stared for a moment before saying, “Ummm, what?” His reply? “Wow. You’re writing upside down. I thought you were cheating but I see you’re not.” This man thought I was giving the answers to a classmate to my left…who would have to turn around and copy my paper. No dice, sir. Just trying not to smear my ink.

Number 3: I almost failed Art in the 9th grade because all of my perspective drawings had accidental shadows.

That darn left hand of mine would rub against the page and make my drawings less sharp. As a result, I regularly received feedback to the effect, “Why are there shadows everywhere?” The answer – because chorus was full when I went to register for my electives. That’s why.

Number 4: I used to define myself by numbers.

7-5-1986. My birthday. 3. My favorite number. 14. The number of schools I’ve attended. 8. The number of states I’ve lived in. 2. The number of countries I’ve lived in. Gotta love the military.

Number 5: Speaking of the military, where are my fellow Military Brats at?

BOTH of my parents were in the Army and I come from a tradition of military people. This is something to laugh at because everyone who has ever gone to the military hates answering to authority. As I said, my parents were in the Army, my Paternal Grandfather was in the Air Force, my Maternal Grandfather served in somebody’s war, my oldest Brother served in the Air Force. And I almost went to the Air Force except…

Number 6: I failed the physical and couldn’t go to the Air Force.

Looking back, that might have been a small blessing in disguise. Small, as in miniscule, but as I remind myself that I’m trying to think more positively, I say that it was a HUGE thing. I might not have met the people I have developed friendships with and I might not have been pushed to write (seriously) when I was. Then again, I wouldn’t have the student loan debt that I have (over $100k if you’re feeling generous enough to donate) but again…we’re thinking positively here. 😛

Number 7: I attended Brown University for graduate school…because I’m stubborn.

I mean, the full story is that I was a McNair scholar as an undergraduate student and when I had to share the list of schools I was applying to for graduate school, I was encouraged to not set my reach schools so high. Since I took it as the person telling me I wasn’t Brown University/Ivy League material, I decided to prove them wrong because what the fuck did they know? They probably knew how expensive it was (lol). Nonetheless, I had a great time when I was not in class or studying because it meant that I was spending time with my classmates shooting the breeze. The high point of my Year in Ivy League Hell? I graduated with my eyebrows and edges. #WontHeDoIt

Number 8: The thing I’m most proud of was helping a woman who had breast cancer.

Many moons ago when I was young, newly graduated, and broke as shit, I worked at a Victoria’s Secret. I was hired as part of the holiday team (seriously the best time to get a retail job if you don’t mind not spending time with your family during the holidays) and it proved to be an interesting time. One of the things we are known for is sizing women for their bras. My second day working alone (I was done with training and they threw me to the wolves), I noticed a woman in my section. Unfortunately for me, my Manager also noticed her which means I had to “upsell” our merchandise. As I was talking to her, I noticed she had two different sizes of the same kinds of bra and asked if she’d like to be measured. “Sure but not here.” I gladly radioed on the headset to ask someone to watch my section because I didn’t like being in the front anyway. After walking her back to the dressing room, I went through the customary questions and when it got how she wanted to be measured, she hesitated. At this point, her silence scared me and I KNEW I was going to be fired (I used to go right to catastrophic when I think). She told me that she was nervous because she’d had a mastectomy. She was there because her Husband’s birthday was coming up and she wanted to buy something to look nice. At this point, I said, “Well…not to sound crass or anything but cotton doesn’t scream sexy. So we’ll get you sized and I’ll take you to the nice section.” That made her laugh which was great because it meant I wouldn’t be fired.  Two days later, I was congratulated on the headset because the woman came back to buy more sexy stuff and told my Manager about the great job that I did. I ultimately was fired just not on that day (lol).

Number 9: I eat pineapple on my pizza.

Sue me. I like it. It’s delicious. If God didn’t want me to have this, he wouldn’t have made it an option at pizza places.

Number 10: Since we’re on the topic of pizza, I once did something really stupid for Dominos.

I walked in a snowstorm to get my pizza because they refused to deliver it after realizing the snow was coming down faster than they thought. This was during graduate school. That should tell you everything about why I thought walking in the snow for food was a good idea (hint: I was poor as shit and the grocery store was already closed). BONUS: I also walked to the ONLY store that didn’t close at all during that particular snowstorm – the liquor store. Again, I was in graduate school. Wine was it’s own food group at that point.

So there it is! A list of ten interesting things from a woman who would rather blend into the background. What would you say is the most interesting thing about you?

“She’s Black!”

Ballerina Art

Every dancer remembers her first BIG performance! You’ve put in weeks and weeks and weeks (okay…maybe just a few weeks) of rehearsal of your bumblebee routine. You’ve forced your family to “Look! Watch!” the under two-minute choreography you’d perform with friends and they know it better than you do! It’s supposed to be a moment that you’re gushed over and it makes your Mom smile. And your Dad. And your Brothers. And the other Moms cuz you’re the cutest dancer baby there.

I mean, my first big performance was that (except the cutest dancer baby part). The ending was good but the beginning? EVEN BETTER!

I was three years old. And a ballerina with a penchant for turning the wrong way and dancing enthusiastically with the wrong choreography. My limbs would do what they wanted to do during lessons so watching me provided endless entertainment. The ONLY thing I had to do that night was to turn the right way.

Seriously, that was all my teacher asked of me because I’d giggle uncontrollably if I didn’t.

So the big day arrives and my Mom drove me to the theater. I hopped out the car (without hitting a nae-nae) and started to fidget. I remember seeing a girl in my dance class pass by and I wanted to run into the building with her. My Mom said no to that. So we walked into the building like “we had good sense” and I ran into the area where we changed clothes. Another dance mom walked over to my Mom and handed her a pair of tights. I heard my Mom ask, “What are these?” and I knew from her tone that she was not pleased.

Perplexed and almost pissed.

Because I was as in tune with my Mom as the waves are with the phases of the moon, I stood to the side to watch what was sure to be a show. AND I WAS NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT DISAPPOINTED!

In a very weird way, the other mom said, “These are flesh colored tights.” Weird because at three I didn’t know what condescension was.

I looked to my Mom with an expression that said, “Don’t let me down!” and she didn’t. She did NOT.

My Mom told her that of course those were flesh toned tights. And followed with, “I’m confused as to whose flesh they are supposed to go on?” She did this without the Angry Black Woman neck roll. The woman, seeing what the issue finally was, replied to my Mom that everyone had to look the same. So she kindly (her word) picked up an extra pair “in case she needed one.”

And my Mom, being the troublemaker that she is, loudly said, “WHY WOULD MY BLACK DAUGHTER NEED PALE PINK DANCE TIGHTS? They aren’t exactly flesh toned.”

In my head, this was better than when my Mom had to explain why someone had to give me Black Barbies as a gift. The woman got so upset that she wanted my Mom removed from the area (Present Day Me would have responded with “look at this white ass privilege”). Instead, little me laughed almost maniacally that an adult was mad I wasn’t going to wear the wrong tights. Her request was met with laughter (rude from the belly laughter) from my dance teacher. After the woman asked what was so funny, my teacher (who is also white) explained that she’d have to get over it.

“You’re mad because she pointed out her daughter is black. She’s black.” At that, the woman stormed out of the room.

Annnnnnnnnnnnd theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen…….

We were on stage where I had the time of my three year old life even though I still turned the wrong way.