Thursday, April 3, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
I hate labels.
I grew up of immigrant parents from a color-concerned 3rd world country in the Caribbean. They worked hard to send me to a catholic school where for the first three years of academia no one else looked like me; luckily I didn't notice until the third grade. That was when the comments about my hair were made. They were cute, I suppose.. "What beautiful bows, how does your hair stay like that?" I probably had an innocent accent from saying words I thought were English only to be received with confused laughter. It was that moment where I realized I cannot fit in physically because I was not meant to.
"Don't hang out with those black Americans! They are the people that don't go to school and never work!" which was the narrative of the old man, often met with eye rolls. I used to believe him, not because there was any fact but because it was fun to not have actually earned a status and feel entitled to it. Because daddy said so obviously, but I digress. So I was told to forever speak proper (I knew no other way?) appear neat and clean, polite, never talk back and be above the cut academically. My grandfather would lecture "Girls should be like beautiful flowers, always look and smell good". Well OK then.
Time goes on and I sprout my mothers hips and ass to my classmates slender frames with breast. A few more brown classmates have joined and together we faced (and conquered!) the tired politics of the old world. Sr. Francine may you rest in the peace that you denied us. Questioning my fathers reasoning about black Americans as it so clearly was ignorant; we were treated the same no matter what our GPA was. As a "flower" I was boxed long before as something else. Defined before allowing definition, when my entity was still unknown even to myself. However these strangers knew me? My friends knew me? Or what they expected because of complexion and/or grades? Goal of my teen years 1) Break the glass ceiling, 2) Get to college.
"Girls should be like flowers, always look good and smell good". No denying the proximal affect of a beautiful bouquet. In a week those flowers and stems have wilted but still pretty, nothing more attractive than a downward spiral. And in another week they are trashed and maybe replaced. Maybe not.
Beauty gets old and boring and surely replaceable. But a beautiful spirit never expires. It's full of love, adventure, compassion, and wanton jubilee. I've never strived to be simply beautiful, a facade of good genes and makeup. I hope my spirit never dies, even when my "Beauty" does. Grandpa will understand.
I hate Labels.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
I don't need light to view you.
The glimmer of your effortless aura gives me the right amount of shine to smile in your direction.
I can feel you in every sense of emotion that I'm allowing myself to currently succumb to. To finally feel you the way I am meant to.
I'm so stubborn. The walls around me, placed undeniably by me, have cheated me of knowing how completely infected by you I've become...
So I guess I'll just continue to deny it.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
In some form of defense against my perpetual possibilities I would ALWAYS downplay certain compliments. Now my friends, as honest and powerful as they are (and I'm lucky to have them), they never shy from teasing me about my physical vanity. However, personality compliments always enacted the "Be Humble" alarm and I end up playing off the kind dialogue with some humor (my defence mechanism). I fooled myself into thinking that my comfort zone in empathic-mediocrity/automatic humility meant for me to never accept genuine accolade and instead laugh it off like some potty trained puppy. What the hell was I thinking? A little pride in who I am would have probably gone a long way in life. Hm. "New Year New Me" or nah?
Sunday, December 29, 2013
I often refer to myself in the privacy of my thoughts as a prodigal daughter...simply because I fight whats best for me for the sake of battle and even maybe a challenge. Recently I watched my mother pray without ceasing (probably for me) and I saw her war-torn battle tested bible and prayer books. The tape and rubber bands barely held the paper together, the edges pig eared to tearing, and few bare spaces were scribbled in with deep passionate cries for change, help, blessings...something.
This made me cry. I felt so helpless for my mother, someone I fight with constantly... For what? The day she leaves me will be a horrible awakening of wasted pride. I should be proud of her and vice versa. I felt horrible that she was hurting so deep that even holy text left her empty. That even reading the same Jeremiah 29:11 "for these plans I have for you.." didn't appeal to her cries that I probably caused her to scream. Whatever prayer she was decreeing over me went unheard. I cried for mom then, and saw her as human as myself; but somehow better. She is my mother.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
I just want you to come.
Come to me with everything you own, all your baggage, your indecisions and shames.
I want to unpack it all.
Place them neatly on the mantle to remind me of how far you've come. Also to remind me of the lenghts I have to go in order to reach you.
The lengths I'd gladly go if you were my last gasp of air.
Come to me.
Bring your renewed hopes in us and let's unpack them together. The mistakes we made let's not harbor on those packages, and treat them like last season gifts.
Whether we enjoy the process of unpacking or not is irrelevant; I want us to share the everything that encompass the beautiful being that is you.
Come and unpack.
I won't judge your filth, I won't question it. With compassionate words I help you amass what's unpleasant. With that I would only dare to remind of how I adore you for those same reasons.
I adore your filth because it is a part of you. For that reason it's unfortunately named by you which I chose to change to mere skips in your perfect beat.
The beat I dance too in hopes that you will come.
Come and unpack with me.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Rarely a late night passes me by without a motley movie of thoughts.
Well, I'm a bottler.
No. I don't work at a brewer (if heaven were to only bless me!) But when I say bottler, I mean when undesirable happens, undesirable gets packaged, wrapped tight, and stored in a closet to be opened never. There's comfort in a dissmisive attitude; no matter what anyone does or says, if its not what I want to hear? *Boxed* Unpleasant? *Boxed * Annoying? *Boxed * Boxed, swallowed and stored in sacrifice to neutrality. Neutrality is a comfortable place where nothing happens, quite unhealthy. So...in essence...
Whatever makes me uneasy gets thrown away projectively in a place I chose to not occupy; my soul. I know the power of my soul well! Its large, powerful and gets me into trouble. Here lies my unpleasantness, my poorness, my cries, and perhaps s joys too. Every compliment I didn't believe placed neatly next to every diss I secretly believed...not from strangers. From those whose lies I bought when the price was too high but the product was shiny, new and smelled tempting.. So like someone who likes shiny new and fragrant things, I paid. Paid with love, with attention, with secrets I regret and especially with my laughs. I love to laughs. And I love my laughs. I love laughs and TO laughs. My laughs mean what you said made me smile and to think my laughs were the result of a charade? It hurts. So to move on forward the best way I know how, I take those hurts and toss them where I can't see them. Although they didn't mean to bring such awesome joy I still genuinely enjoyed it. In all, it is their loss to lose someone who chooses to laugh with you. That's what that soul is about. Memories of good juxtaposed to what was great. Aligned to what scarred and memories of less. What's in your soul?