500WordsorLess

On Your Own

7/24/2016

Two weeks had gone by before I thought of something new to write; before I even considered the need to write. Titles came to mind but content didn't come out. So instead of living to write, I've just been living. I've been experiencing. I've been absorbing, all the beauty, destruction and lessons that have been surrounding my life and this country. I've taken it all in. And over these past two weeks, I've attained a perspective very different than one I had before. Instead of beating myself up for my absence from this space, I praised myself for my presence in the world.

While I can write all of [my] life's lessons on here, and share nuggets and tidbits for getting through your phases, there are some things I simply can't 'teach'. There are some perspectives I cannot offer you, as in many ways, we are different. While I wish I could coddle you in an isolated queendom where we could constantly pour into each other and get each other through, I simply cannot. Because there are some things you have to experience yourself. Some pieces of life that advance advice just wont help with. Some moments you'll just have to feel – with every bit of pain and sadness they may bring. There are some emotions you'll have to go through and some struggles no blog post or article can get you out of. But there is so much beauty in that.

There's beauty in you creating a story of your own, rather than emulating the stories you've been reading. There's life in living your own and not the ones you've been watching. Because this life – that you apply this advice to, that you learn to make better, that you struggle to advance in Christ's name and that you strive to make better than any life you could imagine – is yours to live. And it's yours to experience. 

At some point, you'll have to put down the self-help books, the self-help blogs, and the inspirational podcasts, and you'll have to indulge in life. You'll have to apply the lessons you've been studying. You'll have to do the things you've read. You'll have to make decisions and fight the good fight. At some point, you'll have to disconnect, you'll have to take action, and you'll have to see if life will fall apart, or if it'll fall together. 

There will be a time where you – whoever you may be – will need to do this on your own. You didn't need a new post. You didn't need another story of my experience to get you through yours. Instead, these last two weeks were for both you and I to experience life on our own. To learn our own lessons; to internalize them. To write them down in our own private spaces, and to grow from them in our own homes. Because while uplifting to get through things together, there will be times where we need to do it on our own. 

So over these last two weeks, as I struggled to come up with gems to write, I was coming up with gems to live. 

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Things I Want to Tell You, Before You're a Hashtag

7/07/2016

I laid crying in the arms of a black man this morning. A black man whose existence I'm worried about being snatched away from him like the 114 others this year, alone. A number I'm sure may increase by the time I finish this post, because that's how frequently this is happening. I cried thinking about his well-being, along with the well-being of my black brother, my black friends and my black nephews. I am both infuriated and sad at the disregard for black life, in a space that was created on the backs of black people. And with this level of sadness and my shattered heart struggling to beat, I find it necessary to uplift. While I want to mobilize and set things ablaze, yelling obscenities until my throat gets sore, I want to continue to use my words to inspire. Still, somehow, with these emotions festering inside of me - emotions of hatred and bitterness toward those constantly striking us, that I struggled this morning to pray away - I want to be as much of a light as I can.

So today I want to tell you I love you and I care for you. That when the world can't stand the sight of you, I think you're beautiful. I think you're handsome. I think your being is delightfully unignorable. I think your life is valued and the purpose of it, invaluable. I want to tell you that you are the light and no matter how dark they want you to believe you are because of your skin, they'll never have enough power [read: white privilege] to dim that.

I want to tell you that while the rest of the world hates you, hates us, that you must choose to love yourself. That you must stand for your existence. I really want to tell you to be bold in your blackness. Be unapologetic about your history and your culture. To remind yourself and others of your kingdom/queendom. To remember that your story is made of far more riches than they want you to believe. I want to tell you that Jesus wasn't a white man with blue eyes, that he looks more like us than them. I want to tell you it's not an us versus them (but then I'd be lying). I want to tell you to teach your children our true origin – our true significance in this world – so they know the mark they can make. So they know the power they hold. 

I want to tell you that your rage is okay. That your reactions are justified. That I am right with you. All of you. Furious, frustrated and fearful of the future of myself and my black men. I want to tell you to hug your black children tight tonight, and every night thereafter. To hug your black husbands, boyfriends, and exes; fathers, brothers, and uncles; nephews, cousins and best friends. To band together as black people, wanting to see change, willing to work to enforce that change. To not burn sh*t up with the torch you just lit. 

I want to tell you how sick, sad and disgusted I am at the America we occupy in 2016; that police brutality [read: police murdering black folk] is the new form of legal lynching. I want to tell you that despite this, it will get better. That you'll be okay. That it won't – it can't – happen to you. That you're safe. That you're protected. That I'll protect you. 

 I want to tell you all these things and so much more, but I cannot, because I cannot stop crying. 

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#NotCrazyButHuman Campaign

Not Crazy, But Human

7/05/2016

"I love you too much for you to do that" is all that was said to keep me on this earth. It's what was said to make me reconsider, admittedly, the biggest mistake I could have ever made. To wrap my hair and go to sleep early, instead of overdosing on the pills that sat on my desk or placing a pillow over my face as I had envisioned doing – imagining the suffocation. Not crazy, but human.

It was money. It was school. It was loneliness. It was being on a campus with over 25,000 students, having received a 3.6 GPA the semester prior and still feeling like I had no one; like I had nothing. Like happiness and joy was nonexistent no matter how often I forced smiles and how many jokes I told myself.

I parked outside my soror's apartment and cried my eyes out. The rain captured my mood perfectly. I was there to meet her for craft night, but was sidetracked with thoughts of suicide, the visions of how it would happen, and the water works that accompanied my commitment to doing so. It was the second time I entertained the thought. Nothing I had to convince myself to do, but everything I felt was necessary.

I was closer this time than I had been with the first.  It was the only answer to my struggles and the only joy to my pain. This was before I learned how to deal with pain. I texted my brother and told him how I felt. I told him how hard life was and how bad I wanted to end it. How much I wanted to wipe my slate clean. I said it in very few words. I said it with conviction. I said it with full intent on doing so. "I'm going to kill myself," I typed nonchalantly. 

Suicidal thoughts aren't about being dramatic. They're not about seeking attention. They're about the firm belief that that is the only solution to an everlasting issue; an unavoidable feat; a frightening reality. That in this space, at this time, erasing your existence is the only choice. 

"I love you too much for you to do that," he replied, almost as nonchalantly as I had typed my first text. No panic. No overbearing phone calls that pushed me further over the edge. And no "I'm gonna tell mom," messages. It was just enough emotion, from an emotionless brother, to make my heart soft. To make me rethink the message I was just so sure of. It was enough to make me feel that I wasn't alone. That I did have something, even if it was just those words and a brother's love.  

I remained parked outside, now crying harder. Half because of his admission of love & appreciation for the little sister who always got on his nerves, and half because of the fact that he probably loved me more than I loved myself. He most likely believed in me and my promise more than I ever had, or ever desired to. 

The truth is that I'm not alone in this. In fact, studies show that women attempt suicide more often than males. WE'RE NOT CRAZY, BUT HUMAN. So perhaps, you're longing for something similar. An answered prayer, a better journey, a more promising path, an unwavering joy, a progressive financial situation, a sign of a rainbow after this brutal storm, or a simple "I love you too much". Perhaps you want to feel the tight clench of a hug with fingertips gripping your back. You want to feel loved. You want to know you can use your power to become better. You want to know you will overcome the circumstance you're struggling to live through. Or perhaps, you simply want to know you're enough to handle this rocky life. That you can make it through, and make it out, okay. 

You can. You will. You are. I love you too much for you to do that. And this is not the only solution. It is not the only choice.

"I love you too much" plays over in my head every time life gets too real; every time the enemy tries to take me out; every time my poor past with emotional health attempts to creep back into my life and take over. "He loves me too much," I say regarding both my brother and my God. They both saved my life that day.  "I love me too much now, too."

There was a tap on my window, as I re-read my brother's message. My soror's voice rang through my slightly cracked window. "You okay?," she asked as I rushed to wipe my tears and unbuckle my seat belt. "I'm fine," I answered. A response us women know all too well.  
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This post is in honor of Certified 10's CERTIFIED WORDS, #NOTCRAZYBUTHUMAN campaign. The goal: to fight the stigma surrounding mental health illness and the usage of the word "crazy" to label those who are battling a mental health illness, or are simply experiencing a rough patch in life. Our struggles do not mean we are "crazy", it means we are human. 

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My Black, My Truth

6/22/2016

I struggled for a long time with deciding to change my target audience. Perhaps I could relate my posts and experiences to all women and not just black women. Every woman needs empowerment – right? These thoughts rang over and over in my head as I plotted out a new path for DEAR QUEENS.

Maybe I should change my focus. Write about things that everyone can relate to. I suggested that I utilize a more general perspective, instead of focusing on issues that are ever-present in black womanhood and black culture. Issues like black girls being magic, ignoring society's perceptions of our physical beauty, and using 'Lemonade' as an outlet to tell our own stories.

These thoughts even trickled into my real-life interactions – being able to connect better with my African American counterparts, than any others. Not because of any prejudice, but because of our similarities. Because of our stories. Because of the unignorable beauty of our culture and the connection we forge because of it. For much of my adult-life, I felt this to be a hindrance to the woman I'm trying to become, both in my purpose and in my professional life. Maybe I should try to relate more to others, even if it doesn't come naturally. But the more I dive into me, the more I realize this is who I am and I have to love it.

As important as it may be to empower every woman, I can not speak to every woman's experience, because, I, myself, am a black woman, with a black woman perspective – and this black woman journey is all I know.

To water down my truth in an attempt to appeal to a wider range of women would be doing a disservice to those who're constantly being unserved: black women. To change my black voice to one that fits the general population will mean losing my voice. The voice that encouraged me to create this outlet of inspiration. The voice that's been keeping this thing afloat. The voice that has provided the lessons and insight I lovingly share here. The voice that forms the words of this process and uses it to connect with others like me. The only voice I have. 

See, I love my blackness. I love my black experience, my black journey – and every ounce of love and hate it may come with. I love how my melanin generates both great struggles and great triumphs. I love how my stories are not from a place of just womanhood, but of black womanhood and how unignorable that is. I love how my A.M.E Zion church is rooted in tradition. I love how my history – though heart-shattering – is synonymous with strength and rooted in perseverance and unity.  

I love how my red-toned skin tans. How my brown body looks in coral bathing suits and floral print sundresses. I love the dark brown freckles that grace my body in unforeseen places; and the darker brown beauty mark on my thigh. I love my lips, my nose, and my almond eyes. I love how my curves fill out jumpsuits, and how this lent its way to insight about street harassment. 

I love how black music, black art and black culture is used as a blueprint for what's "hot". I love how in the midst of its appropriation, black style cannot be mimicked. I love the creativity of my black counterparts and how we often turn our black trials into bold black testimonies. I love how my blackness cannot be avoided nor ignored – forcing me to accept and appreciate every inch of this blackness in ways that only other black bodies can understand. Can receive. Can wallow in. 

See, I love my blackness. I love my black life, my black struggles, and the journey of this thing called black womanhood. My blackness cannot be ignored, nor should my black voice be silenced. So, while appealing to a wider audience may be great, I love my blackness too much to water down my experience. I love it too much to water down yours too. We need these lessons in the brown skin context of which they come, and I will continue to provide them through these brown fingertips. 

There will be things we all can relate to, but there are some things that can only be shared through my black woman perspective. And I learned to be completely okay with that. 

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Here's to a Summer of Me

6/20/2016

I'm always good is usually what I say to mask my own trials, while I reach out to others during theirs. It's how I excuse myself for worrying more about others than myself. "I'm always good," I say to uplift myself, as I lend an ear to others, make plans to get their mind off their troubles, and become whatever it is they need to get them through the moment they're going through. Even when all I want to do is handle my own moment.

I find myself trying to make sure everyone around me is happy – often times at the expense of my own happiness. I check on their satisfaction, more than I assess my own. I do things and make changes to accommodate them. Their fulfillment automatically becomes more of a priority to me than my own. I work double time to help those who've never experienced happiness, get it. Feel it. Live it. 

Even when it costs me my own.

I realized this a few months ago when an outing to make myself happy, still lent itself to trying to make those I'm around happy. When I began to stress myself out checking on the enjoyment of those I'm with. When my own laughter is halted so I make sure everyone else is laughing. Looking out of my eye's side to check on their smiles. Listening closely to hear their laughter or sounds of disapproval. Being careful and strategic to agree or disagree with how they feel about a particular event at any particular moment. An outing, a trip, an excursion, a night dedicated to me, often shifts into me dedicating it to others.

And while this all just hit me recently, it's been this way for a long time. 

So this is to the summer of self and the three months I choose to cater to me. The summer of doing new things and not begging anyone to do them with me. The summer of travel, cookouts and tequila. The summer of doing what I want to do (in the confines of spiritual obedience) and not worrying about what others may think of it. Not worrying about the validation of others, the satisfaction of others, or the happiness of others over my own. It's to a summer of going places alone, traveling, and doing whatever the hell I want – with or without others. 

It's about making the decisions I want to make without worrying about it making others happy. It's about making me happy before anyone else. It's about going where I want to go, smiling how I want to smile and living how I want to live.

It's about me. My happiness. My enjoyment. My fulfillment.

This is to a summer of me and the fun, friendships and revelations it may bring. Cheers!

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