Day 34: existential {dread}
It took 10 years for me to feel disappointed in myself. 10 years of looking in the mirror… I stare in the mirror a lot. Often and I mean quite often. Examining my face. Smiling at myself. Like trying on an outfit—I’m still adjusting to the human suit. Trying to form a connection. What am I in my purest form? Who am I without flesh? (Literally) Without my actions or words? What matter is spirit made from? What color is my heart? What color is my light? I stare deep into my eyes in the mirror. Just hoping to get a glimpse of what you see when you look at me. I am me. But to exist at is to exist subjectively. I know me as, Me, but you know me as, “Morgan”.
There are parts of me so shrouded and bound by complexity that I can’t decipher it at all. Things I don’t understand. Things that always have been and may always be. Chipping a way at the rest trying to find myself somewhere in the marble. It’s taken 10 years of reflection to get a good read on my own behavior, mindsets and presets. I’ve had to re-hack my brain to rewire and connect to make it make sense. There is not one seed that has been planted in my head by another that goes on questioned or examined.
I remember when I would redefine myself as I heard things that I liked or sounded like I would want to be like. Back when I chose my reflection in the mirror. All was vanity. Vanity never felt right. Excess never felt right. I wanted to be as close to my natural self and let that define me. So I cast my inhibitions on the road to recovering and let the inward light guide the path. I am who I am. But we’re just starting to get acquainted.
I took a little break in between this paragraph and the one above it. I realize how I have always held myself to an unachievable standard of perfection. I cannot be mad at my 15 year old self. I can’t go back in time and punish my self now for what I did with the mind of a child. But I can hold regret for the moments lost and wisdom for the future.
Two thousand twelve was the Summer of Love for me, but back then love had only one definition. It was not complex or versatile but like a deep deep well where the sky-like vastness of it is dwindles to looking through the opening of a straw. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy, and that was it. I hadn’t experienced a death yet {not one that directly effected my life}. And I knew friendship but I was self-entitled to have friends, I loved them but I would not grieve them like I would a failed hetero relationship.
One thing Indiana knows how to get right is a State Fair. It’s a blast. The best grilled corn you’ve ever had and some of the best memories I’ve ever had. August 2012 was a very transitional time. I had choices. In Michigan my mother and auntie would collaborate together on event design (Opulent Affairs). My mommy on floral and auntie on designing the space. It was Paige’s open house. Paige was (is) my oldest friend. Like singing along to Confessions on the radio in the back seat old. Like Mario Party 3 on the Game Cube old. Cheetah Girls old. And before then our parents were childhood-adulthood friends. She’s a year older than me but you would have thought we were born at the same time. If I was pink, she was blue. Our relationship was one of those reasons my childhood was as rich as it was. Today I value her in the most ancient parts of my heart for being that in my life.
At the same time, death was at the door in our family. My older cousin, Danielle, but we called her, ‘Precious’. Long before Sapphire ever stained the name, that truly was what she was. She was a crown jewel in the family. Her heart was just too golden. I loved her so much. We were 15 years a part and she always treated me like me. —I don’t know if they’ve ever reflected upon the truth but the culture on my dads side of the family is extremely Ageist. As a child I felt a streak of brilliance in me but around them I just talked too much(although I’m sure its true). When truly I was just born inquisitive and was coaxed into feeling agency over my voice by my mother. But children have their place. That was our culture and it is OUR culture as well. But Presh didn’t dismiss me or right me off, she listened and I loved her for that. I didn’t know how to process it when she was fading. I can’t even remember how I felt. I think I blocked it all out— actually, I certainly blocked it all out and dove into my well, thirsty for a drink.
It was a time to surround Paige with support into the next chapter in her life. Paige is a beast on the Track—and I’ve never seen her run. At some point and time I stopped showing up for her. Probably when I moved out of state. I’ve always been bad at long distance. I got used to living in the world directly around me because I could control it easier. It was the last time to say goodbye to Presh. I had choices. At the same time in Indiana, the Youth Group had our annual State Fair trip planned. D.T.T. was going and my mind ran rampant with possibilities. I’d already seen what I wanted for myself on TV and the time for a boy to win me a prize was finally at reach. I had choices.
10 years it’s taken me to miss what I missed with that decision. Paige I am sorry I didn’t go to your open house. You deserved for me to show up for you and I did not. Please forgive me.
I understand now that death was just too permanent and out of reach for my mind to fathom at that time in my life. I was still in my “bad things don’t happen to us” mindset. The divorce was a shock to the system but not enough to break it. I believed that was my one bad thing to happen in my life; the dismantling of my family. Today whats left of it is scattered from the North to the South. Unconsciously, there was no room for anymore tragedy, I drew my line in the sand. And told myself I was entitled to have this moment of romance if just for a few hours. The stories we tell ourselves…
But I gained nothing from that experience but a land mine waiting to detonate and send bits of insecurity shrapnel all over my body. As I aforementioned, I was not in love with my first love because of anything other than who he was as a person. I have always been thicker than most my age and he had always been slim and muscular, no more than 4ish inches taller than me (5’2). None of it mattered—until that day. It’s a wonder how fast an insecurity can be planted.
I wanted to sit on the outside but the ride conductor made us switch. It was one of my favorite rides. I don’t remember the name exactly but I recall the word “remix”. Modern Music and lights play while you travel in a circular path as if you were on a wave. Centrifugal force —the reason why you fall on the person to the left of you in the backseat when the car turns right. In the cars behind us were friends from Y.G. The ride starts and all seems well until maximum speed is reached. I tried so hard to keep myself from having all my weight on him at once. I tried so hard, but who am I against forces that be. I don’t know which happened first, him yelling out as if he were being crushed or someone (male) behind me calling out “AhHa! Morgan butt is squishing $@#!”. At the time I didn’t realize it but I was humiliated. By then Norbit was a family favorite plus my mother was fat and ranged in different levels my whole life. (Call a spade a spade and shame the devil for telling you a lie). I never thought of my mother as not being beautiful but I knew I didn’t want to be fat. I went to school with girls who wore a 0 and sizes often came up in conversations. My dad would never admit it but I was always sure her weight was a contributing factor in his decision to dip on her. And for my size to be made a mockery of, even for a moment in relation to the guy I loved? It never left me.
As years progressed I would never ever let a man try to pick me up. Another time comes to mind where there was a another male voice. This time the Y.G was at Madison’s house. She had a pool in the backyard. He picked me up in the water and someone yelled “Damn $@#* you strong!”—Like how is that supposed to make me feel...? Heavy. It made me feel heavy and it gave me a complex about dating men who were slimmer than me or short. Luckily that has faded I have relearned to love people for who they are and embrace their natural—I have what have and am who I am (too). But to this day I probably won’t sit on your lap or fully sit on your face. Just a light hover.
In remembrance of theses moments I questioned if I were good. How could one be so selfish to put a boy before her family and best friend? Whatever my reasoning in my heart back then, I see now that I needed to embrace Love. And seek and cherish it in all of it forms. Mine it wherever it lies. So, that means right now too.
Morgan, I forgive you.
///Sheesh. That was a lot.
Day 33: Reckoning
The act of releasing the stories of my broken heart and the ones, (partly) responsible is not for the purpose of creating an “exposè”. These past few days have been quite illuminating for me and my own actions and intentions. While the relinquishing aspect of it all is treasured and refreshing for me—ugly and sad truths have been brought to light as well. And I cannot run from them.
Healing means taking accountability.
Being a fantasizer for me only really translates to one thing: expectations. So many expectations delicately aligned in a sequence that will render the most perfect, most, most, most ever! But thats not what you see while you’re living the moment out in your head. It’s like a simulation, all the possible outcomes being composed one after the other. Dominos. One fails and the whole thing comes falling down.
It’s hard to tell but the truth of it all will set you free. I have things to get off my chest. I began researching though my old journals— and I am appalled . It’s just sad me and it’s hard to not hold contempt for myself. “You were just 15”, “16” or “a teenager’. Those realities only go so far with me. I always give myself options— meaning a conscious decision was reached. It’s time for me to weigh those decisions.. one by one.
Dealing with my shame behind closed doors first. Stay tuned.
Day 32: To all the Boys who Broke my Heart: #2 (pt.2)
The Summer of Love. Those “Channel Orange” days. And it still hits the same. The anthem of my [all of our] juvenility. Ode to 2012, man. I remember when D.T.T. introduced me to Frank Ocean. It was around 4 in the morning —long distanced pillow talking. Those days when it was so hard to let go, the phone on speaker sufficed for the lack of their physical presence. I would lay him on my pillow next to me, every time. Those were sweet somethings. Unadulterated and genuine. And although it wasn’t meant to outlast the night sky I still treasure him for never pressuring me, abusing my flesh or being. We were never physical only emotional...
I have spent the past 10 years trying to recreate my first experience with love. Times when the moment was just free to be lived in as a never ending song. The moments when the music and the visuals line up just right and they become core memories. The definers of the quality of life when it’s all said and done. I only wanted to have a beautiful life— filled with beautiful moments all symbolically placed through my timeline as my only riches and inheritance. But I made my life hard by not being able to learn the lessons of love. My focus has always been in the now of love. Balance is what I seek, balance has always been unobtainable — until now.
But it was sweet. The innocence of it all. He stole my first kiss. We were in a movie theatre, on a youth trip to Cedar Pointe, he blindsided me. Called my name and when I turned my head — the quickest peck. But to me it was everything even if I never admitted it. He would say things that always stuck. Like my soft hands being a contributing factor in why he liked me. Calling me the girl of his dreams. Sweet somethings. It feels good to be with someone who can help boost your self esteem. But it was always the gaze for me. Stopping in the middle of a sentence to tell me how pretty I am. With a face that says he thoroughly examined the canvas before he spoke. I would bake him blueberry muffins and bring them to Tuesday nights. One Tuesday it was just us outside at the basketball hoop. I wish I could remember what we played for, but I gave him muffins and he gave me a beanie baby that was saturated with his cologne. We named him TJ. If I think hard enough I could get my hands on it right now— I miss sweet somethings. I was able to have child-like love and that is a privilege I value even a decade later.
One moment has the ability to pivot the trajectory of your life for years to come. I see how my heart never healed from the loss of my innocence. In every man after I sought to reactive the experience but the aspect of physicality always tainted it. But the experience was my Shirley Card for navigating men. Does it feel familiar? The slightest bit yes and I was all in. I didn’t even realize how embedded that experience was into my subconscious. Our ending came by way of being children who didn’t know how to communicate. I told him “I didn’t care”, and he believed me. Taught me that some things just aren’t worth saying just because you want attention. It happened during our last cellular nightcap. That same night, my Uncle Marvin died. I laid in bed, heartbroken, unable to sleep, when my dad opened the door like he usually would to wake me for school. “Morgan, your Uncle Marvin passed away last night.” I can still hear him saying it. My heart at 15 didn’t know how to process both loses at once. I didn’t know how to process the loss of someone I’d never missed before. Especially because I never really knew them even though they had such an impact on my life indirectly. Losing my uncle was sad for me and a shock to the system for my family. My mom was broken, my cousins were just in HS, it was a devastating time. But It was a soul crushing loss for me to lose him and it be “my fault”. My family grew to heal, I think my Granny struggles to balance both loses of children and I got caught up in a loop of insanity. Never really learning from one man to the next.
Just swapping their faces in the locket.
Day 31: To all the Boys who Broke my Heart: # 2 (Pt. 1)
I saw his face when he saw me for the first time. Years later I went on to confront him about the look in his eye but my claim was denied. But I saw it. I saw him see me for the very first time. I saw his face light up and his eyes widen.. All of which may or may not have happened— but it was the story I told myself. And those thoughts always kept me warm. I’ve always held high regard to the first experience of something. To this day, “Baby’s First” (in regard to myself) is still a part of my vocabulary. First love, First Kiss, First time— all moments I lived for. I created a drug-like experience for myself, able to release a euphoria just off fantasized memories alone. It’s only now that I can realize what I was really doing. I lived for memories I could live off of. I would take a “sweet” moment and attach my own meaning to it, assign value to it and replay it over and over, each time sprinkling more romance and whimsy in it. Drugs. “Love” was my first and longest used. My imagination was the oil to my engine. Propelling me through my minority existence at school, my parents divorce at home and it gave me hope of an “obtainable” future. I am recognizing now that I never dreamed or fantasized about a life for myself without the presence of a man. I never imagined the life I live now: A peaceful, single, young-professional lifestyle without as much as a pet on my deserted island. In my mind from young, there was always a mystery person there. Which only supports my experience as someone who has had to learn and accept how to be comfortable in isolation. I’m starting to see how God moved me out here with intent to break that in me… The stories we tell ourselves…
Seeing his reaction to seeing me for the first time was enough to catch my attention. Truly it was all I ever wanted (and want)— to be seen. But not in a fleeting admiration kind of way, but to really see me. To be able to read me with a glance and be so connected to my heart that they understand without me have to say it. Sounds almost inhumanly possible when I see written out. Which makes sense, every man I’ve had deep connection to has always competed with God in my heart— I am ashamed to say. But theres nothing to be hidden, that type of connection was established at my birth and I didn’t even know it. You can’t hide your true self from the Divine. And its this very moment that the Lord was waiting for. I admit, I have idolized these niggas. They just received so much of my attention and intention and occupied so much space. They would become the center of my prayers at times and ideation of the next romantic moment would become my joy. Damn shame— but no shame at all. I didn’t understand men on a physiological level, they are hunters. It’s in their nature. Needless to say.. GIRL of course he was going to have a reaction to seeing you if you looked beautiful and you were the NEW GIRL. And at 15, how deep can it be?…
— As deep as you make it.
We met at church (of course). It was my first time attending a youth night. I spent my formative years as an Indiana resident. After the divorce my parents naturally chose to attend different places of worship. My mother was an Eastern Star member and my dad, brother and I planted roots at Light of the World Christian Church. I met Gene and Nia and we became like velcro. They brought me around the Youth Group that met on Tuesdays. The stories that can be told about my experiences being a part of the Youth Group could fill a book. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Truth be told I would have been lost without them (the entire Youth Ministry). Between the divorce and not having space to explore my Blackness in a safe environment, I would have been over run. I know my parents only had the best intentions for me (more me than my brother) but it is NO BUENO being a Black dot in a sea of white. It’s just not conducive to a positive self-image. As I aforementioned, Carmel boys just weren’t checking for me. Among them I was either ugly or just not worth the effort, but I shined among my own. I knew I had (physically) what Black boys liked. My shape has always been my shape. Curve and thickness is my brand. The very thing that I was made fun of for at Carmel gave me much sought after attention just 10 miles north in Indianapolis. — But there was something about the look in his eyes. He didn’t seem to look at me and it was just physical attraction. For me it read, wonder, curiosity, excitement and all for me. I took mental notes to mark him as one to keep my eye on and to dangle myself in front of. That was my thing. I dangled myself like bate but only for the person of my choosing. It’s not hard to tell once Morgan has chosen. My conversation changes, suddenly he’s being brought up in every discussion with friends. My hair and makeup are done strategically. The game is put into play.
In my first Heartbreak story, I mention how physical intimacy was not in my foresight. I LOVED being able to say I was a virgin (almost too much). My chastity was the most valuable of all of my assets (or so I was made to feel). I didn’t want sex, I wanted connection. My first love was never more than cute by default to me. My body was not drawn to his, only my heart and I think thats what made it so special to me. It was the most innocent Love I’d ever experienced. He also had the secret weapon to a successful capture: comedy. He was hilarious. And that was the thing with me, if you can make me laugh, I’d become like a baby with the giggles. I will adore you. Everyman I’ve been with we had a healthy laugh life. Laughing was a healing balm and now I see, a huge pattern of deception for me and those I’ve had connection to (more so others than him though). He didn’t pride himself on being the most attractive person in the room but his personality could outshine everyone and bring us all the tears. Another aspect in his favor was his social dynamic. Lacking in some areas but socially you are loved and accepted for who you are? I’ll bite. Dare I say if that wasn’t the case I wouldn’t have returned the attention. I cared deeply about my image back then and for years and years after. [It’s a wonder how fucked up I was. My mama wasn’t like that and my dad and I didn’t have honest dialog.. see PWI aren’t meant for Black kids.}
But he got me. One laugh at a time. One glance at a time. My own rendition of Love and Basketball…
Pt. 2 to come tomorrow.
Day 30: Be Back Tomorrow
For the next man on my list of Heartbreakers, I need more time to ruminate. He was my First Love. There are so many pieces to this grand puzzle that I am putting together. So many memories that haven’t been drawn upon in so long— but remnants of the scars remain and they must be translated. My daily deadline has been put in place by me for holding myself accountable for my own journey and healing. But this is a release. Not a rant. I will not waste your time or my own with under explored, subpar literature. More time is needed. Come back tomorrow.
Ciao,
-M
Day 29: To all the boys who broke my Heart — # 1
At 14 I didn’t know what I wanted. And Hell, at 25 I’m still figuring it out. However I can say I’ve never had a type. My crushes ranged in looks and color. During my experience in PW public schools, as a Black girl, chances are that the white boys aren’t looking your way (or at least wouldn’t admit to it) and the Black boys are probably checkin for the white girls. But that didn’t stop me from being attracted to them, I just found content in the fact that I was undesired by that particular crowd. However, my fan club? — Church boys.
See, I liked having church crushes because it was safer. I feared Hellfire quite young so the only base I ever dreamed of reaching..was marriage. I wasn’t the kissing in the choir stand type or even interested in being physical other than holding hands really. But I loved to fantasies and play dress up with husbands in my mind. I would practice my signatures, interchanging the last names. Listening for which had the best ring to it. Plus they only ever saw me in my Sunday’s best which gave me confidence. But not real confidence.. the kind that came from knowing I had a nice outfit on and playing the cards that Colorism dealt without even fully realizing it.
I wasn’t really all that attracted to him. Truth be told I had the hots for his much older cousin but wasn’t an idiot, I knew that would never happen. So I settled.. the motif of my love life. I settled because he was the only viable option it seemed. He was cute (I guess) but he was really just there. I passed time by having a boy to fixate over. I convinced myself to like him. I felt like he was my only real option because we were both light skinned and all the shows I was watching showed that you put similar complexions together— “they look the best as couples.” Representation really does matter. I grew up thinking with many closed perspectives. But also I was just interested in who was interested in me and not a man of any other races ever seemed to be interested in me. This made me feel like I was only so attractive for not being able to attract more than one type of man. For some reason growing up in white communities— it gets established very early that you are less than beautiful when white men don't seek after you.
It started through just texting him we didn't talk on the phone much and when I saw him in person he barely said a word— but we texted. And oddly it was enough. I may have noticed but brushed it off. I didn’t realize it at the time but I struggled with intimacy with the other sex and he had issues with communication. So I settled but in the moment I didn't think I was settling—even though it wasn't what I wanted. We texted all day and we texted at night. He was the first man to introduce the sweet nothing to me. They were enough to keep my attention, enough to keep my interest, enough to give my time and enough create fantasies I could live off of. He was the first to ever ghost me. I counted— 5 days. And in that time I didn't wanna leave my room, I didn't wanna go to school. I remember specifically asking my mom if I could stay home one day. She told me, “Girl if you don't get up and take your butt to class.” I thought she would support me because she was freshly divorced herself. I remember the feeling, it was visceral, it was physical, it was painful. The rejection, the jilting, it all hurts so much. It does something to your self-esteem. You always make it about you when you're that young but I couldn't think of a reason. “Was it something I said?” “Was it me?” And when I finally talked to him of course at 14 there's no real explanation. {Truly there is no excuse for ghosting.. ever} And I don't even really remember what was said but I will never forget the feeling of my first Jilting.
J.P. was always a troubled kid though. Always getting in mischief or fights at school. And getting into dealing despite his parents being active members in the church and being related to the pastor. I realize now it was then that I acknowledged in myself that I liked boys that had a little rebellion in them. Some time after us he dated a girl that no one at the church wanted him to be with. They talked about her and I remember feeling lucky when he brought his first kid to church. I used to look at the kid from a far and say to myself, “You know I was almost your mama right?” But that was never meant to be. Through time there was talk of the latest trouble he was getting into. And today I believe the number of offspring has doubled if not tippled — by the same girl. Couldn’t be me.
Day 28: Untethered.
The Lord giveth and the taketh away?… Or were you just try to make ‘fetch’ happen?
Currently I am undergoing a paradigm shift. Yesteryears clouds are begining to fade and I see clear as day now— for as long as I remember I have been living for the pursuit of love. Which really translates to men. The wild thing is I’m not sure how we got here. Behind me is a trail of ingrates who never knew what they had or how to treat it when they had it. Each one of them taught me something different. With each heart break the healing period is different; looks different, feels different. But only now, this time there is no healing period. There is an awakening period.
God bless my poor sweet heart for being so caught up in the whimsy and just wanting to be loved as much as I gave it. God bless me with someone who is truly worthy. I count 10. Ten sorry so-and-sos that have ran me through the wringer. Ten motherfuckers I let run me through the wringer—the fault is not entirely theirs. You know. You know when it’s not right. When it doesn’t feel right. You know when you’re settling. You know when you’re trying to make it work too hard and you know when it’s not reciprocal. So why waste your time? Why stay so long? Why not run at the first red flag? Why say its pink and turn a blind eye? It only comes back to hurt you when you least expect it. These are the questions I am asking myself.
I fell in love for the first time at 15. I am 25 now. 10 years, 10 men. All a different story. I think I am ready to tell those stories, one by one. I got nothing to lose. Absolutely nothing. I have protected the ones that have hurt me my entire life. Just now I recall when a girl at school in elementary would bully me. She would tell me she hated me. One time she spat on me. I didn’t tell my mom because I didn’t want her to go up to the school. I wonder what told me at such an age that I wasn’t worth putting up a fight for. For the past 10 years I have fought for the chance at true love, but not for my right to receive true love. Not for the love within myself for myself. But for the love in myself to give away. I have always been kind to myself but someone else has always been given the last bite. I have prided myself in being selfless and non-confrontational, I think those attributes have contributed to the peaceful life I lead. But those qualities in combination with a self-love deficiency due to a complete misunderstanding of what that even is… has been poisonous. It’s time to release the poison. I have nothing to lose and all to gain.
I finally feel free. I have no tether to any man, anywhere. My headspace is clear. My heart is open. My Morgan is ready. Ready to receive what was meant for her all along. Ready to reclaim her time, her mind, her peace and her future. I am untethered from the shackle of my own fairytales and tall tales. Desperately trying to turn a frog into a prince. A frog is a frog. A prince is a prince. Clinging to something that doesn’t even exist. This is not hurt talking but reality. We are human. All of us waking up to something new everyday, just going through the motions of life. My name is Morgan, not Meghan. I am no Duchess of Sussex. I will not shame myself for just wanting love but I will pull my own card—cause b.tch you was out here looking GOOFY. However, truthfully I was not raised to harness the love inside of me for myself. To see the value and treasure and rarity of it. I was taught to marry and spend life giving it away. My mother warned me not to take her path, married at 20. And while I may have avoided paperwork I have been wife-minded with majority of the niggas on my shit-list.
But you know what? What a time to have an awakening. I am 25 with my education taken care of settling into my career path. Childless and free. The only cage was in my heart. And in that cage was me, Helga G.Pataki adoring some heart shaped picture of whichever Arnold I attached myself to at the time. The reality of it is sad and the reality of it is the most beautiful part about it. No one took anything from me. I still have all my stuff and nothing extra. There is still plenty more for me to give me. And even better because I’m as wise and as fine as I’ve ever been and theres no down for me from here.
So how bout it, Mo? — You ready to air out this room?…
— Abso-fucking-lutely.
Day 27: My love is too…to have thrown back on my face.
Ntozake Shange once wrote:
”My love is too delicate to have thrown back on my face”
”My love is too beautiful to have thrown back on my face”
”My love is too sanctified to have thrown back on my face”
”My love is too magic to have thrown back on my face”
”My love is too saturday nite to have thrown back on my face”
”My love is too complicated to have thrown back on my face”
”My love is too music to have thrown back on my face”
M.C.Bouldes once wrote:
My love is too beautiful to have thrown back on my face
My love is too pure to have thrown back on my face
My love is too careful to have thrown back on my face
My love is too considerate to have thrown back on my face
My love is too intentional to have thrown back on my face
My love is too spiritual to have thrown back on my face
My love is too gracious to have thrown back on my face
My love is too personalized to have thrown back on my face
My love is too detailed to have thrown back on my face
My love is too unconditional to have thrown back on my face
My love is too valuable to have thrown back on my face
My love is too real to have thrown back on my face
My love is too consistent to have thrown back on my face
My love is too sacrificial to have thrown back on my face
My love is too understanding to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Divine to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Ancient to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Inger to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Grace to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Beverly to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Cora to have thrown back on my face
My love is too sanctuary to have thrown back on my face
My love is too radical to have thrown back on my face
My love is too classic to have thrown back on my face
My love is too timeless to have thrown back on my face
My love is too melodic to have thrown back on my face
My love is too maternal to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Jesus to have thrown back on my face
My love is too Morgan to have thrown back on my face.
You’re welcome.
Day 26: Glory
Behind every Black woman is a story about her hair. As babies we learn resilience through our powerlessness to it. But we are taught that beauty is pain. Braids, detangling, perm, hot comb. We are prepared to endure. Lessons from hand to scalp on how long the journey ahead will be. And through it all, our hair grows with us. Changes with us, evolves as we do. Freedom and identity graced upon our very heads.
My journey is complex but my assigned branding seems painless. A “light skin with curly hair”. For me I am just Me. Any preconceived notion on how any Black woman relates to her hair should be expunged. Within our tresses we carry our happiest moments and our saddest days. And when I’ve had all I can take and I’m ready to cut it all off, just to feel the wind on my scalp again. She is the Best of Me, She is the Worst of Me, She is Mine.
My mother was among the ranks of legendary local stylist in her time. Stories of how in her adolescence, despite the teachings of the church, she would secretly and subtly cut at her hair, keeping it hidden from my Granny. She recognized how to harness her power at a young age; On the contrary I remember sacrificing my hair identity for acceptance when I was just in Elementary School. I’ve always been the minority. Pre School-Grad School all PWI. In Middle School my hair goals were accomplishing bone straight hair and in High School, a messy bun with fly aways. My hair was designed for neither of those styles. But to stand out as a Black girl among all white faces is to be a spectacle. To be a spectacle is a fear and a danger. My identity-based adaptability worked to “protect” me in the past but stole from me in my future. There came a time when she just didn’t look, grow, feel the same. Years of manipulation trying to fit someones standard of fairness and never my own. And because of what? A glance turned gaze? A whisper between strangers? Oh, if I could go back and tell Lil ‘Mogo’ that one day these (yt) bitches will pay to look like you.
My hair is fine like twine. Or as Star Puppy (YouTuber) says, “Sparse density.” I just simply don’t have as many strands on my head as others. My slick-backs are scalp-backs, my Afro is translucent. It is inherited and thus it is what it is. My solution? Keep every strand— forever. I am one year into my loc journey and it feels so damn good. Finding my freedom meant embracing the antithesis of every narrative I carried before. She is My Joy, She is My Pain, She is Mine.
I only want to cut my hair one more time in life— right before I die. I want to leave here just like my mama. Without a hair on my head and the weight of the world off of my back. And my daughter will shave my head like I did my mother before her. And if the Lord sees me to surpass my mother in years, my long white locs will be her inheritance. My Labor, My Love, My Essence—My Glory.
Day 25: The Story of Us {Mieyoshi}
In 2020, Cranbrook Academy of Art hit its own historical stride for amount of Black students on campus in a single year— 12 I believe? Q and I immediately conspired to host a secret “Black-people-meet” party in the Photo Department. Among the 12 (through my careful observation of all the negros on campus), I found that the “New Black Girl” was in the Painting Department (the entrance to which was in clear perspective from my dorm room). But not only was the “New Black Girl” in Painting but every time I see her leave the studio she immediately rushes straight back to our building. But which floor is she on? In dorm 2 there were 3 levels of floors. Entrance in and out our floor is easily recognizable through our doors. I was able to put two and two together that the “New Black Girl in Painting” was on my floor and two doors down! I was so excited and eager to make her acquaintance. In retrospect I can understand why our initial introduction may have caused her to get the impression she did. In an attempt to corner her on her way back to her room and as I was leaving my own I managed to get her to stop so I could give her the best “Sistah to Sistah —Look, I know these white people crazy but we have each other..” jello-mold welcome. I extended myself to be there if any need arose and invited her to join our campus ethnic group that I was Co-President over. I later found out that the New York in her read the Suburban in my intonation and put me in an “inauthentic” folder. This makes sense because my luke warm welcome was not what brought us together. And I didn’t speak with her again until..
It’s party day. Mind you, its still 2020, Covid is at large and in-class meetings had been suspended across campus for safety purposes. If we had been made by whomever we could have risked academic penalty. But none of that mattered. For those who had entered into our second year, there is no way we would have missed the opportunity to get all the black faces together in one room. We’ve got pizza, music, Deja made Enchiladas, plenty to drink and partake in. When Mieyoshi walked in the room there was no way that everyone wouldn’t look her way. She had on lilac purple from head to toe, layered in different textures with a big puffy people coat, matching bag and mask. Bantu knots and a gold Africa chain. Her unapologetic blackness was refreshing and a much needed representation on Cranbrook’s tiny PW campus. I was completely enthralled and instantly she became my muse. East Harlem was all in and through her. —Then, someone offered me a personal joint. Coincidentally we were the only two in the room who were interested in partaking at that particular time so I took us to my smoke spot located in the department. The beautiful thing about the Photo Department is its double doored bathroom with panel windows that open with a hinge. It’s also located on the second floor. Needless to say, high elevation + ventilation system = Ideal location for indoor smoking.
My left arm is leaning on the window ledge, my joint in my right hand. Her right arm is leaning on the window ledge, her joint is in her left hand. We are standing in the same position about 4 feet from one another— eyes locked. This happened naturally. In that moment I swore that we had met in a past life, but the past life felt like this lifetime. She felt it too. We had a connection. Granted I had gone 6 months without smoking and so whatever shit Jay gave me had me teleported but there was an unshakable feeling that me and this girl had somehow met before. We bargained with each other as to possibly when and where. For me it felt like I had became best friends over night with a girl I met on vacation as a child and this was our divine reunion. That or I randomly saw her in a crowd one day but my brain never forgot her face. She agreed that it could have been it and wasn’t far fetch for her. She’d had a similar experience with a friend where they were in the background of a picture, then they met in person. But even still it was deeper than that. She spoke my language and I understood hers, naturally. Together we’d entered the realm of the spiritual and admitted it to each other. Again— the weed was strong. Nevertheless what bond was being fostered was anything but fanciful intoxication. I didn’t realize it at the time but I had fallen in love with her at that time. It was the storybook connection that I’d only dreamed of with a man. But instead it was happening with a woman and it was platonic. I didn’t have a say in the matter I just knew I loved her and I knew I wanted to keep her in my life. From there after, any moment of strife we had my heart dealt with it the same as if I would have for a man I was seeing. I’d never had friendship and “romance” intertwine like that. Grad school turned to Sleep Away Camp. We were inseparable. We shared trauma stories, laughs, cries, meals, the same bed, relationship advice. We’ve uplifted each other, held one another down and made a promise to be committed to the relationship as if we were lovers. Radical sister to sister love. Thats my friend.