Consolation

I come from a home where men don’t cry.

They just don’t.

And, unfairly I admit, I have come to be accustomed to this trend to the extent that the sight of a man who is crying makes me uncomfortable. Even the sound of pain in the voice of a man unsettles me. I don’t think of him as weak. I know better than that. I just have a hard time offering consolation to a man. I just don’t know how.

So when I spoke to my friend BSE (short for Bus Station Eric…loooong story) yesterday, I found myself feeling very uncomfortable as he courageously tried to relay to me the devastation in Louisiana as a result of Hurricane Katrina. BSE is from Baton Rouge but has family in NO…many of whom he has not heard from since the hurricane hit. And it’s hard to hear a grown man try to explain what has happened…try to capture the essence of the destruction and his personal struggles…when the words will not come. “It’s real bad, man. Real bad.”

And as I look at the pictures from Katrina, and as more information starts to roll in regarding the destruction—the number of months it will take for people to return home, the amount of people who are homeless, the costs to repair and reconstruct entire cities, the miles of shore line that have disappeared—I find it all too reimnicent to 9-11 and have to turn off the reports to maintain my sanity.

I remember seeing news reports on September 11, 2001, and thinking how it all looked like a movie. I kept saying…”you’re joking, right. This isn’t real.” And it didn’t feel real until I started to see the faces of people who were there, who had lived through it…until I saw tears in the eyes of grown men, that I could feel the pain too. And it was awful. The desperation and hopelessness was crushing my spirit. I watched for days, glued to my tv, not leaving the house, not changing clothes, barely eating, just affixed to the tv, taken in and swallowed by the catastrophic calamity that had befallen the city of New York. When the Tsunami hit, and wiped out entire villages of people, over 200,000 lives, I was pained…but not like this. I keep wondering why Katrina has hit me so hard. Maybe it’s because I can see with my eyes the effects of the disaster. I see the displaced families in the Atlanta hotels, 10-12 people piled into mini-vans with minimal belongings. I have heard them say they are running out of money. They don’t know when they can go home. They’re not sure, with gas prices about to skyrocket, IF they can get home.

My mom and I were watching the news on Monday and she was wondering why everyone didn’t evacuate.

“Evacuate to where, Mom? Most of the people there are poor, elderly…all their family is in the region. Where will they go? And what will they have to come back to?” This hurricane has destroyed more than a football stadium and a few casinos. It has changed an entire financial infrastructure of a region. It has ripped apart families and created a sense of hopelessness and desperation that no one should endure. My heart is heavy and full. And unfortunately, as a 26 year-old single mom, all I have to give are prayers. And now my inability to give back is absorbing the hopelessness.

I don’t know how to manage men who cry. I feel like I should embrace them and turn my back at the same time, to give them privacy. I wish I knew how. I saw and know some men who could use more than a little encouragement these days. Since there are women, like me, who expect them to be strong, the least I could do is learn how to prepare them for the challenges ahead, the struggles yet to come.

I wish I knew how to comfort a man. But unfortunately, I just don’t know how. I. just. don’t.

Sheltered

To say that I am naïve would be a gross understatement. I have about as much street saavy as Jan Brady. I've always grown up in neighborhoods where you don't have to lock your car doors, where you can leave your windows open at night...and said windows have never had bars on them. I've left my purse in my car overnight, sitting on the front passenger seat on more than one occasion and returned to it still there with everything inside. At least once a month I accidentally leave my keys in the ignition in my car with the windows rolled down or the doors unlocked. If I lived in LA, my ass would be riding Big Blue because my well-maintained 1998 Cavalier's parts would have been sold all up and down the Pacific Coast Hwy. Luckily I'm not a California resident, so these are moot points. But it got me to thinking about illegal activity in general and how far removed I am and have always been from it.

Once when I was living in Whitey-White, PA, I had a classmate, one who had never met any colored people before (and I say colored because TRULY she hadn't met anyone with melanin), ask me why the palms of my hands and the bottoms of my feet were white and not the rest of me. How the hell should I know? How do you answer a question like that? It was just stupid. Well, I have similarly dumb questions. And while I know the questions I have will be stupid, I'm okay with that. I just have no clue on god's green earth where to find these things out...so I have decided to turn to the omniscient blogsphere for edification.

Okay, so I'm driving home, and keep in mind I do live in a black neighborhood, I pass a gas station that for at least 2 years did not sell gas. All they had was a message on the marquis that read "2 cans of soda for $1". Now, while this wasn't a terrible beverage sale, it certainly was nothing to write home about. Yet, the building always had cars out front and people inside. I don't get it. What kind of operation is this? Are they selling drugs? If so, how do the right people know that they are? Is "two cans of soda" a code for "Buy one get one free on joints?

When I was in college at FAMU, my brother was a student at a not so distant Albany State University (pronounced Al-bini, as opposed to All-bennie…for you northern folks out there). He would come to visit me only to have free lodging for Kappa Luau and Homecoming. But when he would come down, he would ask where he could get some green? What is green? And how would I know where to find it? Now obviously smokers don’t stand on corners with signs like…

I GOT FIVE ON IT

And dealers don’t advertise with T-shirts that say…

Hydro for the Low Low

But I’m saying, really, how do they know how to find each other? Because my brother would be high as a kite by the time he made it back to my house. Do smokers have an air? Kinda like gay men. Like there’s just something about them that other smokers recognize…? Do you find the shadiest looking rasta’ mofo and ask him, because SURELY he must know, right? And isn’t that stereotypical? But is there truth in the myth? (Maybe Humanity Critic can handle that question…) And why does it seem that I am the ONLY black intellectual who has never smoked weed. Do I give off a vibe that makes pot peddlers steer clear of me? Like, nah…don’t ask her; she might tell on us. LOL. I would say no, but I would definitely not tell. Hey, I don’t do it, but I don’t stop anyone else. Well, anyone else grown enough to make those decisions. I tell high school kids in a heartbeat that the shit causes brain rot. But I am offended that never in my life, not once, has anyone ever asked me if I wanted to buy some green.

I obviously have saved NO face on this topic as I see the bloggers who know me personally rolling on the floor dying laughing at me because they can actually picture these scenes…I was going to call you out but you know who you are. Shut up. It’s not funny. I seriously want to know these things.

I’ve just always been a goody-goody. Very few things about me can be considered edgy. Though, I do have some suspect music tastes and find myself turning down whatever profanity-ridden r&b cut I’m shaking my laffy-taffy to on the way to work way down when I pull into the block where my building is located. Because I rub elbows with a lot of older, very conservative black folk, I have to quickly turn to Smooth Jazz 107.5, lest I get caught in the glare of disappointment. (I have an interview with Ambassador Andrew Young in a couple hours and I’m not sure he could appreciate being asked to donate $25,000 to my organization by someone rocking Killer Mike. I know I wouldn’t. lol )

So my music tastes make me a little less white, right? I get a few points there, don’t I?

And since we’re on the topic of activities that will get you arrested, I have a question or two that I really need to get answered. I really REALLY want to know how logistically you have sex in a movie theatre without getting caught…wait, let me qualify that….quality sex. And, how you get to be a member of the Mile-High club without being detained by TSA when the plane lands. I’ve done my share of freaky, scandalous things. Nothing like having sex in phone booths or giving head on a dance floor at a club. No, nothing like that. (Wait…did I just call somebody out?) But my boss’s desk may have christened a time or two. There may have been a space in Tucker Hall, space or spaces, that may have seen me partially unclothed. I said MAY have. I will admit nothing.

Bottom line is I need to be less poodle skirt and more leather mini. Less Charlotte and more Samantha. Less Sandra Dee and more Rizzo. I need more edge. I want to discover the seedy side of the world. But I fear that I’ll never break in. So now, as I get dressed for my interview, with my knee-length pencil skirt, seafoam twin set, modestly-heeled mary-janes, cultured pearls and conservative Hillary Clinton hair, I don’t think that anyone will ever ask me if I want to dance with Mary Jane. I guess I’ll have to settle for marketing myself as a Senator’s wife.

But I still want to know about the movie theatre and mile high club. Even we goody-goodys need a little excitement.

Selectivity

I dream that he sits on a patio sipping hot tea or cappuccino or Aquafina
(because someone once told me that Evian tastes like tap water)
shuffling his sandals while discussing politics and race relations
in southern cities with 1960's mentalities as I muse over the poem he wrote me
to go with the flowers he cut fresh this morning for my bedside table

While in reality, he is quiet, reading the town's daily newspaper
(or rather skimming the headlines for something "interesting")
with Wheel of Fortune on in the background
and the microwave humming with last night's pasta leftovers warming inside

And while he lacks sophistication, he looks at me with wisdom and kindness
and while we lack conversation and romance, he takes his plastic fork
and feeds me utensil-wound noodles in sauce,
shares his cranberry juice and burrows his feet under my thighs
just after kissing my cheek so I know he loves me

-- The Muse (2000)



Despite all the blah, blah I was talking when I wrote my first post, I did not start this blog for any drinking fest, blogger convention or any other such nonsense. I was conned into writing. I actually just wanted to post a comment to another blog but that person only allowed comments from bloggers. So I signed up. Of course I didn't have to actually use the blog just because I had a magic password. So why then?

See, I have a gift. Or curse. Depends on how you look at it. I give really great advice. I can see things in other people, or see things about them, that they don't necessarily see in themselves. I sometimes can be very inspirational. A real life muse. The bad thing is that I can't see the path of my own life. I feel sometimes that I'm too in it to see out of it. My sight is blocked and I undermine my own destiny.

The blog was kinda like my way of giving myself advice. Hence the moral of each story. I'm not preaching to you all. Just to myself. If someone else learns or gains something from my little stories, that's just an added bonus.

So bear with me as I work through some things. Today I'm blogging, a few days early, to try to get an understanding of myself. Of my biggest self-sabotage to date. My Achilles' heel. Or heels.

Men...

and Love.

I am and have always been a hopeless romantic, in the most dramatic sense of the word. I not only believe in love at first sight, I swear by it. Depend on it. In my mind, it is logical for two people to be cosmically connected. And I want that connection so bad...so deep in my core...that I have this very bad habit of testing every man with potential to see if he's "THE ONE." Not, do I try to find the value in him. Instead, that I woo him until he's convinced that he may be my soulmate and then I poke and prod until I find one little flaw and then it's..."Well, thanks for playing! Next contestant, please." I run relationships into the ground. All because I have this strange belief that when I find it, I'll know...and until then, nothing can satisfy me. It's like always having a taste for something but not knowing what that something is. I'm always thirsty.

I've heard others describe a similar condition...in relation to jobs and success. So I am by no means unique. But still, it's not a good feeling.

But what's strange now is that I have been, or have claimed to have been, in love so many times that I don't think I know anymore what real love is...what it looks like...what it feels like. And really, I'm not sure that I've ever known. I can't rely on my heart to tell me. My heart is unreliable. And it's finicky. One minutes it's in love; the next growing bored and longing for the next time passion that will make it go aflutter. My heart is in it for the thrill. I can't rely on my mind either, because it has a checklist that it bases its decision on, and that list is so far from comprehensive, it's scary.

• Cute?
• Nice chest?
• Decent-sized manhood?
• Good sense of humor?
• Ability to form intelligible sentence constructs?

No really...that's it. It seems that every universally attractive man who has a few funny, grammatically correct jokes in his arsenal and a nice package is enough for my mind to start thinking of names for our children. I know! It's pitiful. But at least I'm being honest, right?

Actually, I've always imagined myself with a scholarly and romantic kind of brother...someone to debate with...to talk passionately with about some of life's real issues. Someone whose depth is visible on the outside...who I can just look at and see his true being. Someone who gets excited about the simple things in life and who wants to share them.

Instead I find myself with the true MAN'S MAN. You know the type. He thinks you should know that he loves you because he does things with you that he hasn't with any other woman. He shares food from his plate. He lets you in his space that he used to relish having all alone. He does not communicate usually...not in the traditional sense. He's a jeans and t-shirt, football and beer, working on cars for fun kind of guy. But in my mind, he meets all the requirements. And in my heart I know he cares, and I know that should be enough.

SHOULD BE...but it's not.

I'm just too damn picky. But I'm holding out for perfection. I just hope when I find it/him, my sight is developed enough by then to recognize it.

And in the meantime, I'm always accepting applications.

Adequacy

This is how I look without makeup
And with no bra my ninnys sag down low
My hair ain’t never hung down to my shoulders
And it might not grow…shit, ya never know…
But I’m cleva, when I bust a rhyme
She's cleva, always on your mind
I'm cleva, and I really wanna grow
But why come, I’m the last to know?
--Erykah Badu

I really like me. There are things about me that give me cause to smile at myself. For example: I rarely wear makeup because I have fairly nice skin, despite the occasional nervous bumps; the 20 pounds that were donated by child-bearing, for the most part, were distributed to places where they look quite nice, and although I often describe myself as being “on the wrong side of thick,” I get more than my share of male attention; and, thanks to three years of braces, I have a beautiful, very contagious smile.

So all in all, I really am a doll.

However…

There are times when I come across a person who, for whatever reason, makes me feel as if my conditional cuteness is not quite good enough—like the quirky things about me, my idiosyncrasies, my uniquenesses, suddenly don’t seem so attractive.

A good example:
I was at Wal-Mart a few months back, you know, one of those SuperCenters that has the grocery store, pharmacy, dental practice and elementary school in it. It was a Saturday morning, about 7 AM, if that late in the day. I was making a quick run for some cleaning supplies and had planned to be in and out in a matter of minutes, so I didn’t bother too much with “my look.” (Besides, I was heading home to clean toilets which is hardly worth getting glamorous for) At any rate, I had just completed my transaction at the self-checkout lane, gathered my change and receipt, when this stylist at the facility’s Hair Design Studio, pushed past 3 people and stepped on a child’s foot just to get to me before I exited the store—to hand me a flyer. She made a big presentation, slightly embarrassing me, imploring that I take advantage of the coupon offer on the front, while she tilted her head to the side, looking at me not in the eye, but in my roots, with perplexion, as if to say… "Chile, what nested in your head last night, and when is it planning to fly away?…” LOL. In that instant, I felt the need to justify my appearance with a ‘see-what-had-happened-was’ story. Instead, I smiled, accepted the flyer and headed to my car wishing I had worn a hat.

Another time my sister and I were watching What Not To Wear when she says…
“Hey, I should refer you to that show so you can get a new wardrobe…”
I was thinking, “Yes! I could use a $5,000 New York shopping spree,” already planning the tacky outfit combinations I would have to create to get me consideration on the show, when my sister continued by saying…
“…because those pants you’re wearing are UG-LY!”
She then proceeds to breakdown my entire wardrobe piece by piece until the only article of clothing approved by her standards was a shirt she got me for Christmas.
Damn, Shelly, don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think. Sheesh!

And then there was yesterday…

Now before I proceed, please understand that I’m not the type who goes crazy over meeting a celebrity. Don’t get me wrong—I sometimes get a case of nerves. Like when I met Nikki Giovanni…she sat down beside me and it took me about 5 minutes before I got the nerve to say hello (I just smiled at her with this potential-stalker look in my eyes). But then the conversation became very easy and I asked her about her classes and her works and it was all-good. I met 112 at a basketball game when I was in high school and despite the urge, I kept my panties to myself, walked by casually saying only, “it was nice meeting you,” instead of “Please sing to me until I melt!”

Okay, so maybe I do go A LITTLE crazy---but usually it’s only in my head.

That is until yesterday.

I met someone who I’ve been dying to meet quite possibly all of my life. I had only seen pictures before then, but in real life he was one hundred times more gorgeous. Like drop-dead, throw-your-panties-on-stage, melt-at-the-sight-of-you gorgeous. And he was perfect. So perfect, that it made me feel totally not worthy of the honor. But I played it cool, though…for about 5 minutes! Within an hour, I had forgotten where I lived, the basics of the English language, how to cook (and I can throw DOWN!) and what it meant to “be cool.” I was dropping shit, …knocking shit over,…tripping over shit,…chocking on shit,…ROTFLMAO! (you had to be there) I was a mess. A gaddamn mess.

After the morning monstrosity that was I was put to rest, I had time to reflect on my behavior. At first I wanted to just call and apologize for EVERYTHING!, because I was certain that the reason I so incredibly embarrassed myself was that I had a big case of the jitters. And then reality set in and I had to be honest with myself and admit…
“No honey…that was the real you…in all your shining glory.”
And I realized that by apologizing I would have to ask forgiveness for being myself. And that ain’t ever gonna happen. Trust. The fact that I am a klutz, and a geek, and a priss, is what makes me me. And I like me.

So while it would have been nice if I could have used that Wal-Mart coupon for a deep conditioner and a trim on Friday night, and if Clinton and Stacy could have rescued me from wardrobe purgatory, and if my manners were that of a princess and my allure that of a goddess—what I really wish is that I had not been so embarrassed or felt so insecure about not being perfect. I wish I had laughed at myself out loud (and I wish he hadn’t muffled so many chuckles because his laugh and smile were both amazing).

And I wish that all my nuttiness not be held against me.

Completion

my legs are 42 inches from hip to heel...
each...
so when I wrap them around you,
my thick stems
have the ability to cover you like kudzu on oak trees...
cover you...
entirely.

and that's how you like it, right?
entirely?

you don't want just pieces of me.
you want me, entirely

Unfortunately for me
and for you
all I have are pieces.

I have the skeletal ones
the edge pieces
the ones with which puzzle afficionados commence their journey

I am missing some, though
some pieces of me I foolishly discarded.
I didn't know then that I would need all the pieces
I never had instructions
I thought they were excess
like bonus buttons on brand-new blouses

It wasn't until you asked to see me
entirely
that I found I wasn't whole
It wasn't until I met you
or rather met pieces of you
that I found my construction to be
unacceptable
incomplete
definitely not me in my entirety

You have exposed my imperfections
my flaws
my holes
And yet, knowing I am not whole
you still require me to show you myself
entirely

And it wouldn't be such an unfair request
except that
you...
you have them.

my angels slipped them into your pockets
so I don't fault you
you had no idea
you had no idea that you hold the pieces
that would complete me

so I ask you now
kindly
to return to me what will finish me
so that I can show you myself
just the way you like it
whole
full
complete

entirely