I do not fit. They are faultless square pegs and I’m perfectly round. I do not belong in my family. I mean this in the most literal (and figurative) terms possible. I do not jive to their jukebox music; I have no rhythm. I cannot blend in or even camouflage my way in. I am bright orange in a sea of calm blues.
I do not fit.
It’s not a downhearted situation but rather an epiphany for me. A splendid enlightenment because it provides answers which in essence, enable me to move on to the next engaging chapter of my life.
I implore no pity, sympathy or even empathy. As awkwardly as it may resonate, it feels good to define an emotion.
I’ve been a part of my family for 32 years and I’ve always felt like a distant cousin or maybe even an adopted red head but during this past family reunion weekend, I felt more like an unknown than ever before.
I opted not to isolate myself yet to mingle and test my theory of alienation. I fancied topics of discussion to see if I could ‘fit’ in with my siblings. I even danced a jig of make believe—in hopes of rekindling a spark of recognition of my placement—in this family. I delved into the realm of sci-fi; which defines my family movie-isms whereas my resume echoed more of a romance and comedy movie-ism. My search for normal family interactions was in full gear. I betrothed my nephews and niece in a journey of understanding—while providing open ended questions laced with engaging and light banter. I was eager to bend, stretch and even succumb, convert to anything and everything to be proved wrong by my theory.
I desperately and sincerely yearned to belong.
My tests revealed what I had downtrodden to the bottom of my livelihood for so many years. My tests supported my theory of alienation.
I do not fit.
I am not upset or even sullen about this new found revelation but rather relieved—in sorts. Finally, I have closure.
I still love my family but that doesn’t mean I need to break bread with them.
May I just love them from afar?
Would that be so wrong?
Monday, December 17, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
WHY DIDN’T I LEARN THIS IN SCHOOL?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
What was the most important lesson you learned OUTSIDE of school?
I believe one important lesson I’ve learned was derived from my father’s impassioned wisdom. In reality, he just reinforced what I already knew in my heart but it was refreshing—in many ways--hearing the words from his mouth. My father advised me to be ‘true to myself’; which of course, could span a lifetime of incidents but for this particular daddy lesson—he knew that I knew his reference point. Honesty feeds the soul and there are times when you have to be honest with yourself in order to reach some peace within. Amen, I thought as I mentally began to tackle this obstacle.
I believed (and still do to a degree) that my whorish brothers had an impact on my life in countless ways—especially with my relationships with men. The word ‘whorish’ might carry a mean-spirited denotation but believe me—that’s not my intention. I admire and love my brothers more than life itself so I do not want to impress upon the audience of any resentment or negative vibes toward them. It was quite the opposite—actually. I had admired them—in a wanton way—because of their confidence and the way they manipulated situations, bent the rules and still managed to win the prize. Quintessentially, they had always landed on two feet. Kinda cool, eh? As a young girl, it was striking because I held my older brother, Ed, with great reverence. And I still do.
As his kid sister, I owed him loyalty—regardless of the situation. At that time, I believed this rationalization to counter the lies I spewed for my brother. The lies tasted like acute poison in my mouth. They were too spicy to digest so I spit them out; unfortunately, these lies were spun for the wrong reason. Then again, there are no ‘right’ reasons for a lie, right?
I witnessed their conniving ways...intricate lies and just ‘bad behavior’ toward relationships and women in particular. Both had several girlfriends at one time; whereas each girlfriend was oblivious to the other one. It baffled me to a stifling frustration as to the basis for wanting more than one girlfriend. Was it that addictive—this thing called lust? Our parents were married (at the time) for twenty odd years; but this stability did not seem to have an influence for them. Fidelity wasn’t in—I supposed. Being inexperienced and quite inquisitive—this plagued me but I never ‘let on’ that it did. I did not want to be labeled as ‘a little girl’—considering I was the only female left in the house. Quickly, I tried to grasp these concepts of distrust and exploitation while justifying them as being imperative considering this was the orbit of my brothers’ unfaithful lives.
When I was younger, my older brother used me as his ‘scapegoat’ which encompassed lying for him (to his many women). I HATED IT. I felt horrible inside but I didn’t say anything because he was my big brother and I didn’t want him to be upset---If I pissed off my big brother—who would I look up to?
The deceit and dishonesty were slowly singeing my spirit. Each lie added another burden to my—already burdened young soul... I couldn’t look the girlfriends in the eyes when I knew my brother had been with another woman. As female, I felt he betrayed the entire sex.
I had to break free.
One day, I told my father about these lies (I’ve been telling for my brother). This did not please him. The disappointment in his eyes said it all.
But, I was mystified. Dad also told us that family’s first and we should always support family. This mental puzzle needed to be put together because I was confused. Was I doing the right thing?
Daddy sat me down; he explained that it was acceptable to help my brother as long as it didn’t get in the way of my own soul. He also explicated the impact of a guilty conscience. That made me freeze in mid sentence. Guilty Conscience. That was the culprit of my sadness.
Why didn’t I learn this in school?
He told me to be true to myself; in essence, I readied myself to start that journey for self analysis. Eventually, I stood up to my brother. Told him that he would have to find another scapegoat. The lies had to stop. And they did.
I felt rehabilitated after those heavy burdens were released from my shoulders.
What was the most important lesson you learned OUTSIDE of school?
I believe one important lesson I’ve learned was derived from my father’s impassioned wisdom. In reality, he just reinforced what I already knew in my heart but it was refreshing—in many ways--hearing the words from his mouth. My father advised me to be ‘true to myself’; which of course, could span a lifetime of incidents but for this particular daddy lesson—he knew that I knew his reference point. Honesty feeds the soul and there are times when you have to be honest with yourself in order to reach some peace within. Amen, I thought as I mentally began to tackle this obstacle.
I believed (and still do to a degree) that my whorish brothers had an impact on my life in countless ways—especially with my relationships with men. The word ‘whorish’ might carry a mean-spirited denotation but believe me—that’s not my intention. I admire and love my brothers more than life itself so I do not want to impress upon the audience of any resentment or negative vibes toward them. It was quite the opposite—actually. I had admired them—in a wanton way—because of their confidence and the way they manipulated situations, bent the rules and still managed to win the prize. Quintessentially, they had always landed on two feet. Kinda cool, eh? As a young girl, it was striking because I held my older brother, Ed, with great reverence. And I still do.
As his kid sister, I owed him loyalty—regardless of the situation. At that time, I believed this rationalization to counter the lies I spewed for my brother. The lies tasted like acute poison in my mouth. They were too spicy to digest so I spit them out; unfortunately, these lies were spun for the wrong reason. Then again, there are no ‘right’ reasons for a lie, right?
I witnessed their conniving ways...intricate lies and just ‘bad behavior’ toward relationships and women in particular. Both had several girlfriends at one time; whereas each girlfriend was oblivious to the other one. It baffled me to a stifling frustration as to the basis for wanting more than one girlfriend. Was it that addictive—this thing called lust? Our parents were married (at the time) for twenty odd years; but this stability did not seem to have an influence for them. Fidelity wasn’t in—I supposed. Being inexperienced and quite inquisitive—this plagued me but I never ‘let on’ that it did. I did not want to be labeled as ‘a little girl’—considering I was the only female left in the house. Quickly, I tried to grasp these concepts of distrust and exploitation while justifying them as being imperative considering this was the orbit of my brothers’ unfaithful lives.
When I was younger, my older brother used me as his ‘scapegoat’ which encompassed lying for him (to his many women). I HATED IT. I felt horrible inside but I didn’t say anything because he was my big brother and I didn’t want him to be upset---If I pissed off my big brother—who would I look up to?
The deceit and dishonesty were slowly singeing my spirit. Each lie added another burden to my—already burdened young soul... I couldn’t look the girlfriends in the eyes when I knew my brother had been with another woman. As female, I felt he betrayed the entire sex.
I had to break free.
One day, I told my father about these lies (I’ve been telling for my brother). This did not please him. The disappointment in his eyes said it all.
But, I was mystified. Dad also told us that family’s first and we should always support family. This mental puzzle needed to be put together because I was confused. Was I doing the right thing?
Daddy sat me down; he explained that it was acceptable to help my brother as long as it didn’t get in the way of my own soul. He also explicated the impact of a guilty conscience. That made me freeze in mid sentence. Guilty Conscience. That was the culprit of my sadness.
Why didn’t I learn this in school?
He told me to be true to myself; in essence, I readied myself to start that journey for self analysis. Eventually, I stood up to my brother. Told him that he would have to find another scapegoat. The lies had to stop. And they did.
I felt rehabilitated after those heavy burdens were released from my shoulders.
Monday, October 15, 2007
My Entire
Monday, October 15, 2007
What a beautiful escape.
The library is my sanctuary. It lulls me to a place of solitude and needlessness. I like to get lost between the aisles of fiction—mystery and suspense. My mind is overwhelmed and quite unsettled; favoring a child with an overdose of chocolate and caffeine. Indeed, I am fidgety.
With my new library card—I have limitations, which, at first, I thought would be acceptable but now, it is not. Then I ponder: Are these limitations symbolic of my life—as a whole? Do I take these halts to be a sign of some sort? Crawl before you walk; walk before you run? Are there limitations to my passion? To my life? Say it isn’t so. Undoubtedly, it may just be.
But, I will adhere to the boundaries and limit my troll to those standards posted (only 5 rentals per new card)—today, only. I will be back tomorrow and the day after that to utilize my liberation to the fullest. In essence, I need this more than I’m sure the entity needs my soul. I crave the flight. An opportunity to soar above it all—reality, life and people too. Perhaps I’m searching for that piece to my puzzle because my entire is not quite whole.
In the meanwhile, I’ll use the library as the substitute to whatever isn’t jiving.
What a beautiful escape.
The library is my sanctuary. It lulls me to a place of solitude and needlessness. I like to get lost between the aisles of fiction—mystery and suspense. My mind is overwhelmed and quite unsettled; favoring a child with an overdose of chocolate and caffeine. Indeed, I am fidgety.
With my new library card—I have limitations, which, at first, I thought would be acceptable but now, it is not. Then I ponder: Are these limitations symbolic of my life—as a whole? Do I take these halts to be a sign of some sort? Crawl before you walk; walk before you run? Are there limitations to my passion? To my life? Say it isn’t so. Undoubtedly, it may just be.
But, I will adhere to the boundaries and limit my troll to those standards posted (only 5 rentals per new card)—today, only. I will be back tomorrow and the day after that to utilize my liberation to the fullest. In essence, I need this more than I’m sure the entity needs my soul. I crave the flight. An opportunity to soar above it all—reality, life and people too. Perhaps I’m searching for that piece to my puzzle because my entire is not quite whole.
In the meanwhile, I’ll use the library as the substitute to whatever isn’t jiving.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
You Are What You Eat, Right?
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
*Warning..I’m having one of these ‘WHOA, LIFE’ moments and had to share*
You know I LOVE Discussions so CHIME in—if you can!
Has anyone seen this documentary on HBO called THIN?
It was about Eating disorders and followed patients at a residential facility. As I watched this show, I felt so much empathy for these females—ages ranged from 15 to 30. I did not realize how consuming eating disorders could be. I know many females dealt with them (I know I have) but some of these patients were extreme. One patient had a feeding tube from her stomach for 6 years because she was an anorexic—then starting purging via the feeding tube to get rid of the little food she did consume.
This is an epidemic—literally consumes one’s life. One diva said her childhood consisted of calorie-counting and measured meals. No mention of Christmas mornings, Prom stories, first dates, etc.—but memories of hiding food and purging. ‘WHOA Life moment’.
The 15 year old broke my heart. She had been dealing with bulimia since age 8. Age 8!!!
Whoa. I really liked the residential facility that was featured in this documentary. They had a team of doctors, nutritionists, etc. and they focused on the community and support.
I’ve never spent any time in a residential facility but I can only imagine the experience. At first, I’m sure it was hard but then one adjusted—like these girls had adjusted—and formed bonds and friendships…then one had to leave. LEAVE. What a shock and reality check for them.
Every girl featured continued to lose ‘weight’ and dealt with the eating disorders. One girl attempted suicide and returned to the residential program.
It was an eye-opening piece that I feel should be shared with our young people. When I went to the site—I read about the educational resources that had been created to accompany the film. KUDOS to the filmmaker.
About THIN documentary:
http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/thin/video.html
*Warning..I’m having one of these ‘WHOA, LIFE’ moments and had to share*
You know I LOVE Discussions so CHIME in—if you can!
Has anyone seen this documentary on HBO called THIN?
It was about Eating disorders and followed patients at a residential facility. As I watched this show, I felt so much empathy for these females—ages ranged from 15 to 30. I did not realize how consuming eating disorders could be. I know many females dealt with them (I know I have) but some of these patients were extreme. One patient had a feeding tube from her stomach for 6 years because she was an anorexic—then starting purging via the feeding tube to get rid of the little food she did consume.
This is an epidemic—literally consumes one’s life. One diva said her childhood consisted of calorie-counting and measured meals. No mention of Christmas mornings, Prom stories, first dates, etc.—but memories of hiding food and purging. ‘WHOA Life moment’.
The 15 year old broke my heart. She had been dealing with bulimia since age 8. Age 8!!!
Whoa. I really liked the residential facility that was featured in this documentary. They had a team of doctors, nutritionists, etc. and they focused on the community and support.
I’ve never spent any time in a residential facility but I can only imagine the experience. At first, I’m sure it was hard but then one adjusted—like these girls had adjusted—and formed bonds and friendships…then one had to leave. LEAVE. What a shock and reality check for them.
Every girl featured continued to lose ‘weight’ and dealt with the eating disorders. One girl attempted suicide and returned to the residential program.
It was an eye-opening piece that I feel should be shared with our young people. When I went to the site—I read about the educational resources that had been created to accompany the film. KUDOS to the filmmaker.
About THIN documentary:
http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/thin/video.html
Monday, September 24, 2007
Brother Man Said Nothing
Friday, September 21, 2007
Something interesting transpired today—my interaction with an older African American male reached an epiphany. Such interaction was more out of the ordinary than anything else but not normal enough for it to slip by without acknowledgement.
I pose this question to my brothers—what is the fascination with white women?
Allow me to explain. As my Friday came to a close, I decided I would treat myself to some barbeque from the local pub restaurant. As many could agree, I was not the best cook and I did not have the stomach to digest another bowl of bland chicken and rice.
The atmosphere in the pub was quite inviting; accented with dim lights and hearty laughs from patrons. I went to the bar to place my order with the dazzling young female bartender; her eyes were sky blue and her skin as pale as Nicole Kidman’s. I used the word dazzling because she seemed to be in high spirits which aided the light overall atmosphere of the eatery. She was polite enough and I was rather pleased with her soft banter as I mulled over the menu then placed my order. Instant camaraderie cajoled between us.
That was when I truly noticed him. My distinguished-looking African-American brother sporting a loosen tie, name brand sports coat and a weathered smile. His salt-and-pepper facial hair painted the image of a seasoned professor visiting or promoting his life’s work. Then, again he could have been a hobo who knew how to dress but that didn’t matter—his true profession—because his image inked this portrait of refinement and dignity. At first.
I sat two seats down from this man—my brother in race. I searched for his eyes so I may pay the proper respect and acknowledge his existence. I was dumbfounded in this endeavor because his eyes avoided mine as one would avoid the mythological creature Medusa—in dread that eye contact would turn one to stone. He looked at me not.
I settled in the seat and adjusted my clothes—as a way to seem busy to cover my disappointment. The lackadaisical white bartender offered generous smiles to my brother—as he returned her smiles with overzealous laughs and robust grins. His deep voice echoed throughout the small arena of a pub. They exchanged giggles—as she flipped her golden locks, in what it seemed like artificial acknowledgement in hopes of a fat tip. Young diva was working it and working him—this seemingly talented brother with the dark chocolate flawless skin and deep brown hued eyes accented with his rimless round spectacles that balanced out his handsome demeanor.
I searched again for his smile. Did he even notice me? I swerved my chair to his direction, and then leaned in closer to erect some embodiment of that interaction—between the bartender and him. I disengaged my bashfulness and stared at him. His face crooked a bit toward my direction but his eyes stayed focused on her. I felt his peripheral vision peering deep into my eyes yet something held him back.
Did I come off as too aggressive? He was hardly my type; considering he stood a mere 5’6 or so and my statuesque build was ever potent at 6’3. I wasn’t attracted to him. My intention transformed from general curiosity to outward infatuation with this man’s attention span. Was he truly more into his white entertainment so earnestly that he could not acknowledge his sister in race?
I had to paused within and weighed my own objectives—was I envious of this female; did I want this man to hit on me—what? What was it? What was bothering me?
After what seemed like less than a second, it moved me to answer—my conscience. It did not tickle my fancy that this man was not attracted to me. I did not harbor any feelings of envy for their playful interaction—my fervor of disgust started to swell due to the fact this man could not even acknowledge my existence—as in a casual person sharing the same air. That was just rude. Plain rude. I realized that was the culprit to my frustration with this situation. I felt disrespected by my brother in race.
Was this man too mesmerized by his possible play thing to say hello or even offer a quick, ‘good evening’? This was quite unusual, in my eyes.
The bartender smiled at this man then cut her eyes to me. She asked, ‘May I offer you a drink on the house, miss?” Again, his eyes remained steady. He looked at her, only…refusing to falter.
I did not know if she felt my deep stares and wanted to make peace with me in fear I resented her for goggling over a black man or if she was doing her job and making sure I was satisfied. Either/or, I felt her mannerism was pleasing and told myself I would tip her.
He introduced himself to Nadine and extended his calloused hand for a ritual handshake. She obliged and barked her name aloud then tilted her head to me and smiled. ‘I’m Nadine,’ she said again toward me and I winked. ‘Shaye,’ I whispered and closed the deal with a nurturing nod.
Brother man said nothing.
I decided to give up and forget the yearning for recognition by this man. He knew my presence and he knew that I knew he was dead wrong for avoiding my eye contact. I had to let it go. I wondered to myself—did he think I was jealous of his interaction with this white woman or did he truly understand I just yearned for a simple hello from him. I wondered if he thought of me as a stereotypical ‘black female’—antsy, loud and I Love New-York-ish or did he have the essence to avoid judging a book by its cover? Then, I reversed those thoughts to myself. Was I putting this man in a ‘category’? A Black man seeking a White woman or were my feelings truly lacking validation?
My mind was on overdrive so I sipped my Sprite in silence.
Ten minutes or so passed. The bartender acknowledged me a few more times and even refilled my Sprite. Every time, Mr. Black Man stared elsewhere-afraid that my stares would burn a hole in his soul.
I accepted the situation as soon as he walked passed me, with a cigarette in his hand, without a word. He finally returned my stare and kept walking to the door. Silence.
I paid the kind woman and left the pub. As I walked to my car, I saw Mr. Black Man sitting at the stoop with a cigarette in his hand---puffing cancerous smoke.
I strolled passed him then paused; adjusted my body to face his. Then, I spoke.
“Excuse me, brother. I do not mean to interrupt you but I was curious about something.”
Brother man looked up with innocence in his eyes. Smoke hurled through his nostrils and his big eyes penetrated mine.
“Yes” he responded almost immediately.
“Why did you avoid me earlier in the pub? I mean, I noticed you and Nadine had an energetic conversation and not once—did you say hello. Why is that?”
He looked puzzled, at first, and then rubbed his salt and peppered beard uneasily.
“Oh, well, I don’t know.” He admitted.
“Don’t get me wrong, brother. I’m not tripping because you were kicking it to the white lady. Hey, if that’s your thing, then go for it. Who am I to judge? But, I felt you avoided my eye contact on purpose. I just wanted to know why.” I felt deflated emotionally--once I got it out—my feelings about the situation.
He looked dumbfounded. Puffed another bit from his cancer stick then rebutted.
“Actually, you’re right. I could’ve acknowledged you but I didn’t. I do like white women—that’s just my thing. I really don’t know, sister. I mean..I mean..I never thought about that. This is the first time someone has brought it to my attention. That’s interesting..”
I cut Mr. Black Man off and reassured him by saying, “look..I’m not trying to scold you or even make you feel a certain way. We’re both adults and there are no hard feelings. You are entitled to your views. I was just taken back a bit that you didn’t acknowledge my presence. I mean, I am hard to miss.”
I chuckled to lighten the mood. It worked because he returned my smile with his own.
“And you are stunning, very beautiful..I just..I don’t know..I don’t really talk to Black women..I mean...” he stammered and struggled to find his voice. He looked a tad uneasy and I felt I needed closure to this conversation.
“Look, mister..it’s okay. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment or even trying to make you say something you had no intention to share. I am a very outspoken person and I just had to speak my mind. I wasn’t trying to offend you or whatever.. I mean..well..we’re all human and things happen, right?”
He looked downtrodden as I talked. That wasn’t my intention—I thought to myself—to drudge up feelings of guilt or whatever so I smiled and introduced myself to this Black Man. I did not want an enemy; I wanted a friend. So, I did what I do best—I reached out to him, my brother in race.
“Let’s start over,” I said to him and his upbeat energy—from earlier-returned.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Something interesting transpired today—my interaction with an older African American male reached an epiphany. Such interaction was more out of the ordinary than anything else but not normal enough for it to slip by without acknowledgement.
I pose this question to my brothers—what is the fascination with white women?
Allow me to explain. As my Friday came to a close, I decided I would treat myself to some barbeque from the local pub restaurant. As many could agree, I was not the best cook and I did not have the stomach to digest another bowl of bland chicken and rice.
The atmosphere in the pub was quite inviting; accented with dim lights and hearty laughs from patrons. I went to the bar to place my order with the dazzling young female bartender; her eyes were sky blue and her skin as pale as Nicole Kidman’s. I used the word dazzling because she seemed to be in high spirits which aided the light overall atmosphere of the eatery. She was polite enough and I was rather pleased with her soft banter as I mulled over the menu then placed my order. Instant camaraderie cajoled between us.
That was when I truly noticed him. My distinguished-looking African-American brother sporting a loosen tie, name brand sports coat and a weathered smile. His salt-and-pepper facial hair painted the image of a seasoned professor visiting or promoting his life’s work. Then, again he could have been a hobo who knew how to dress but that didn’t matter—his true profession—because his image inked this portrait of refinement and dignity. At first.
I sat two seats down from this man—my brother in race. I searched for his eyes so I may pay the proper respect and acknowledge his existence. I was dumbfounded in this endeavor because his eyes avoided mine as one would avoid the mythological creature Medusa—in dread that eye contact would turn one to stone. He looked at me not.
I settled in the seat and adjusted my clothes—as a way to seem busy to cover my disappointment. The lackadaisical white bartender offered generous smiles to my brother—as he returned her smiles with overzealous laughs and robust grins. His deep voice echoed throughout the small arena of a pub. They exchanged giggles—as she flipped her golden locks, in what it seemed like artificial acknowledgement in hopes of a fat tip. Young diva was working it and working him—this seemingly talented brother with the dark chocolate flawless skin and deep brown hued eyes accented with his rimless round spectacles that balanced out his handsome demeanor.
I searched again for his smile. Did he even notice me? I swerved my chair to his direction, and then leaned in closer to erect some embodiment of that interaction—between the bartender and him. I disengaged my bashfulness and stared at him. His face crooked a bit toward my direction but his eyes stayed focused on her. I felt his peripheral vision peering deep into my eyes yet something held him back.
Did I come off as too aggressive? He was hardly my type; considering he stood a mere 5’6 or so and my statuesque build was ever potent at 6’3. I wasn’t attracted to him. My intention transformed from general curiosity to outward infatuation with this man’s attention span. Was he truly more into his white entertainment so earnestly that he could not acknowledge his sister in race?
I had to paused within and weighed my own objectives—was I envious of this female; did I want this man to hit on me—what? What was it? What was bothering me?
After what seemed like less than a second, it moved me to answer—my conscience. It did not tickle my fancy that this man was not attracted to me. I did not harbor any feelings of envy for their playful interaction—my fervor of disgust started to swell due to the fact this man could not even acknowledge my existence—as in a casual person sharing the same air. That was just rude. Plain rude. I realized that was the culprit to my frustration with this situation. I felt disrespected by my brother in race.
Was this man too mesmerized by his possible play thing to say hello or even offer a quick, ‘good evening’? This was quite unusual, in my eyes.
The bartender smiled at this man then cut her eyes to me. She asked, ‘May I offer you a drink on the house, miss?” Again, his eyes remained steady. He looked at her, only…refusing to falter.
I did not know if she felt my deep stares and wanted to make peace with me in fear I resented her for goggling over a black man or if she was doing her job and making sure I was satisfied. Either/or, I felt her mannerism was pleasing and told myself I would tip her.
He introduced himself to Nadine and extended his calloused hand for a ritual handshake. She obliged and barked her name aloud then tilted her head to me and smiled. ‘I’m Nadine,’ she said again toward me and I winked. ‘Shaye,’ I whispered and closed the deal with a nurturing nod.
Brother man said nothing.
I decided to give up and forget the yearning for recognition by this man. He knew my presence and he knew that I knew he was dead wrong for avoiding my eye contact. I had to let it go. I wondered to myself—did he think I was jealous of his interaction with this white woman or did he truly understand I just yearned for a simple hello from him. I wondered if he thought of me as a stereotypical ‘black female’—antsy, loud and I Love New-York-ish or did he have the essence to avoid judging a book by its cover? Then, I reversed those thoughts to myself. Was I putting this man in a ‘category’? A Black man seeking a White woman or were my feelings truly lacking validation?
My mind was on overdrive so I sipped my Sprite in silence.
Ten minutes or so passed. The bartender acknowledged me a few more times and even refilled my Sprite. Every time, Mr. Black Man stared elsewhere-afraid that my stares would burn a hole in his soul.
I accepted the situation as soon as he walked passed me, with a cigarette in his hand, without a word. He finally returned my stare and kept walking to the door. Silence.
I paid the kind woman and left the pub. As I walked to my car, I saw Mr. Black Man sitting at the stoop with a cigarette in his hand---puffing cancerous smoke.
I strolled passed him then paused; adjusted my body to face his. Then, I spoke.
“Excuse me, brother. I do not mean to interrupt you but I was curious about something.”
Brother man looked up with innocence in his eyes. Smoke hurled through his nostrils and his big eyes penetrated mine.
“Yes” he responded almost immediately.
“Why did you avoid me earlier in the pub? I mean, I noticed you and Nadine had an energetic conversation and not once—did you say hello. Why is that?”
He looked puzzled, at first, and then rubbed his salt and peppered beard uneasily.
“Oh, well, I don’t know.” He admitted.
“Don’t get me wrong, brother. I’m not tripping because you were kicking it to the white lady. Hey, if that’s your thing, then go for it. Who am I to judge? But, I felt you avoided my eye contact on purpose. I just wanted to know why.” I felt deflated emotionally--once I got it out—my feelings about the situation.
He looked dumbfounded. Puffed another bit from his cancer stick then rebutted.
“Actually, you’re right. I could’ve acknowledged you but I didn’t. I do like white women—that’s just my thing. I really don’t know, sister. I mean..I mean..I never thought about that. This is the first time someone has brought it to my attention. That’s interesting..”
I cut Mr. Black Man off and reassured him by saying, “look..I’m not trying to scold you or even make you feel a certain way. We’re both adults and there are no hard feelings. You are entitled to your views. I was just taken back a bit that you didn’t acknowledge my presence. I mean, I am hard to miss.”
I chuckled to lighten the mood. It worked because he returned my smile with his own.
“And you are stunning, very beautiful..I just..I don’t know..I don’t really talk to Black women..I mean...” he stammered and struggled to find his voice. He looked a tad uneasy and I felt I needed closure to this conversation.
“Look, mister..it’s okay. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment or even trying to make you say something you had no intention to share. I am a very outspoken person and I just had to speak my mind. I wasn’t trying to offend you or whatever.. I mean..well..we’re all human and things happen, right?”
He looked downtrodden as I talked. That wasn’t my intention—I thought to myself—to drudge up feelings of guilt or whatever so I smiled and introduced myself to this Black Man. I did not want an enemy; I wanted a friend. So, I did what I do best—I reached out to him, my brother in race.
“Let’s start over,” I said to him and his upbeat energy—from earlier-returned.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
TUPAC AND AN OLD(er) MAN
Funny story.
QUICKLY--background: I sent my parents a happy box--as I call it. they are both retired and going through EMPTY nest syndrome. So I try to send them happy boxes with new ideas, hobbies, british literature, electronic toys--especially. Give them a reason to go the post office and check their mail.
Anyway, I bought my father the TUPAC's book of poetry. LOL. He was flabbergasted at Tupac's talent. He thought he was just a 'thug' but soon papa bear realized that Tupac is a literary artist with an urban flair. Anyway, he called me tonight to recite a couple of the poems and um.. It was hilarious.. It took everything WITHIN not to laugh. Bless his old fashioned soul. Gotta love him!
My father was reciting the words with such profoundness (like an Elizabethan actor) but of course--some of Tupac words were in slang form. My father was pronouncing those words with such passion. And basically--it sounded 'uncomfortable' for him. Like President Bush using stereotypical rappers' hand gestures while saying 'YEAHH BOY'--mimicing Flavor Flav. It was hilarious. I love it.
I just thought I'd share
Here's one of my favorite Tupac Poems:
The Rose that Grew from Concrete
Did you hear about the rose that grewfrom a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams,it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concretewhen no one else ever cared.
QUICKLY--background: I sent my parents a happy box--as I call it. they are both retired and going through EMPTY nest syndrome. So I try to send them happy boxes with new ideas, hobbies, british literature, electronic toys--especially. Give them a reason to go the post office and check their mail.
Anyway, I bought my father the TUPAC's book of poetry. LOL. He was flabbergasted at Tupac's talent. He thought he was just a 'thug' but soon papa bear realized that Tupac is a literary artist with an urban flair. Anyway, he called me tonight to recite a couple of the poems and um.. It was hilarious.. It took everything WITHIN not to laugh. Bless his old fashioned soul. Gotta love him!
My father was reciting the words with such profoundness (like an Elizabethan actor) but of course--some of Tupac words were in slang form. My father was pronouncing those words with such passion. And basically--it sounded 'uncomfortable' for him. Like President Bush using stereotypical rappers' hand gestures while saying 'YEAHH BOY'--mimicing Flavor Flav. It was hilarious. I love it.
I just thought I'd share
Here's one of my favorite Tupac Poems:
The Rose that Grew from Concrete
Did you hear about the rose that grewfrom a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams,it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concretewhen no one else ever cared.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Friday Night Lights
Friday Night Lights-
Journal Entry by Shaye Gray
August 31, 2007
Oh, the excitement of venturing to do new things. Such undertaking happened to me—marinated with a splash of pleasurable which began a little after 6 p.m. tonight.
For the first time I went to a NFL game and used the executive suite. Executive suite might be normal or even a prerequisite for others but for me... I was like in the candy store. Food, napkins, friendly people, conversation overload. Oh, and the fine brothers. (big smile) Couldn’t ask for more
To some, that might not mean much… but for me--I captured the essence in my imagination so I may recall such plush newness of this evening.
Even though, the Raven played well with the Falcons (I think those are the teams’ names)
I found myself joining in with the jubilee by clapping, whistling or whatever.
Of course, I did this in between luscious bites of the food on the plate.
The room was compact, had light flooring and dimmed to perfection. Many people were jamming—socializing or get this—watching the game!
After my sister in law and I decided to call it an early night and we did. Took Public transportation. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT. LOL
Sidebar—I rarely take public transportation so that’s an entire new experience
Signing Off
Persia Ellis aka Shaye
Journal Entry by Shaye Gray
August 31, 2007
Oh, the excitement of venturing to do new things. Such undertaking happened to me—marinated with a splash of pleasurable which began a little after 6 p.m. tonight.
For the first time I went to a NFL game and used the executive suite. Executive suite might be normal or even a prerequisite for others but for me... I was like in the candy store. Food, napkins, friendly people, conversation overload. Oh, and the fine brothers. (big smile) Couldn’t ask for more
To some, that might not mean much… but for me--I captured the essence in my imagination so I may recall such plush newness of this evening.
Even though, the Raven played well with the Falcons (I think those are the teams’ names)
I found myself joining in with the jubilee by clapping, whistling or whatever.
Of course, I did this in between luscious bites of the food on the plate.
The room was compact, had light flooring and dimmed to perfection. Many people were jamming—socializing or get this—watching the game!
After my sister in law and I decided to call it an early night and we did. Took Public transportation. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT. LOL
Sidebar—I rarely take public transportation so that’s an entire new experience
Signing Off
Persia Ellis aka Shaye
The Liar, the Parents and the Bribes
May 24, 2007
I gave my finals yesterday so it's all good. However, I am @ School doing some odds and ends. The official last day for all students is Friday. I could complain about the many trivial chores---we have to do. Check this, check that. BUT I won’t. (plus it’ll take too much time)
My real purpose of this journal entry is to vent and reflect
Today and Yesterday--I received gifts. Nice gifts from parents. Gift Certificates. WTH? I mean it’s always nice to receive gifts but come on.. I am NOT going to adjust your child’s average due to ‘nice gifts’. Are they trying to bribe me? Maybe I am over-analyzing things—which I seldom do. Moving on:
In particular, this one parent gave me a $25 gift card to Starbucks and an awesome mug. Okay, I don't drink coffee or visit Star Bucks BUT it's the thought that counts. I'll probably give it away (you know me).
Anyway, we had a parent conference months ago about her son's atrocious average. He was failing miserably early in the semester so I extended some due dates and gave him an opportunity to pull up his grade. Mind you—the failing was not from lack of comprehension. This kid didn’t do any work---literally. Plus he skipped my class. But, he did make it up--after numerous prompting -and received a 75 average. That's half-way--so he knew he had to step it up so he can get a B (80%).
Side Bar: Granted I was his only teacher to extend the work. All of his other teachers were not—hell nah he can’t make it up. I do not have a problem with a student making up work or giving an extension. If they are willing to go that extra mile—I’ll help them. Now, when my generosity is taken for granted and the parents and students feel –I SHOULD do it—when it isn’t written that I am required to do it beyond the regular make up period---that perturbs me endlessly.
I digressed but mind you--this kid lies. BIG TIME. At the parent conference--just looked the counselors and the teachers in our faces and lied. Just like that. He skipped my classes 3x one week and at the conference, he looked me in the face and said, 'Oh, you told me to go to the media center during class so I can concentrate'
Just like that. An Untruth.
I wanted to puke. I'm was like “HUH? Did I miss something? Come again?”
I would NEVER send a student to the media center during my class. I have computers in my class for research and my classes are very quiet--I don't play that..unless we're doing a group project or lit circles.
Anyway, the parents actually believed some of his lies and questioned us (teachers, counselors). The kid told the counselor that she never talked to him about his absences yet she had a log of their conversation. Straight poker face—the works.
I thought to myself—he could play poker and win some serious money.
To make a longer story shorter—I receive this gift from the parent and I knew the motive.
Before the Bribe—Currently, the student's average is 72--due to the same stuff; not completing his homework and etc. and he father inquired if his son could ‘get that 80% B that we discussed via the conference”
Okay, let’s get this straight—your son is clinging to a 72 and I am supposed to BOOST his average by 8 percentage points. Is he mad? Addicted to drugs? WTH? I kindly responded that the assignments have been turned and I was in the process of grading them and that most likely he will not make a 80% considering he received two zeroes. He’ll be lucky if he can hang on to that ‘C’
PUFF! The next day this gift.
What do you think?
I gave my finals yesterday so it's all good. However, I am @ School doing some odds and ends. The official last day for all students is Friday. I could complain about the many trivial chores---we have to do. Check this, check that. BUT I won’t. (plus it’ll take too much time)
My real purpose of this journal entry is to vent and reflect
Today and Yesterday--I received gifts. Nice gifts from parents. Gift Certificates. WTH? I mean it’s always nice to receive gifts but come on.. I am NOT going to adjust your child’s average due to ‘nice gifts’. Are they trying to bribe me? Maybe I am over-analyzing things—which I seldom do. Moving on:
In particular, this one parent gave me a $25 gift card to Starbucks and an awesome mug. Okay, I don't drink coffee or visit Star Bucks BUT it's the thought that counts. I'll probably give it away (you know me).
Anyway, we had a parent conference months ago about her son's atrocious average. He was failing miserably early in the semester so I extended some due dates and gave him an opportunity to pull up his grade. Mind you—the failing was not from lack of comprehension. This kid didn’t do any work---literally. Plus he skipped my class. But, he did make it up--after numerous prompting -and received a 75 average. That's half-way--so he knew he had to step it up so he can get a B (80%).
Side Bar: Granted I was his only teacher to extend the work. All of his other teachers were not—hell nah he can’t make it up. I do not have a problem with a student making up work or giving an extension. If they are willing to go that extra mile—I’ll help them. Now, when my generosity is taken for granted and the parents and students feel –I SHOULD do it—when it isn’t written that I am required to do it beyond the regular make up period---that perturbs me endlessly.
I digressed but mind you--this kid lies. BIG TIME. At the parent conference--just looked the counselors and the teachers in our faces and lied. Just like that. He skipped my classes 3x one week and at the conference, he looked me in the face and said, 'Oh, you told me to go to the media center during class so I can concentrate'
Just like that. An Untruth.
I wanted to puke. I'm was like “HUH? Did I miss something? Come again?”
I would NEVER send a student to the media center during my class. I have computers in my class for research and my classes are very quiet--I don't play that..unless we're doing a group project or lit circles.
Anyway, the parents actually believed some of his lies and questioned us (teachers, counselors). The kid told the counselor that she never talked to him about his absences yet she had a log of their conversation. Straight poker face—the works.
I thought to myself—he could play poker and win some serious money.
To make a longer story shorter—I receive this gift from the parent and I knew the motive.
Before the Bribe—Currently, the student's average is 72--due to the same stuff; not completing his homework and etc. and he father inquired if his son could ‘get that 80% B that we discussed via the conference”
Okay, let’s get this straight—your son is clinging to a 72 and I am supposed to BOOST his average by 8 percentage points. Is he mad? Addicted to drugs? WTH? I kindly responded that the assignments have been turned and I was in the process of grading them and that most likely he will not make a 80% considering he received two zeroes. He’ll be lucky if he can hang on to that ‘C’
PUFF! The next day this gift.
What do you think?
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Kindness of Strangers
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Kindness of Strangers
After a long and mentally draining day, I ventured to the local UPS Store to send some packages, letters, etc. I have not located a post office—nearby—so I used the services at the UPS store—even though the prices are slightly higher.
The atmosphere was warm, inviting and the staff members were usually friendly. Today was my second visit to this particular store. The manager is a young man—one of our lighter-lighter brothers (okay, he was Caucasian. Smile) and we greeted each other.
He weighed and labeled my items as we continued to chat. He asked me about my day. I paused a bit because I didn’t want to sound ‘sluggish’ or even give a hint of my tiredness within so I piped a faint, but honest response. ‘Fine,’ I said then reciprocated the gesture by inquiring about his day.
‘Are you a teacher?’
He queried, which I thought came out of nowhere. But, these days--it seemed as though I was receiving more and more of these types of comments and questions. I mean, did I wear a big sign that read—I TEACH HIGH SCHOOL or I AM A TEACHER?
It didn’t bother me but I did chuckle silently because I believe I am wearing a sign of some sort.
I did a mental check—I tried to recall—did I mention my students this afternoon? (On occasions—okay frequently-I tended to digress a bit and talk about my students and many school adventures so I had to check) but today I did not. I guess, because after such a long day, I didn’t want to think about school; I was ready for CALGON to take me away but first I had errands to run henceforth my presence at the UPS Store.
‘Why, yes I am. I teach High School English as well as serve as the Reading Specialist. Why do you ask?’
The kind man gave an affectionate grin that answered my question with the absence of words. I nodded in agreement and we shared that quiet moment. Together. Strangers.
He finished my transaction then cleared the register. It read: ‘$0.00’
‘It’s on me today. Just a small token of appreciation for our teachers. No charge, Miss.’
I was floored. What? Did I miss something? I questioned his actions and tried to press my hard earned dollars into his hand. He was relentless in his pursuit of kindness and nudged me away.
Again, we shared a moment; I thanked him and told him he made my day—which was true. Very true.
Equipped with his card in my purse, I left the store. I waved good bye and stopped just outside the door—looked up and thanked God. I was literally down to my last dollars until payday.
The Kindness of Strangers
After a long and mentally draining day, I ventured to the local UPS Store to send some packages, letters, etc. I have not located a post office—nearby—so I used the services at the UPS store—even though the prices are slightly higher.
The atmosphere was warm, inviting and the staff members were usually friendly. Today was my second visit to this particular store. The manager is a young man—one of our lighter-lighter brothers (okay, he was Caucasian. Smile) and we greeted each other.
He weighed and labeled my items as we continued to chat. He asked me about my day. I paused a bit because I didn’t want to sound ‘sluggish’ or even give a hint of my tiredness within so I piped a faint, but honest response. ‘Fine,’ I said then reciprocated the gesture by inquiring about his day.
‘Are you a teacher?’
He queried, which I thought came out of nowhere. But, these days--it seemed as though I was receiving more and more of these types of comments and questions. I mean, did I wear a big sign that read—I TEACH HIGH SCHOOL or I AM A TEACHER?
It didn’t bother me but I did chuckle silently because I believe I am wearing a sign of some sort.
I did a mental check—I tried to recall—did I mention my students this afternoon? (On occasions—okay frequently-I tended to digress a bit and talk about my students and many school adventures so I had to check) but today I did not. I guess, because after such a long day, I didn’t want to think about school; I was ready for CALGON to take me away but first I had errands to run henceforth my presence at the UPS Store.
‘Why, yes I am. I teach High School English as well as serve as the Reading Specialist. Why do you ask?’
The kind man gave an affectionate grin that answered my question with the absence of words. I nodded in agreement and we shared that quiet moment. Together. Strangers.
He finished my transaction then cleared the register. It read: ‘$0.00’
‘It’s on me today. Just a small token of appreciation for our teachers. No charge, Miss.’
I was floored. What? Did I miss something? I questioned his actions and tried to press my hard earned dollars into his hand. He was relentless in his pursuit of kindness and nudged me away.
Again, we shared a moment; I thanked him and told him he made my day—which was true. Very true.
Equipped with his card in my purse, I left the store. I waved good bye and stopped just outside the door—looked up and thanked God. I was literally down to my last dollars until payday.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
