Author: Shameka The Writer

Security Blankets and Safety Nets

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 2 Comments

I’m a family girl. I grew up surrounded by them and they are an integral piece of me. When I was growing up, I didn’t have very many outside friends. Most of the people I saw and talked to and connected with were related to me. Though I have friends, the closest person to me in the world is actually my first cousin. It was the way I grew up and everything I knew. I loved the feeling of being part of a group, being a member of something bigger. I was always taught that family wasn’t just blood; it was a powerful force that you had to cherish. There was nothing stronger than that bond–and it was our responsibility to make sure nothing ever came between us. Well this past weekend I had the enormous pleasure of seeing some of my family and having dinner with them. And like I said, my family is the center of me. They make me feel grounded, real… normal. They remind me who I am. And whenever I’m out of sorts and feeling like I’m losing control, seeing them always helps me. So I went to my maternal grandmother’s house and other people poured in and we ate dinner and spent some much needed quality time together. It was exactly what I needed, since I’ve been struggling a little and last week wasn’t easy. And as usual, I felt like writing something because I had a conversation with a friend that made me think about my family, my connection with them–and my dependence on them.

Last week was a rough one for me. I have a lot of thinking to do about my health and my current situation. It was weighing pretty heavy on my mind and brought back all of those insecurities that are never very deep below the surface. In conversations with my friends (who are wonderful people who always want to help me get to the heart of my issues), I admitted that my family gives me a confidence that is unmatched in my life. It is the only environment where I am completely and constantly accepted. Acceptance makes you brave. It makes you proud of who you are. It makes you confident. I told my friends that honestly–I am never more confident anywhere than I am with my family. And as hard as I’ve tried, I don’t feel that acceptance anywhere else in my life. So I can’t replicate the confidence I feel when I’m with them. I’ve never been able to. It got me to thinking about safety nets and security blankets, about the things in your life that you run to when you need to be protected, and when the world has beat you to a pulp and you need to recharge. My family is absolutely that for me. Which of course got me to wondering if that was a good or a bad thing.

I used to be a collector of stuffed animals, more specifically–stuffed Winnie The Pooh bears (just walk with me; I have a point, I promise). Anyway, my Poohs were all special and important. They made me feel safe, and… loved. If there was nothing to hold onto at night, at least I had Pooh. Now, I didn’t do that every night. I didn’t need them all the time. A lot of the time I just admired them and felt glad that they were there if I ever did need them. So I kept up the collecting through college. After college I moved to Maryland, where I eventually stopped adding new Pooh bears, but I still had the old ones. I still felt like I needed them. When I bought and moved into my house, I finally had a change of heart. They didn’t seem to fit my new room and this new level I had reached in my life. So I packed them away in my basement. And this past December, I finally donated them. So they’re gone now–but I haven’t missed them. I realized that I was using them as a security blanket. I was wrapping myself with them, hiding when I needed to hide, covering when I felt too exposed. But eventually, I got to a place in my life where I just didn’t need the comfort they provided anymore. So I was able to get rid of that security blanket. But the same can’t be said of my other security blanket and safety net–my family.

I know that they’re not going to be everywhere I am all the time. I also know that there may come a time when I can’t hop in a car and get to them to regain my normalcy. So admitting that they help me realize my optimal level of confidence and that I haven’t been able to replicate that level in other environments is a HUGE deal. I love my family. But I think I’m a little worried that the way I feel about them could be handicapping me. I mean, their acceptance is awesome. But sometimes acceptance can make you complacent. It can make you feel like you don’t have to grow. Like you don’t have any growing to do. I know that those scary moments are what starts the growth sometimes, opening yourself up is what you need to do to find out who you could be. That moment when you feel naked and exposed could be a step to finding out something about yourself that you never knew. My mind acknowledges these things. But sometimes my heart wants to run for cover. And my family is there, to wrap themselves around me and make me feel protected. Build me back up and send me back out there. Or even tell me that it’s okay not to go back out there if I’m not ready.

I don’t want you guys to think that my family fools me. They don’t sugarcoat my life. I had a good talk with my mother about the things going on with me and she gave me completely honest advice and said some things that were scary to even contemplate, but were real possibilities. I don’t use them to pull the wool over my eyes (and they wouldn’t do that anyway). But what they give me is so… awesome, for lack of a better word. It feels good to get that acceptance, that love. It feels good not to be judged. Because believe it or not, some days I feel like even my friends are judging me. And it’s entirely possible that I am bringing some of that on myself–or even projecting my own judgement. But outside of me, I feel judged. I think that I’m so big on certain things–for other people being mature and responsible and doing the right thing–but the problem with having that as a personality trait is that when you make decisions yourself and for your life that skate the line–some people don’t see your reasons. They don’t understand your doubts. And they don’t care about your insecurities. They just want to know why you’re not the Shameka that they’re used to seeing. My family never wonders that. They always seem to get it.

But I have to remind myself that I left South Philly and the ever-so-safe circle of my grandmother’s neighborhood for a reason. Eleven years ago, I knew I needed a new beginning; I knew I needed to grow in another direction. So I said goodbye to my beloved South Philly, and then to PA altogether when I left my mama’s house a few months later. I knew it was the right thing to do. And it turns out I was right. But now, I feel the easy control I had over my life sometimes slipping away and I feel my own ability to keep the monsters at bay fading fast. And I’m lonely and nothing’s killing that ache. And I’m tired and there’s not enough sleep to keep me awake because it’s not just my body. It’s my mind. And when I get to my grandmother’s house and we sit on the couch and watch TV I never want to leave. And every time I’m with my dad and my head is on his shoulder or he’s bragging about me to someone or he’s making me watch Cold Case Files–my safety feels soooo good. And I want it all the time. I’ve even been contemplating going back to Philly when I move at the end of the year. Because I’m dying to feel like… myself again. Or at least a better version of myself than this. And no one makes me feel more like the best version of myself than my family. I’ve been falling and they’ve been catching me. I’m so grateful too. But at the same time, I wonder if it wouldn’t be better if I just fell on my ass. If I lived like they weren’t two hours, a half tank of gas and 16 bucks in toll away. What would happen then? Would I spin down even further? Or would I actually triumph greater than I could have imagined? Who knows?

I see people walking through the world with no one and I am infinitely grateful that I don’t have that experience. The net feels nice. It feels like you don’t always have to work everything out right away, or by yourself. And that’s definitely a lesson I need to learn. But there’s a flip side to this coin because some part of me feels like I’ve created an unreasonable expectation of other people in my life, by measuring them by how closely they can replicate the feelings I get from my family. And maybe that’s a little unfair. Maybe my feelings are just a disappointment brought on by my own lofty demands of how people should show their love and acceptance of me. Maybe that’s the problem.

I know this is a rough patch, and once I get through it, I’ll feel a lot better. But I think it’s still great that I can get in my car and lay eyes on my Kahree when I’m not feeling so good. I still think the net is pretty nice.

Middle Ground With My Mother

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

I love books. Words and pages and binding- subplots and character study. Story worlds are my worlds. I grew up with my nose in a book most of the time. My parents used to have to make me go outside. Books were an escape, but also a friend. Lately though, my life has been so much in the way that I haven’t had the time to balance- so I haven’t had the inclination, let alone the free time to read a book. Between work, friends, writing and TV, things are getting hard to juggle.

But recently, something amazing happened: I had time to read a book. 2013 was an awesome year for my writing; this is the most productive I’ve been since high school. But, as I stated, it hasn’t left a lot of time for reading- something I love to do. I regretted that change in my life, so I made a commitment to this book- and I finished it. The book was called Sharp Objects, by Gillian Flynn. She’s also the author of a book called Gone Girl, which I didn’t read, that got pretty good reviews. I hope it was better than the one I read. But back to my story. In the book, the main character is a reporter writing about the murder of two adolescent girls in a small town- a small town that also happens to be the reporter’s hometown. So she goes there, on assignment, to try and shed some light on the murders. When she gets there, she’s forced to stay in her childhood home, with her mother, who doesn’t like or love her. She finds out later that her mother has Munchhausen By Proxy, a mental disorder that compels you to make your own children ill, in order to gain more sympathy for yourself. Anyway, the distant, abusive, totally dysfunctional relationship the main character shared with her mother made me so grateful for the one my mother and I share. But then it got me to thinking about how I didn’t always feel like we had a good relationship.

* Before I start this, I need to add a disclaimer that my mother is the strongest person I’ve ever known, a great role model, and the person I love most in the world. So this is not meant to malign, complain, or disrespect her. She is everything to me.

I am my mother’s middle child. Studies and research have alleged that the middle child is most often ignored. I believe this is true. I can tell you that I definitely felt that in my house growing up, and in my life later on. My older sister and younger brother always seemed to need some sort of extra help. The extra help brought extra attention, and I often felt lost in the shuffle. There were times when I wished I needed help, just so I could get attention. I knew that was the wrong way to go about it, but it seemed like the easiest way. It was as though my siblings were privy to some special magic that automatically made them less responsible and more needy. It sucked most of the time, the amount of time my mom spent just making sure they were okay, asking if they were okay. I often wished my mom would just ask me if I was okay. Most of the time though, she didn’t ask. Because she knew that I was okay, and that unlike them, I probably didn’t need help. And it was true. I took my parents’ independent genes and ran away with them, so most of the time, I really was good on my own, and didn’t need “help.” But it’s also true that sometimes I felt like I couldn’t “need help.” I felt like my mother needed me to be okay, so that she wouldn’t have to worry about me too. And I have to confess that I wanted that for my mother; I wanted her to worry less. I wanted her to catch a break. I couldn’t stand to see her upset about how things were going to work out with us; I wanted to alleviate that. But it puts a lot of pressure on you as a kid, to try and make everything okay. To exhaust everything your mind can think of to solve your problem by yourself, rather than just find an adult to make it a little easier. That’s a pretty heavy load to carry- even for someone who thinks they can handle anything (which is the kind of person I tend to be). But the problem with this scenario, is that I was just a kid. So even though my rational, logical self knew that my mother didn’t love me any less, or love them more, my emotional, sensitive, insecure, kid self was afraid that she did. I was afraid that the extra attention meant she liked them more, liked being with them more, liked interacting with them more. I was also convinced that their constant  need for help led my mother to lower her expectations of them- and that she expected far more of me than she did of them. It led to a lot of resentment between me and them- and between me and my mother.

I started to hate the fact that she saved them from everything, that she never let them land on their asses and suffer for their stupid choices. In my mind, she liked them more because she was always helping them, saving them, babying them. I often thought that if she let them hit the bottom just once, she’d have a minute to notice me, see me. I thought that was the solution. It did often occur to me that I didn’t want to be like my siblings, making the choices they made, doing the things they did- I didn’t want to be them. I just wanted my mother’s undivided attention; I just wanted her to myself, for once. I was jealous of every single one of my mother’s thoughts that they occupied, because I was convinced that she didn’t think about me as often as she thought about them. I was convinced that she told herself, “Shameka’s fine,” and then didn’t waste another thought on me. The conundrum to this: most of the time, I was fine- and she didn’t necessarily need to worry. But I hated thinking that she just made that assumption all the time- instead of worrying- like she did about the others. And the more I had these thoughts, the angrier I was at my mother- and my siblings. I was angry because there were a few times, isolated incidents, short periods, where I wasn’t fine at all. I just didn’t feel comfortable saying that. I started gaining weight in the fifth grade, and got glasses in the sixth grade. Talk about an adjustment period. In middle school, I changed from my neighborhood school (where I knew everyone) to a magnet school all the way in North Philly- where I got teased constantly by this one boy and all his friends (Interesting side note: the guy went to high school and grew up with people that I eventually went to college with, so we have lots of mutual friends and I see him all the time on Facebook- some of that hurt is still there, lol). But anyway, I had my share of struggles- but I never wanted my mom to worry, or think that I couldn’t handle it- so I never really said anything. As you can imagine, this was a confusing time. I didn’t want my mom to worry, but it still bothered me to think that she wasn’t worried.

I’m glad to say things are better now. I’m still the one who’s “fine” for the most part; I still feel like I’m the one my mother worries over the least- but I know she does worry. I know she cares, I know she’ll listen when I need to tell her that I’m not okay. But that took time. For a lot of years, my mother was in complete denial of all of this- she didn’t see it. Now, it’s not that she didn’t take me seriously or didn’t care, it was just that she, like most good parents, didn’t like to think that she favored one child over another, or treated me differently than my siblings. I think that she thought admitting this, or even considering the possibility, made her a bad mother. She didn’t want to feel like she’d messed up. So my mother was steadfast in her belief that she treated us all the same- but I didn’t see it, or feel it. As I got older, and was able to better articulate exact situations where I felt like I had been treated differently, she understood it more- and we got better. Part of the healing was also me growing up and realizing some key things: First- my mother tries to save my brother and sister as much as she can because she’s their mother. I mean, what mother wants to see their children fall down and get hurt? Especially when they can prevent it? No one. I understand this so much better as an adult than I did as a child. The pull inside that compels you to help and shelter the people you love is 1000 times stronger between moms and kids. Once I realized that, I stopped being so angry over my mother just doing what came naturally to her as a mother. Second– my mom does see me. She doesn’t see me in the same way, or interact with me the same, but she does see me now- and she did see me then. I took some time to think over my past and remembered all of the times my mom and I shared something special- and how we still share it today. Watching my mom in the kitchen for hours, gave me a love of cooking- and now we swap recipes. Reading my mom’s Harlequins (and other books, lol) all those years was the foundation to all those in-depth discussions we’ve had about how we love James Patterson and his character, Alex Cross. It led to me writing a manuscript last year, and my mother being the first one to read it. And those are things that are just for us; no one else can intrude on that. I’ve got something of my mother that is mine and no one else’s. And I’m happy to say that now we’re friends. I’m glad I read that book now. You appreciate your parents so much more when you read about bad ones.  At least my mom doesn’t have Munchhausen By Proxy. I mean, think about the bullet I dodged there.

P. S. – The main character also had a weird, destructive, dysfunctional relationship with her sister… but I’ll come back to that some other day.

My 2013 Wrap-Up

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 1 Comment

The end of the year is always a super busy time for me. Not just because of the holiday craziness, but because I often use it as an excuse to purge. Getting ready to bring in the New Year always makes me want to rid myself of old things- clutter, clothes, feelings- whatever I have lying around. It’s good for the soul. So I thought as my last blog of the year, I would take stock of life around me, and write down the major lessons I’ve learned and applied, as well as new discoveries about me. Some of this may sound repetitive, because I wrote individual blogs as I was learning the lessons, but I still think they have a place here… in what’s become my diary, of sorts. Or I guess the blog should be more accurately described as a map of my journey. Some of these things will be celebratory, others will not. But I have to acknowledge everything, even the things I’d rather forget. Anyway, here are some of my lessons, and revelations:

1. I’m A Comfort Eater– This year has had a lot of alone time for me, which I appreciated, but also quite a bit of lonely time, which wasn’t as easy to deal with. Food is something I used to ignore that, gloss over it, and kill time until something changed. I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life, and I’m not proud. My love of cooking and love of food in general took me somewhere I never thought I would be, in terms of my physical health, all the while soothing me on an emotional level. Something has to change about that, I know.

2. I am the best writer I have ever been– This year, I’ve grown in leaps and bounds with this blog, and I finished a manuscript, which I hope to e-publish in January. My creativity is completely off the charts. I feel talented, and special. I feel like this thing that started as a hobby is finally my destiny. I don’t know what was so different about this year, but I’m grateful.

3. I’m not as compassionate as I used to be– For the last five years, the work I’ve done has involved processing complaints from disgruntled students, parents and faculty members. Hearing and reading problems and troubles day in and day out numbs you a bit. I find that now, I don’t always have the patience to listen to the problems of the people in my personal life. I don’t have the patience to formulate advice; sometimes I don’t even have the energy to properly sympathize. I’m not proud of this either, and I’ve been working on ways to combat the emotional drainage that often happens when I’m at work- so I can be more attentive to the people I love.

4. I learned how to focus on myself– Besides my job taking so much space in my head, there’s also the fact that I’ve completely turned my way of thinking in terms of the way I take care of myself (mentally). I’ve done the best I can this year, not just to worry about myself- but to worry about myself first. It’s paid off in ways I never could have imagined. I’m sure I appear a bit more selfish to the people who are expecting me to continue to concern myself with their problems, but mostly, it’s good. I feel freer. And it’s good for the people I used to coddle so much to figure out their own shit for a change.

5. I’m Not A Mother- Because I’m A Romantic– This one may seem a little strange, but allow me to explain. I still believe in the power of love- believe with my whole heart that love makes you a better person. That being said, being in love gave me feelings that I want to repeat in my life, and that I want my children to see. I want to be in love again, and I want to at least try to have the opportunity to conceive my children in love. I could have gotten myself randomly knocked up by now, or tried to start the adoption process by myself but I haven’t. I know I could co-parent successfully without being in a relationship; I also know that I have enough family support to be a single parent, if that were the case. But that’s not what I want. I want to be a woman in love (with someone who loves me back) before I’m a mother. I don’t have children because I’m not in love. Plain and simple. That’s what I want.

6. Dating Is Not Innate– I’ve learned over the course of the year, as I’ve been attempting to jump back into the relationship forum, that there is no innate knowledge of dating. Dating is an acquired skill- and I don’t have it. I’ve been trying, and I haven’t given up by any means- but I learned that I am far better at being the girlfriend than I am being the girl you’re talking to, or the girl you’re getting to know. My need for physical contact, and the tangibility of physical contact leads me to rush that part of the relationship. I try to slow down, but that gets lonely. I’m having trouble finding the patience to limp along in conversation with people who may not be as articulate as I am, and I’m having trouble getting over the talking/ texting hump into actual social outings. My mind takes me to so many dangerous places, places where my confidence is non existent and I think it’s all me. Why don’t I get asked out? It’s shameful how many hours I spent pondering that. I know other women who have trouble dating, so I try not to take it personal, but it’s hard. Dating is supposed to be fun. It’s not. It’s often frustrating and confusing and tiring. But I press on because… Number 5.

7. My Advice is Good Advice- Now, this one I kind of always knew. Not to brag, but my friends have been telling me that my advice is pretty spot-on for years. But what I found from listening and reading people’s thoughts is that a lot of people think that you have to have gone through their exact situation in order to give them any sound advice about it. Which in some instances is true, but not always. For example, some people (mostly misguided men) think that single girls can’t give their committed friends any good advice. I don’t what kind of friends other women have, but I am a great friend- to some phenomenal women. And most of them are in relationships… while I’m not. But because I love these women, my fondest wish is for them to be happy, and have the peace and love that they desire. So I would NEVER give them any advice that didn’t foster that. I respect the fact that they’re in love. I don’t begrudge their happiness. I love them. Their happiness is everything I’ve ever wanted for them. And because I know THEM, and I’m an intelligent woman, I always take THEIR story into account. I would never base the advice I give to them on MY situation. Second example- the common myth that people without children don’t know ANYTHING about children. I know, I’m not a mother- but I am a person. Children are people too. And some shit just makes sense from a PEOPLE standpoint- whether the person is an adult or a child. I’m an aunt ten times over. I have watched these children grow, and have taken an active role in their well being. It takes a village and I am a part of their village. So although there are limits to what I can offer as advice (because I haven’t had the experience), implying that I don’t know ANYTHING is wrong and stupid. Some shit you should just do because it makes sense- adult or child. My point is, you can’t claim advice is bad just because you don’t want it. My advice is good.

8. Fat Shaming has become the new “in” thing to do– I’m sensitive. I get it. And I know better than anyone (as evidenced by my blogs on the subject), that I have a special stake in this war that’s being waged on plus-size people (especially women). But if this year taught me anything, it’s how cruel other people can be when they see you as someone with a weakness, or a deficiency. I’ve been a weirdo all my life (ask my middle school friends) and I’ve gotten use to being different- but social networking is drilling down the message that there’s definitely good different and bad different- and if you’re fat, that’s “bad different.” I don’t expect anyone to coddle me, but sometimes I’m so angry at people who can’t see past their own point of view. The truth is, most of us don’t have any idea what the people we malign everyday are struggling with. And from a personal standpoint- that shit sucks. Because weight is a struggle, whether or not you choose to see that. Yes, my weight affects me physically, but this is mental and emotional too- and there are a lot of mean people out there who either don’t see that, or don’t give a fuck about it. They live to destroy, and fat people seem to be making Top Five on all the lists.

9. People Love To Compartmentalize- Labeling is Easier Than Knowing– For example, the last few months on Twitter, there’s been a lot of talk about feminism. The place of men in the Feminist Movement, acknowledgement of women of color in the movement, as well as what does and does not make you a feminist (I follow some pretty awesome women on Twitter, by the way). I will admit that I don’t know enough about feminism to join or identify with that movement, but what I figured out was that I don’t necessarily need to. People love labels- not that “feminist” isn’t a dope label to have- but I find that more and more I resist most of that. I try to just let my personality shine through. My feelings and my actions are me- my beliefs, my values. They’re not the result of what sex, sexual preference, or movement I identify with. I just don’t want to fall into the trap of allowing other people to decide what I can be. It’s like guys who think women can’t have an intelligent opinion about sports or hip-hop. You don’t get to compartmentalize me. I decide who I am. And my hip-hop opinion is probably more articulate and researched than yours.

My friend Stephanie once wrote, “I’m pretty sure ‘black’ and ‘woman’ are the only two labels I’m comfortable wearing.” I agree with her- although I would add ‘writer.’ I’m definitely a writer.

Thanks for kicking it with me this year. I love you all. Happy New Year.

I Am Not My Hair… Or Am I?

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 6 Comments

When I was a little girl, I used to stare at myself in the mirror all the time. I loved to watch myself make different faces, and stick out my tongue at my own image. I also grew up with everyone telling me often, “you look just like your dad.” So I used to try and see if that was true. Fast forward to now- most days, I don’t look in the mirror too long before I leave the house. I don’t need extra time to find something wrong with my outfit or my hair, and I’m usually running late anyway. But this morning, when I was giving myself the quick glance before I walked out of my bedroom, I thought about how unhappy I am with my hair. Now before I get to the crux of this, I have to give you a little background, as usual.

My hair has always been really long and thick. I loved it, mostly because it was my mom and not me who had to fix it every day. I hated getting my hair combed, but the tears always dried up when I saw the finished product. Well when I was about six years old, I developed eczema. Eczema is a skin disease that produces dry itchy skin, rashes, peeling and sometimes sores. Anyone with eczema knows how uncomfortable, painful, and embarrassing it can be- especially for children. As soon as I started having the constant dryness and peeling, my mom took me to the doctor, who then referred me to a dermatologist- and then it all started. By “all” I mean the oatmeal baths, the medication, and that Eucerin lotion that was so much thicker and funnier smelling than it is now, lol. It took me so long to rub that stuff in, I hated the medication and I was afraid of the oatmeal floating around in the bathtub with me. It was… hard, for lack of a better word. And just when I didn’t think this skin disease could get any worse, I started getting the rashes in my scalp. This was followed by itching, peeling, and sores- and then my beloved hair started falling out. My mom is so awesome- because I never saw her panic- even though I know she must have been as freaked out as I was. So it was back to the dermatologist- this time, to get a prescription for special shampoo that you had to make sure you rinsed completely or it would turn your hair orange. Talk about pressure! I wore a ponytail  for a while to cover the bald spot in the middle of my head- but the sores gave me headaches, which made it hard to concentrate in school. I felt like a freak. Anyway, fast forward a little and the symptoms calmed down. The sores went away, I learned to control the dryness and the itching stopped. But the most important miracle of all- MY HAIR STARTED GROWING BACK!!! I felt like I had reactivated my super powers or something. It was a great feeling. Moving on…

My best friend Eric used to wear locs. They were pretty wonderful too. I connected with them, because I could remember when he was just starting them and would call me to his dorm room to twist his hair for him. But he cut them off some years ago, and when I asked why, he told me it was a starting over. He said he had so much emotion wrapped up in that hair, and cutting it allowed him to release that past, and let that go. My friend Stephanie did something very similar. But I never felt like that. I always saw my hair as something I needed to hold on to. It was a part of my identity. I could never be careless with it, because I knew what it was like to lose it when you didn’t want to. So after the eczema, I never wanted to do anything extreme to my hair- no cutting, no coloring, no experimentation. I didn’t even like to try new hairstyles. I wanted to keep my hair simple, steady, hold on to it. I’d had enough surprises. The most I would ever do is relax it. But a little over a year ago, I stopped doing that too. I’d been getting my usual Dominican style blowout for a couple years, and I made the sudden decision to try and ease out of getting relaxers. Now, I had my hair pretty trained and the Dominicans will straighten you to death, so I’d only been getting one or two relaxers a year anyway. So I decided not to get one. I kept getting my hair roller set and blown out, and things were good. I still felt like myself- still that writer girl with my one superpower- awesome hair. After some months, new growth started showing itself, and my hair got thicker with every wash. Roller sets got more difficult, until eventually, I couldn’t get one. And after that, I abandoned my beloved Dominicans because I knew from frequenting that shop that the girls who needed their hair blow dried completely out ended up waiting twice as long as someone they could just roll up and stick under the dryer for an hour. And I am not about that life. So I hunted for a new stylist and found one, but getting straightened seemed to be a waste of my money because the humidity outside (or any sign of moisture for that matter) was making my hair thick and bushy just days later. So I stopped doing that. Now, I have friends galore who wear their hair natural, so I started wanting to copy all of the cute styles I see on them. But it hasn’t worked as well for me, and I’ve become increasingly dissatisfied with my natural state. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t feel like I have my superpowers. I don’t feel… pretty.

Now, I know all about the issues and ideals of beauty we have wrapped up in our hair. I believe brown women are beautiful, and innovative, and we can wear whatever kind of hair we damn well please- and we’ll still be awesome. I don’t take a position on natural vs. weave vs. relaxed because I think those kinds of things divide us unnecessarily. But I do have a position on what makes me feel good, and wearing my hair naturally hasn’t done it for me yet. Most days I end up feeling like my hair is a big tangled mess. I even thought about buying a straightening comb the other day. I attempt twisting my hair, but it never looks like my good friend Terron who posts selfies of her awesome twist-outs all the time. Or my friend Andrea, whose hair seems to twist and curl perfectly. I try twisting, and I never get the desired effect. I’ve never purchased this many hair products in my life. And still… I shy away from the mirror- because my hair just depresses me. I get compliments and I don’t believe them. I’m afraid people are just trying to be nice. I feel like I can’t see myself when I look in the mirror sometimes. Who is that girl? And it becomes something awful and debilitating, because having my hair tied up in my feelings of attractiveness about myself just means that when I’m unhappy with my hair, I don’t feel attractive, I don’t feel confident, I don’t project positively. Maybe this is why I’m having so much trouble dating. And then there’s also the simple fact that my natural hair is a lot more work- work I haven’t done in years, and I’m out of practice. I’m frustrated with YouTube videos that try to convince you the styles are simple- when they’re not. Not to mention that I can’t just comb my hair down and leave the house and the style is done. You have to be a lot more creative when you have natural hair- and I’m not. Well I’m creative, but not in that way. I could find a stylist- but that money has to come from somewhere, and it’s not there right now. So here I am. I am sick and damned tired of wetting my hair every morning, and slapping gunk in it, and waiting for it to dry. But I don’t think I want my hair relaxed either. This is a conundrum. I had a guy tell me he wanted to meet up, and I invented an excuse because I looked in the mirror, and the first thing I saw was my hair- and I hated it. I hate not feeling pretty. And having it be because of this, just makes me feel weak. I mean, I’m more than my hair- right? Of course I am. But it’s tied to me so tight… I’m afraid I can’t relax. I’m afraid I don’t know how to let go.

Either way, I don’t have a solution yet. I guess I just wanted to vent this. If you have a kid with eczema, hug them real tight for me. Tell them how awesome they are.

Size Matters

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 3 Comments

I’m beginning again… or at least that’s what it feels like. In my last blogs I was unfairly slut shamed- and then subsequently admitted to being a hormone-raged, bad decision making, overly emotional mess. So since I spent two blogs opening a dark place in my mind not previously seen in the light of day, and it was all the fault of dating, I think I will exhale on my love life for a while- and write about something else.

I’ve already written a couple of blogs about my weight- and how I struggle with it. The focus of those blogs was more in the vein of dealing with the way I see my weight- and what I want to do about it. I’m back to battling the bulge; I haven’t given up. But starting over in this way really opens my eyes to the way other people see weight- and how they can oh-so-sneakily project that onto you. Now I know I said I wasn’t going to talk about my dating life- and I’m not- but I saw a great example when I was exploring this dating site that I’m on, searching profiles. There were a couple of them where the guys would write in their profiles, “No big girls,” or “I’m sorry I don’t like big girls.” I get that everyone has a preference. I GET THAT. But when I read that, I was… confused. The purpose of being on the site is to find what you want- but you go out of your way to make sure that one of the things you put in your profile is what you DON’T want? That confused me. The other thing that was puzzling to me was that I’m sure the weight/ body type preference isn’t your ONLY preference. So if you insist on using profile space to talk about what you don’t want- why focus only on weight? That made me mad. I mean, it’s obvious I’m never going to date these men (which is fine with me), but weight gets such a stigma. It’s crazy and getting worse. Body type has become something either universally celebrated, or universally condemned. Now I’m not talking about just in jokes- people have been making fat jokes all my life. There probably isn’t one that I haven’t heard. But it just seems like it’s turning into something else. Another example. One of my trusted, inner circle, best friends was having dinner at my house- and was talking to one of her (guy) friends on the phone. This guy is on the same dating website, and when he was asked (by her) why he stopped logging in, he said that he was tired of only big girls talking to him. Of course, she has him on speaker, so I’m not too happy with his comments. I mean, it was crass- plain and simple. This is a professional, educated man- he could have simply said, “I didn’t find anyone I was attracted to.” and left it at that. But did he? NO. Just like the profile jerks, he decided to point out SIZE. Because size matters in a way that it apparently never did before. I’m not particularly fond of small penises- but do you see me wasting profile space talking about, “Don’t talk to me unless you’re eight inches or more?” NO!!! You know why? Because that’s crass, and rude- and that’s not what my profile space is for! But because it’s weight, then it’s open season, right? People can just say whatever the fuck they want. Oh. I see… BULLSHIT!!!

I’ve been trying to figure out why size matters so much- to everyone. I mean, if you know someone that you want to be healthier, then of course- I can see that. But if I’m just living my life, and you’re just living yours- why waste time slandering something you don’t like? I mind my business. I don’t take people’s constant gym tweets and “Abs Are Made In The Kitchen” Instagram photos personally- so why bother me? Why go out of your way to make sure everyone knows how much you hate people like me? Maybe to cover up the fact that you secretly like me? I don’t know. People will deny that, but I’ve seen it happen. As a plus sized girl, do you know how many guys I’ve met that wouldn’t walk down the street with me- but would fuck my brains out if they thought no one would know? Unbelievable numbers of undercover chubby chasers… yep, it’s true. My other theory is that some people just have to be the loudest voices in the room, no matter what. We’re living in an age where it’s more okay to be who you really are. So guys that may have been ashamed to tell their friends that they like bigger women, now say it pretty proudly. In the last few years, some of the sexiest voices in the world have called me “soft” with such reverence, lol. It’s kinda cool. But I’ve noticed that sometimes when you’re proud to say you like something, the people who don’t like it feel like they have to be LOUDER- so they seem better. But it’s not a competition. We don’t all like the same shit- that’s life. You don’t have to put something down to prove that you like something else. And trying to destroy something because YOU don’t like it, is childish- especially if it’s a person. Just do you. And leave my size alone.

I know I’m never going to be able to silence all the haters- so I won’t try. I mean, they’re pretty much everywhere. Social media has made these people even more accessible. I swear, the repost/ retweet era is ruining lives. People even have weight requirements for spouses they don’t even have yet!!! Talk about worrying about the wrong things! But it feels good to get these thoughts out of my head. They spin around, and keep me up, and contribute to my overall messiness. Not that my messiness isn’t still pretty profound, but you know…

It’s hard enough to keep a smile on your face when your confidence is shaky. It’s hard enough to find shit to smile about sometimes. I’ve been struggling. Cutting carbs is the hardest thing a french fry loving woman like me has ever done in her LIFE. But I do it- not to conform, and not because my size matters to other people. I do it because my size matters to ME. And not in the way you think. It doesn’t matter to me that I don’t wear two piece bathing suits; it doesn’t matter to me that my thighs rub together. It matters to  me that I take two pills a day for my blood pressure. It matters to me that I have a history of diabetes in my family. So my size matters to me because of that. But why in the hell should my size matter to you?

The Shame of Sex Drive

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 3 Comments

Before we begin, I have to warn you my friends… this is the realest shit I ever wrote…

Okay, so I know the VMA’s were weeks ago, but something happened to me recently that made me think of Miley Cyrus. Now, before you ask me, no I am not doing drugs, losing my mind or considering a career in twerking. Now that we got that out of the way, walk with me on this…

I’ve been trying to get back into the dating game and have taken yet another dip into the online dating world. My responses thus far have been overwhelmingly positive- and I think it’s because of two things: 1) I am having fun, and letting things develop as they should instead of always feeling the need for control; and 2) I’m not letting the responses from the weirdos get to me anymore. Now, I’ve been messaging and then eventually texting a few people and my dealings with one of them made me think of poor, little butt, crazy Miley. Let me tell you how.

After the VMA’s, there was a firestorm of articles and blogs talking about her performance, from her imitation of twerking (I call it an imitation because it was my understanding that you need ass to twerk and she doesn’t have any) to her rude gestures and her supposed “appropriation of black culture,” because apparently twerking was invented by us and she “stole” it to advance her popularity, thus making a mockery of us or… whatever. But anyway, she set the Internet on fire for a day or two while people wondered what drugs she’s on and how she could step on her daddy’s achy breaky heart like this. Along with that though, many of the articles and blogs questioned her morals and argued that she was behaving as though she didn’t have any. People were questioning her need to be quite so free with her sexuality, since she is a young woman influencing other young women. The Internet has even given this a name: they call it slut-shaming. Slut-shaming is when a woman does something of questionable taste, that has a sexual connotation- and other people chastise her for it. Your lack of propriety makes people point their fingers and shake their heads and wonder how you were raised. This has become the semi-polite way of letting a woman know you think she’s acting like a whore. But… let me get off of Miley and onto me. The public business of slut-shaming hit home for me when I had an encounter with a man who I felt tried to shame me afterward. I think he was trying to make me ashamed of my sex drive, my sex life- and my sexual awareness of him. I think he was slut-shaming me! How you ask? Well here we go…

I have to start with some background so you can know me a little more. Most of the time, I do what I want- when I want. I’m an emotional creature, so I usually fall fast- and I fall HARD. I’m also really tactile; I love to feel things. Touching is everything to me. I don’t like sex; I LOVE sex- and I’m not ashamed. I know that there’s levels beyond the physical, but my tactile self thinks the physical level is a damn good one for me- so I’ll keep it. I probably have the highest sex drive of anyone I know (men included). I’ve been in love, and I know love. So I’ll thank you not to see me as some lonely girl using sex to kill the pain. But I appreciate a strong physical attraction and will act on it. Now, having said that- I don’t see myself as someone with no morals. I’m kind of selective. In no way shape or form do I give it up to everyone. But I do give it up- and I’m not going to pretend like I don’t. I also rely very heavily on my feelings, my instincts. I really think on the idea of me and you- and really try to dissect how you make me feel- from the very beginning. I still get butterflies- and I listen to them. My instincts have never steered me wrong; in fact, I’ve only been in the wrong when I haven’t listened to them. So I’m not the kind of girl who puts some sort of time constraint on when I give it up. When it feels right to me, it just feels right to me. And contrary to what you might think, there have been many times, and people- who haven’t felt right. I know we’re all flying high in this Think Like A Man, five dates, ninety days and a partridge in a pear tree relationship era where there are rules at every step. But I’m not good with rules. Most of the time, I do what I want- when I want. So here we are. Now… I had a conversation or two with this man that I like. All signs were pointing to sanity, and there was an attraction there. But also humor and intelligence and ambition. It was nice and we decided face-to-face was definitely needed. I had already made up in my mind that I was going to see if he was as good a kisser as his lips suggested, so I was prepared for that. It went… a bit further (I’ll spare you the details- but I didn’t give it up. It just went… further). Now, I didn’t feel bad at all about this extra distance because to me, IT FELT RIGHT! And I listened to myself. I did what felt comfortable to me. But afterwards, I had a conversation with him that made my head hurt, then it made me cry- and then it pissed me off.  He said that he felt like we disrespected ourselves going further than we intended and that there was still a lot we didn’t know about each other, and that he felt like it was necessary to slow down and reassess what we really want. He threw in some stuff about how he couldn’t believe what had happened, and how he agonized over it the entire drive home. I could have screamed when we were having this conversation. AHHHHHHHH!!

Before ya’ll start trying to rip me apart for not appreciating a man who has morals and who wants more than my body, let me tell you that was NOT what this conversation was. He was trying to slut-shame me! First of all, this took place at my house. Which means he had to physically get into a vehicle and come to ME. And I didn’t invite him- he ASKED if he could come. If you’re so worried about “our” moral compass, why didn’t you stay your ass at home? Now he thinks we should slow down??! He could have slowed all the way to STOP by sticking to Facetime and staying at HIS house. Also, HE made the first move. We were a respectable distance apart on that couch before he started inching over. He could have “reassessed” his position at any time. But he didn’t. He came over, knowingly throwing his moral compass to the wind, pushed his OWN self-control to the limit, kissed me with that gorgeous mouth, and then NEVER TRIED TO STOP!!! He never said, “Maybe we shouldn’t,” or “We’re moving too fast,” or “I don’t want to.” You know why? Because he was waiting for ME to say those things! He was waiting for ME to be OUR moral compass! Well you got the wrong girl, asshole. And now, with this conversation (held at 3:30 in the morning in the softest, most cowardly voice possible), he was attempting to subconsciously blame me for not having more self-control. I’m supposed to have more than him? He had the advantage- because he was all the way at his house. Why is it my fault that he didn’t stay there? He was slut-shaming me- that miserable, piece of shit. He was trying to make me feel ashamed of myself by lamenting to me that he was ashamed of HIMSELF!

Now, after I hung up- it took me a minute to wrap my mind around what had just happened. That made my head hurt. I mean, I know I said he could come over- and I wasn’t denying that, but I had already loosened the reins on my self-control- which was why I said yes in the first place. So I was fully aware of the possible outcomes that I was choosing. Regret is not an option when you know what you’re walking into, and you continue walking. Besides, I liked him and I had a good feeling- for me, that was enough. Then, for a few miniutes, I wondered if he was right. If I was just one of those fast ass, easy girls your mama tries to teach you not to be. If I had thrown away my morals. That made me cry. I cried for a while. I also felt stupid, and rejected. I wondered if he hadn’t liked what happened, or liked me as much as he thought- and this was just his way of rejecting me without me really knowing why. That made me cry harder. The last thing I wondered was if my instincts had taken a beating. Was I losing touch with myself? With my judgement of character? Should I just rely on my head from now on? After the cry, I was so tired- I just went to sleep. But the next morning, I woke up pissed. I mean, I was mad! I’m a grown woman- who is kind, and honest, and careful. I don’t hurt people intentionally- and I don’t make them pay for my mistakes. And that’s exactly what this man had done to me. Now you morality police can wax poetic all you want about my behavior. But this wasn’t about that. I know what I did. And I knew what I was willing to do when I opened the door for him. But he lied to himself- and then to me. He came to my house, like he had self-control and innocent intentions, all the while hoping that I would enough self-control for the both of us. And then when I didn’t he tried to hurt me by shaming us “both,” effectively making me a culprit in his supposed crime. I was beyond pissed. Pissed that this only seems to happen to women- pissed that it was happening to me.

I’m a single girl, trying to make it out here. I have to have control over my own life, and my own behavior. So excuse me if I’m a little more free then you’re used to. If I choose to be an active and willing participant in my own sex life.  It is not my fault that I’m not the innocent you see on TV, begging with her big eyes, telling you no when she really means yes in that breathy little voice. I am who I am. And I say YES when I mean yes. Don’t punish me because you’re only used to girls you have to convince. Maybe it’s the thrill of the hunt and you’re angry that you didn’t have to chase me as far as other girls. But I don’t want to play a game when I don’t need to. I’m sorry you don’t know women who are more direct. But this is me. And you don’t get to shame me because I’m not what you’re used to, or comfortable with. Because I act on my feelings (even the sexual ones). Or because I don’t stop you from acting on yours- especially when you don’t even bother to stop yourself.  Grow up. I’m begging you. And if this little foray into my mind has made you feel differently about me, please feel free to disassociate yourself. I’m not crying over you jerks anymore.

Just as a side note – As much as I might now identify with Miley, I still liked her better as Hannah Montana.

Letter to An Unborn Daughter

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

It’s no secret how much I love children, and how much I can’t wait to have my own. Besides being wildly impatient and worried about my biological timeline, I also wonder a lot about what I want to teach my children, especially my daughter(s). What I want them to learn- about life, about love, and about me. My own mother taught me so much about strength, endurance, independence and sacrifice. She taught me how to be a woman- and that’s definitely a lesson I want to repeat for my daughter(s). But there are other things too; hardships I endured by myself- lessons I had to learn on my own. And I need to impart those too. My hope is that I will have the courage to try and teach my daughter these lessons. I hope to be able to save her some pain. I know that I won’t be there every minute, for everything- but I hope that my daughter will hear me in her head when she has doubts… hear me when she’s in trouble… and then hear herself when she learns whatever lesson life is teaching her.

To My Unborn Daughter:

The very first thing I want you to know… is that my love for you is infinite- as yours will be for your children, as my mother’s is for me. My fondest wish is that you learn from my infinite love how to also love yourself… infinitely.

I’ve learned that knowledge of motherhood is not always innate, but everyone is teachable. So I apologize for any lesson I’ve learned at your expense.

I want you to endeavor to live this life. Don’t be a taker from the lives of others, a sideliner watching the lives of others, or a victim who blames others. Live this life- your life.

Remember that although anything you want in this world is attainable, everything you want in this world has consequences- every action has a reaction- and not all are good.

I want you to know that it’s okay to be afraid- and it’s okay to say that you’re afraid. A brave face is simply that- a face. You’ll never beat fear by pretending that it doesn’t exist. Acknowledge it- just don’t let it stop you.

I want you to know that you are beautiful- in every way possible, in every sense of the word. Outer beauty is not as important, no matter what the world tells you. There are those who will try to make you feel like you need to explain everything you see when you look in the mirror- don’t explain. Don’t be ashamed. Don’t let someone else’s vision of you become your own.

Everyday, when you wake up, look in the mirror and tell yourself that you are worthy. I will tell you as much as I can, but as you get older and more mature, that voice should be your own- it should reflect your acknowledgement of the statements’ truth. You should say it because you believe it.

I promise that I will give you the foundation for healthy eating and living that you need to survive, so that you are not playing catch-up with your weight and health.

I promise that I will teach you (as much as I can) about how to regulate your body, so that you will not need medication to regulate it for you.

I need to tell you that while I cannot protect you from the pain that comes with love and lust and infatuation, you can survive it- and get something beautiful in return.

I will try never to judge those whom you choose to love, but I need you to have enough love for self that you demand respect and reciprocity at all times.

Dream big, and often, and in varying ways. Let your light shine in as many forms as possible. And be patient with my need to protect you. If I’m hindering your dream, don’t push me away. Help me understand.

As you walk this road, it will be full of those who will imply that you are not enough. Not thin enough, not thick enough, not pretty enough, not unique enough, not smart enough, not… enough. You CANNOT believe them. They are wrong- they are misinformed. You are enough, my beautiful daughter. You are enough.

Love,

Mom

Hero Complex

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

Around this time a year ago, I wrote a blog about being self-sufficient and self-contained and my fears over whether that was hurting me on the relationship front and my feelings about how it changes the way that men look at me (you can read it here- https://shamekaerby.wordpress.com/2012/08/07/self-contained//). Anyway, I find myself walking down the same path again, this time thinking about all the ways my self-sufficiency changes the way my family looks at me- and the way I look at them.

I was reading a blog recently about a girl who has spent most of her life hating her brother for his lack of consideration for others and his selfish and sometimes self-destructing life decisions. And as I was laughing and reading and identifying with her, it dawned on me that perhaps I hadn’t fully rid myself of some emotion regarding that and perhaps I should write some of it out. Let me explain: I come from a blended family- so I actually have two older sisters and five younger brothers. And for years I have watched some of them make countless life decisions, that I questioned, disagreed with, and subsequently judged them for. And this is not just siblings. I have cousins, childhood friends, and even classmates that have opted for the kind of lives that you reality-TV junkies tune in every week to see on Love and Hip Hop Divas and Real Basketball Wives of Atlanta or whatever show everybody is tweeting about. My reaction has always been the most honest one I can manage. I lecture, yell, tell them how they have potential for so much more, and then, when I can, I help them clean up the mess. I try to be as supportive as I can on the outside, possibly to make up for all of the mean, judgmental things I’ve been thinking in my mind. I may know that your dependability is in question ALL THE TIME- but if you put me down as a reference on your job application, I will speak of you in the most glowing terms my vocabulary can manage- because I want you to do well. I may hate the fact that you’re on your third kid with just as many dads, but if you have a baby shower, I am there, toting three or four things off your registry to let you know I still love you. I will applaud every time you sign up for a class of any kind, even if I know the probability that you’ll stick with it and finish is probably slim to none. I want to be there.

As I do this, I tell myself two things: 1) that I am completely justified in berating and judging you because if you’re going to take my help, then you have to take my opinion with it and 2) that I will NEVER, EVER, IN MY LIFE- end up in your position. I think I’ve lived a good many years now simply side stepping the shit other people I love have gotten themselves into. It reminds me of something I saw on Oprah’s recent special about fatherless sons. One of the children of a single mother on the show was speaking about how it affected him to see his mom struggle to raise him and his younger brother. He said that his greatest fear was ending up like his own father- a no-show in the lives of his children. Then he talked about how living with that fear was shaping his life. He said, “I never even have time to try and be somebody- because I’m too busy trying NOT to be somebody.” Now, I’m not that hot on Oprah or Ms. Fix-My-Life Vanzant for that matter, but the short time I spent watching the show was valuable- because I heard what that young man said and it struck a chord with me. A good chunk of my life has been wasted trying NOT to be like everyone around me. I’ve been so afraid to make a mistake- afraid that every mistake will set me on the path to ending up like someone whose life I’ve disapproved of (both verbally and in my mind). And even more than that- afraid of being judged by someone who is more responsible than I am (the way I’ve judged these other people). Afraid of having to swallow my pride and ask this more responsible person for help, like my family sometimes has to ask me.

I’m conflicted as I continue. I know that it must hurt your pride, and your self-esteem to have to turn to people who are saying “I told you so” with their eyes and ask for help. When my family reaches out, I don’t gloat about it. I’m sad- and I’m even more afraid. Because what would happen to them if I wasn’t there? This churns inside me, and causes even more pressure to be responsible. Not just because I don’t want to be in THEIR shoes, but because they seem to need me in MY shoes. I wrote once that everyone has that fear of falling- but I have fear of other people falling, people I love. Because I always wonder if I did enough to try and catch them. I don’t want to seem like an egomaniac, or a rapper, talking about “carrying the whole hood on my back,” but there are people who sometimes have to depend on me. Now there is another side to this coin (I said I was conflicted). Sometimes it makes me angry when I am there for them, because it pisses me off when it appears that I give more of a damn about your life than you do. I know that they try- and I might just see it as them not trying hard enough. I know that when they don’t do exactly what I would do, it doesn’t mean they’re not doing anything at all. I know sometimes people deserve the benefit of the doubt. But still, it makes me mad when I can’t see your effort. It makes me feel like I’m the only one who wants better for you. Now, I have long since realized the futility of pushing my vision onto others. I cannot live their lives for them, and therefore cannot make things happen just by wanting them- these people, my family, have to want them for themselves. I know that, my uber analytic, overly-logical self knows that- but it’s still hard. It’s still a struggle to center myself and take a deep breath, and sometimes even step back- and let my reason calm my emotions. I’m an emotional creature. Sue me.

Dr. Phil says that the most valuable thing you can teach someone is how to self-protect (don’t judge me- sometimes Dr. Phil says good shit). And I realized that I hadn’t been doing a very good job of protecting myself. I was allowing so many feelings of fear, and guilt, and worry and obligation to cloud my life- and change my outlook. So last year, right around the time I started this blog, I started to try and work on myself too. I wanted to see what would happen if I gave a little more to me- and a little less to everyone else. And I have to admit, it’s been better. I still sometimes have trouble letting go- I still want to be there, and help out, and take care of my family. But it helps when I take care of me too. I fell in love with TV again. I’m working on my weight again. I’m a better writer than I’ve ever been. And it’s all because I take the time to sit alone and think about me. And in that thinking, accentuate the positive. I think about who I WANT to be- not who I don’t want to be. I’m a little bit better at letting people figure out their own lives. Sometimes I give the bare minimum of advice- and let my friends take the rest and run with it on their own. It goes a little against my super-nurturing nature, but it helps because then I’m not so emotionally invested. It’s taking me a while- but I am learning. I am learning the value of choosing my burdens (especially the emotional ones) selectively. I am learning the value of sometimes letting people fall. I don’t always have to catch them; sometimes it’s better to help them up afterwards. Because then they learn what needs to be learned- and so do I.

Social Media Reform

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

I started writing this blog to seperate my thoughts, pull apart everything I’m going through- and silence these crazy screaming voices in my head (kidding… not really). Anyway, I’ve yet to veer on the side of social issues but this George Zimmerman trial, combined with all of the violence I’m reading about in Chicago (and in our cities period) is giving me fear and anger like I haven’t felt in a long time- and I need to pull those thoughts apart, straighten them out- and maybe straighten out some people too, while I’m at it.

I live in PG County- suburban Maryland, but I work in Washington DC. And everyday I take the train in to work and navigate my way through the overpriced, tourist filled nightmare that is Union Station. As I walk through, there are big boards everywhere-usually advertising whatever social cause can afford the ads this week. These ads change frequently, but they pack a punch- they want you to care. Whether it’s animals, corn farmers, or the folks who believe the government is out to get us, SOMEBODY wants you to care about their cause. EVERYONE thinks theirs is the most important, everyone wants you to join, and support and protest as much as you can- for THEIR cause. It’s a little exhausting, and frankly, some days I look forward to a good ole orange juice ad or a warning from Metro about cellphone thieves. But I digress…

When I look at those ads, I feel a little guilty- because though they may have good messages, I don’t have time to care about every single one of them. I know that sounds callous- but I’m only one person. For me, caring means action- spreading the word, signing petitions, donating money, writing letters- and maybe even getting my boots on the ground once in a while. So no- as ONE person I don’t have enough time to care about every single group with a tragedy to tell (and there are plenty). But what I do, when I do it- helps. When I put my heart and my support into something, it helps the cause- whatever that cause may be. Now, I know there are folks out there marching on something every day, as well as folks out there just not doing anything for anyone but themselves- that think I’m not doing enough- but those people don’t know me. They don’t know my heart, or my consciousness- they don’t know my story. But they assume that they do- and in doing so, alienate me- and whoever else feels the wrath of their judgement. It’s divide and conquer 101- and it’s happening more and more during this Zimmerman trial.

George Zimmerman is a murderer. I believe this with my whole heart. He shot and killed a child, killed a person just because he wanted to- in my eyes, he is a murderer. And I stand in solidarity with those who want him to get what he deserves. And I believe people want him to get what he deserves. But what I’m seeing, is a lot of people angry about the attention Trayvon Martin is getting because other young men are dying too. They are angry about people having conversations about race in the Trayvon Martin case because black-on-black crime takes place every day. They are dismissive of the fact that people care about Trayvon’s cause because in their minds- THEIR cause is more important. Closing arguments were heard in the Zimmerman case, so today on Facebook and Instagram, many people are blacking out their avis in support of Trayvon and his family. It’s a small gesture of solidarity, a gesture of faith- a gesture of caring. It’s a statement that those people give a fuck- about something other than themselves, even if it’s just for a minute. But everywhere I look, someone is making a joke out of this gesture. They imply that it doesn’t matter, that people won’t care later, that there are other things to be concerned about- and that all of those people blacking out their avis won’t do anything to help the cause beyond that. I’ve seen tweets about how there are kids dying in Chicago from gun violence- over 50 people shot last week, I believe- and how that cause is or should be greater because it’s black on black. I see people from my hometown of Philly, write that they don’t care if Zimmerman gets off because young men are living rougher lives on the streets where I grew up, every day. I see people joke that no one will care about Trayvon next week, or that if Zimmerman gets off, most people will go back to their normal lives the next day. These people may think they have a point- but I think they need to have a seat.

Now I do agree that we need to be better at acting. We need to figure out how to follow up our feelings with actions that can work for us, help us, heal us. But a statement of solidarity is exactly that- a statement. Why begrudge someone a statement? Why in the fuck does it make sense to attack what other people choose to care about? I admitted earlier in this blog that I don’t have time to care about every single cause- I’m sure most people don’t. But if taking two seconds to black out their avi shows that they’re thinking about this cause, why belittle that? How does it serve you self-righteous, soap box standing jerks to make people feel bad for caring about that young man’s life? And who in the entire hell gave you people the right to tell other people what causes should be their concern? How dare you judge the consciousness of someone you don’t even know? It’s sickening, and makes me pretty angry. The other angle to this is that even though I don’t have time to care about EVERY cause, it doesn’t mean I don’t support more than one. People do care about those other things, those other causes. People do care about that baby that got shot accidentally in that car because someone was aiming for her father. People do care about Philly, and Chicago, and Baltimore. People do care. And supporting Trayvon doesn’t mean that we’ve forgotten about other young black people who are dying in these streets every day. I haven’t forgotten them. As a woman with five younger brothers and four nephews, I can never forget. As a woman who grew up in South Philly, I can never forget. And if you want to remind people so badly that there are other causes in the world, start a movement of your own. Start a conversation of your own. Tweet about how we can help Chicago, instead of wasting your breath attacking people who may simply be too preoccupied to tweet and Facebook rant like you.

I think that if you have so much time on your hands to pick apart what other people are doing, then you’re not doing enough. Now you may say I’m judging you now- but I figure I’ve earned it since you jerks have judged an entire community of people- most of whom are just trying to channel their fear and anger, who are just trying to make sense out of this child getting murdered. If you’re tearing down people’s support of Trayvon because you feel like your cause is more important, then use your social network to push YOUR cause. Wasting characters and statuses ranting about Trayvon supporters doesn’t shed a speck of light on YOUR cause. But if you’re tearing down people’s support of Trayvon because deep inside you don’t give a fuck about anything but you and you want to spread that selfishness- then get yourself together. All you’re doing is dividing us- and making us easier to conquer.

Mind Over Marriage

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

This past weekend, I was in Rhode Island for my best friend’s sister’s wedding. My best friend is second-generation Nigerian so there were a lot of traditional aspects mixed in with the wedding. Overall, it was beautiful and special and I was proud of my adopted little sister. But as weddings do, it started me thinking about my journey to matrimony.

Don’t get all hype- it’s not happening soon. I’m not even in a relationship. But weddings make you think of all kinds of things along those lines- what you would wear, what food you would serve, what song you would dance to- everything. Most of the time when you attend a wedding, you don’t think of the actual married life the couple is going to have; you’re too busy figuring out how to make your party better than the one you’re attending. And I have to say I am no exception to this rule. I had my own dress, food, reception, music visions all the way home (and it was a seven-hour drive, by the way). But that’s not really the important part is it? Clearly, I should be more concerned with whether I could even handle marriage on a mental and emotional level. Or whether I even want to.

I don’t need to get married. I believe in marriage, and I wouldn’t mind it- but I don’t need it. I hate this premise, this subconscious societal implication, that if you love someone, and they love you- that marriage is the stamp that makes your relationship “real”. That your love isn’t genuine (or your man’s love for you isn’t genuine) if you’re not married and you’re not pressed about being married. I know a lot of women who believe that being a wife brings them to a level of respect that being a girlfriend just can’t touch. So many women think being a wife means something special, something untouchable, something realer than everything else. But since I am someone who knows married men who aren’t faithful, or even in love with their wives, I ain’t falling for that argument. I’m a romantic. So the way I figure it, if you don’t have the man’s heart, it doesn’t matter what he calls you. It doesn’t matter that he pays your bills, or that you’ll be the one who gets his pension when he dies. If I’m going to commit myself to a man- with the idea that it will be forever- I want his heart, and nothing less. And if I’m confident that I have that, and he has mine, then I don’t really care about the marriage part. See this is what I mean when I say I don’t need it.

Now, let me stop here and say that some of the most beautiful, talented, fabulous, fearless women I know are married women. And I think they are awesome wives. I think that their husbands simply could not have done better; these girls are amazing- and I never want them or anyone to think that I am somehow insulting the fact that they chose to marry. I’m not; I never would. And quite honestly, if I was in love and committed and with a man whose heart was mine (in a perfect world, this man would be a big, burly, rough-around-the-edges intelligent man who slapped me on the ass and recited rap lyrics to me)- and this man asked me to marry him, I would TOTALLY say yes. I would be an asshole to say no. I’m just saying that if he didn’t ask me, but I knew he loved me and wanted me forever, then that would be enough. Now, at this point, you’re probably thinking, “But Shameka- if he really loves you and wants you forever, why wouldn’t he ask you?” And that’s a good question. I’m not saying that he wouldn’t. But I don’t want him to think that that’s expected of him, that I need that. And the reason I don’t need it, is because I feel like a lot people think the marriage guarantees them something, when it doesn’t guarantee you anything. It doesn’t mean he’ll stay, or be faithful, or even be kind. It doesn’t mean he’ll respect you, or love you, or cherish you. You need to have all of those things in advance, and I think sometimes people forget that. It’s almost as though they get married and then try to build a marriage. When in actuality, you’re supposed to build your marriage FIRST and then get married as a celebration of the continuation of your journey.

If we want to get all biblical about it, I’d have to say that the story of Adam and Eve is where it all started, lol. God made them, and put them together FIRST- and then told them to build a life- AFTER. And I think we carry that model in our lives now- that a marriage will just magically appear because you’re married. Conceptually, it’s completely wrong. I’m not saying God was wrong, but it’s a little archaic to think that things that worked when we didn’t have a population on Earth are still supposed to work now.

I also think that we’ve perpetuated some idea in our modern society that marriage is the way, and the truth, and the light- whether you mean it or not. For example, a few years ago, I watched an episode of Dateline (or some similar show, I don’t remember) and one of the segments was about this woman who ran a program called, “Marry Your Baby’s Daddy.” She was encouraging couples who had been together for a while, and who had kids to get married. Now, I believe her heart was in the right place, but her segment made me angry. There was nothing in the program about how to have a healthy, stable relationship. They never showed her offering these people counseling, or classes. There was just a church where you could marry the father of your kid. Also, some years ago, there was a church that was running some kind of marriage campaign- where they bought out billboards over the highway to tell us how much better married people do in life (Married people make more money, Married peoples’ kids do better in school, etc.) And again, no message about love, or trust, or respect and honesty. You’re going to encourage marriage without first trying to teach people that they’re relationships should be healthy? We really are assholes- and we’re ruining the world. Don’t try to push people into marriage with that, “You have kids and you live together- so you might as well” bullshit. We should be encouraging people to be mentally and emotionally healthy individuals, and then couples. And if we do that, most people will probably get married on their own. Because I believe most people feel like that’s what they want.

Also… if I’m being honest (and I always try to be with you guys), I’d have to say that there’s anxiety there on some level. I’ve noticed in a lot of cases, that men feel like being a husband is completely different from being a man in love, when being a husband is simply an extension of that. I don’t want the man I love to feel like marriage is something he has to change for. And I don’t want to feel like I do either. I don’t want him to feel like marriage is moving us to some level where he has to somehow figure out how to love me better. If I marry him to begin with, it’ll be because the way he loves me now is perfect. Husband and Wife titles seem like they put so much extra pressure on people. I don’t want that pressure on me.  I know that when love is real, and true- a lot of this won’t matter. And like I said, if that man asked me, I’d be an asshole to say no. But I don’t need it- I don’t know if I ever will.