Undulating

My Mom apologized to me. She asked me to come over to their house, sat in the living room with my father and I, and apologized for being overly critical, for not loving me unconditionally, for expelling me when I got to difficult to handle, and not creating the home that every child deserves.

She said such poetic things like "No matter what happens in the world: what you go out and do or what is done to you, you should always have a place to come to, where you will be accepted."

This falls right in line with African style. There is no place to throw a child, no place to give away a child, no matter how "bad" they may be. She said she realized that she had not created a home for me just because she bought a nice house.

She said it all so poetically. She said everything I resented her for not realizing. She made congruent everything between her treatment of me and what our culture says to do that was previously congruent.

She showed me her emotions too. I always complain that she talks about me to her sisters, reveals her sadness or her frustration or her regret to them, but presents this stone cold, infallible persona to me.

And I try to explain that it would help if she showed me those emotions. It would humanize her. I always thought she was just heartless. I felt like she didn't even have feelings and that allowed me to be so hurtful to her. I wanted her to show me that she feels things. Instead, I would try to hurt her and she would hurt me worse.

And then she rebuked my Daddy, which I thought was funny because I had always suspected that I was a divisive issue in my parents' marriage but I had no proof.

Mom rebuked Dad for going behind her back and talking to me on the phone when they had decided that they, as a couple, as a unit, would not talk to me (I think it's funny that they had conversations, as parents, about not talking to one of their children...like I was too much to deal with so they were just going to stop talking to me).

Then, Daddy would fold and he would always call me. He has always been the one to break the silence that sometimes becomes our relationship.

This past summer, when there was some mix up about my tuition balance at the university, the university was sending letters to my permanent address: the parentals' house.

They flipped out and were trying to figure out what was going on and blah blah blah. Mom made a fight out of it when 1) it isn't any of her business because she doesn't subsidize my life in any capacity 2) I am perfectly capable of handling my own situations now. They cut me off financially and socially, I am sure in hopes to incapacitate me, force me to return home and do what they ask to regain their support.

I did not. I decided to do it on my own than live in this limbo of expulsion at any moment. My parents were constantly threatening me with removing their support. So I called their bluff and when they did, I didn't give up on my life. My friends wouldn't give up on my life and kept me afloat until I made it out of the flood altogether.

Then I started school this semester, meaning I obviously resolved the tuition situation (which I kept telling them not to worry about and I don't know why they were worried because they don't pay for anything for me and they didn't really offer to pay anything so why are you trippin?).

My Dad started calling me and checking on me and cracking jokes for me and laughing with me...and pretending that everything was fine.

Meanwhile, my Mom wasn't talking to me, which I still don't understand. I just told her not to worry. I just want her to be my mom. She doesn't need to worry about those things anymore.

So my mother told my father that she was upset that he would talk to me after they had decided that I was contraband. She said that it made her angry that he was somehow immune from the drama. Here he was, on the phone, laughing and bonding with me when she wanted to have a relationship with me too but was upset.

Even if she was being unreasonable, it made her look even worse. She said she wondered what I must have thought of her. If my Dad can talk to me and we can have a relationship despite our conflicts, then what is wrong with my Mom? Which is exactly what I would think!

My father never seemed any less frustrated, less disappointed, less angry with me than my Mom did but he was able to return to his role as father. He never made me "pay" for my behavior by withholding his love (even though at a point he was behaving just as unreasonably as her).

So I wondered why she was so obstinate, why she was so mad.

The things is, they are both people and the are different people. My Dad would continue communication just in case there was "a chance to save my daughter".

And it was a genius plan. If he hadn't have been talking to me, my mother wouldn't even have had the opportunity to call me and ask me to come over and talk, because I wouldn't have accepted their phone calls and I wouldn't have returned them either.

She was jealous. I thought that was so cute. But again, it was her sharing how she felt, which I have never been privy to. I literally thought that my mother just didn't like me. And relatives would say that such a thing was absurd. But even though she didn't say that she didn't like me, her anti-emotional stance, the way she would mock me when I became emotional, and the choice to punish me with silence rather than discuss issues made me think she didn't like me.

That was all I could use to explain it. I am 22 years old. The relationship I have with my parents at this age, given that I am financially independent, is completely optional. So I was always confused about the way she chose to handle her anger. She chose not to talk to me, which is painful of course, but is also stupid. Being estranged from my parents is not the devastating thing at 22 that is may be at 15 and 16.

But, we all have our burdens. Her burdens, her inadequacies, her idiosyncracies, her life experience guided her to act and treat me in a certain way, something very incongruent with what I expected and vice versa. I think we both operated under the premise that our relationship, as mother and daughter should just work. Neither of us considered (or showed the other) our humanity and the work it takes for any two human beings to have a healthy and functional interpersonal relationship.

I am going to forgive her just as I hope she will forgive me. And we will replace statements like "Ugh" with revolutionary cries.

Ball & Chain

"Since I Seen't You" by Anthony Hamilton

On the blog Shahedah and I share ownership of, I wrote an entry about a horrible dream I had of the most important and remarkable woman in the world to me. The dream felt like One Cup of Fear in an otherwise slow day.

Since that dream, I have felt a spirit that wants to at least entertain the idea of forgiveness. The dream made my anger and frustration seem so pointless. If I try to hate her, what will it turn into when she dies?

So resentment and anger loosed their grips on my heart and I wrote an email to my mother explaining that our bickering is quite stupid and it means nothing in the grand scheme. I told her I don't know why she isn't talking to me and I don't know what I did, but I don't care. I just wanted her to know that I wasn't mad. I also pointed out some faultiness in some things she thinks I am doing (like drugs). There's no way in hell I'm doing drugs. But I guess she can't see me on campus and how much I have to do and how little time I have for drugs if I were doing them. And remember my GPA last semester. Don't nobody on the pipe pull those kinds of grades.

I digress. I just wanted her to know that I wasn't mad. Sometimes, we retain and nourish our anger in defense of someone else's anger. She may think I am mad at her and think it unfair or dumb that I am mad at her so then she will be mad at me and vice versa. I know. How ridiculous.

She replied in a brief message that she just needed to think things out. I thought I wasn't going to get a response at all so I was elated to see that and gladly began to wait for her to"think things out".

And here I am, 2 and a half weeks later, still waiting for her reply. What I know is, she is not going to reply, which really irritates me. I have written letters to her before. One was incredibly poetic but very genuine and I was desperate to talk to her. She said some things happened and she forgot about it. This has happened a few other times.

She just doesn't want to talk about it. She just wants me to "get my act together" and move on. I don't think she thinks there is anything to discuss. Why do we refuse to get along? Why are we both so stubborn? Why do we have to be right? How are we hurting each other? What can we do to stop?

These are good questions. We should address them, talk about it. But we don't. For her, the problem lies with me. I am not "behaving". I'm almost 23 years old. I'm far past "misbehaving". I hate when they say that. That is what adolescents do, "misbehave". We just don't get along quite plainly and if it were up to the lovely Marie Umarr-Kamara, BSN, MSN, we would just stick in this cycle forever.

Recovering from all the mess that we have endured in the last 3 years will require some honest, serious, maybe hurtful conversation and she doesn't want to do it. The problem has nothing to do with the sometimes mean and manipulative behaviors my parents sometimes employed to "reign me in". The problem is all me. I don't listen. I do this. I do that. I don't do this. I don't do that.

Fine. I messed up. I should have listened in some instances and I'm glad I didn't in others. But the problem can't even be fixed. Me and moms are like 2 highly skilled, stubborn doctors with two very different diagnoses.

She is still ignoring me now, even though I really need her to give me that stethoscope...5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

And we are back to Square 1. Welcome back. FML.

Home Alone, Part Who Freakin' Knows

"Nikki" by The Dream

...now your heart is broken / go on 'head and pick it up...

So Will texted me. I was nice and patient even though I just wanted to say all kinds of nasty insults that I rehearsed when the ship sunk but never got a chance to say. We stopped talking (I'm still not totally sure how he has my new number because I didn't give it to him!). But he decides to randomly contact me. It was obvious that he was intoxicated or altered in some fashion, otherwise he wouldn't have had the nerve, as he admitted himself. So I couldn't be that mad. He wasn't totally in control of himself.

However, I cannot understand why he would think I want to have contact with him. He said that when he checked on me on my birthday this year, I said I forgave him. I was probably altered. I was in Miami and you know what happened in Miami! I want to forgive him and in those moments in which the details of my life and pain are fuzzy, I can forgive anyone, at least for a while.

And honestly, I know that as a child of God I should have forgiven him by now. There are a litany of people who I should have forgiven by now but I find it wholly impossible. I'm weak for pain. I feel it so deeply, it's so paralyzing, I cannot figure out how to let it go. And it is not as though I haven't done wrong to others.

But I still hate him. I still do. I have stopped wishing for bad things for him. I only did that for a very short while. But given the continued decrepit condition of my life, as much as I want to "let go of the past", I don't know how.

And I don't know that I want to. These experiences are the kinds of things that teach me how to be less naive and less trusting, which is what gets me in so much trouble. I should know better but when I love someone, I trust them. I didn't think it would be a problem if he knew my master password. Stupid.

I just believe people will be just as good to me as I am to them or try to be to them. In the end, it wasn't even what he had done but more what he said. I know he was angry. But as time has passed, I wonder why that is the emotion he had. You don't know what I'm talking about but if I had a friend in the shape that I was in, anger would have been my least likely expressed emotion.

When I was "loco", Gwenny and Christina were willing to put our friendship on the line to ensure my health and safety. They knew it was possible that I would not want to be their friend anymore after they brought my situation to light, but it was worth it to save my life.

For that reason, I have always been confused by his reaction. I have remained furious about it. When all was said and done, the ego I fear in every man spoke up for him instead of the caring, loving person I knew, a person who seemed to really love me unconditionally.

The situation between Will and I has dulled the light I used to see in people. I am afraid now, most of the time, around new people. And I don't want to introduce new people into my life. It seems more trouble than it is worth.

There is a solid circle of people who have never swayed, never left, never really disappointed. I have resolved that they are all I need.

I still love people. I am still outgoing. But I am guarded. Sometimes I am sad because I wonder about the interesting and good people I am missing out on. Will was interesting and good to me, at least for a while. I miss (sometimes) the thrill of new personalities but it spares me of much pain. The trade-off is fair.

Enough Vitamins, Eat This

I have low self-esteem and very little self-respect, but I do think that I am beautiful. I think I know my qualities and my flaws and I think I know them pretty well. Therapy made me consider myself in a manner that people typically cannot.

It is hard, if not impossible, to be objective about your behaviors, habits, flaws, or anything about yourself. I, however, have had to subject myself to some radioactive scrutiny that allowed me to expand the protective image we all create for ourselves. We are not as good as we imagine. This could be evidenced by the shocking/hurtful/mean/bad things we do under different stress, although we woul like to imagine that we would do right by other people. We don't.

And my conclusion was I don't like myself. I understand that some of my personality is genetic. I am what I am. And I understand some of the person that I am as having been formed by environment and experience.

I still don't like myself. But I can NEVER, NEVER EVER resist a glance in the mirror. I do love my face and nobody can tell me it isn't beautiful. Dig?

Ejecting You

"Tell Him" by Lauryn Hill

...let me be patient / let me be kind / make me unselfish / without being blind / though I may suffer / I'll envy it not / and endure what comes...

I haven't had a real fight with my mother for a long time, partly because we don't talk and partly because we talk about superficial, non-controversial things.

However, under the surface, their is bubbling hot anger we both feel for what we perceive the other put us through.

Today, it kind of reared its ugly head...the anger.

She thinks I'm selfish. I think she (and a coerced husband) deserted me.

And these are the things tha pollute our lives. These different views of the same situation, varied opinions of the circumstances, personal assessments for whose fault it is are what haunt this house.

In the argument, the same frustration, the same screaming, the same non-listening business was going on that directed our arguments when I was in high school.

She said such hurtful things to me. Just plainly mean things that I hope she doesn't mean but know she said out of anger. She has such a nasty temper.

Apparently, she has been generally frustrated with me since I came home. Additionally, my mother is very defensive about her parenthood. I pointed out that I was very melancholic today and she just nagged me and didn't ask me anything. She flatly said that I am 22 years old and I can talk if I want to. She is not a psychic nor does she study me. This was just absurd. I couldn't even rebuttle.

And then she asked me to leave. She can't stand my attitude. I don't know why, but today, it was too much for me. I cried all day. I couldn't control it. Even as we argued, water washed my face uncontrollably. She even said, "Could you stop with the emotion and listen to me?", totally unmoved. Which is fine, I guess.

I think something is wrong with my mother. She has many burdens. Coming to a new country with small children, living overseas helpless as war ravages her home country, her youngest son suffering from fairly severe Autism at a time when little was known about it, losing her mother when she couldn't see her for over 15 years.

She has been through a lot and I don't think she dealt with it well, if at all. That is why I only swell marginally with anger because she is a human being too.

She is not a bad mother. She is just emotionally inept and I am far too thin skinned to be here with her.

I don't know why her opinion matters to me so much. I wish I didn't need her approval. It is kind of a stupid thing because even if she really approved of me, she isn't the kind of person to express such. She means well, I hope. But the issues have not been resolved. We are still angry and bitter and frustrated and confused. I'm going to go to therapy, that way, no matter what she says, it won't matter.

Until then, I bow out.

Hey Mama

"Hey Mama" by Kanye West

...I wanna scream so loud for you / cuz I'm so proud of you...

My Auntie Aminata had a cookout at her house today in celebration of Mother's Day and in honor of little Mohamed Fornah's 2nd birthday, one of the youngest of our clan.

Yesterday night my cousins Hawa and Fatima and I went to Shockoe Bottom for a night out. Hawa is only 20 but the lounge we had decided to go to had an African night (or something like that) and it is typically 18 and older.

Well, the African night is every other Saturday and we had showed up on the wrong Saturday. So as not to call the whole night a waste, we went to a pizza place on the corner of Main and 18th (I believe) that sells these beef patties that I am addicted to. I bought some beef patties for Fatima and I and the three of us took a seat in the first booth. We began to kongosah about the people walking in and out of the joint, about family members, about each other, and more.

A conversation erupted about female genital mutilation. Back home in Sierra Leone, there is a tradition called the Bondo Society. It is a secret society of sorts whose notoriety comes from the cutting of the clitoris. It sounds so heinous and so inhumane and so disgusting, however, it is so common, all over Africa. It is a testament to the hardship that is being a female in this world. Can you imagine if men were forced to endure a "beheading" of their penis? Yeah. Would not happen.

Both of my cousins have gone through it. As they were describing the details, I felt lightheaded and as if goosebumps were appearing underneath my skin (yeah). I was so disgusted and so angry. I remember my mother and some of her sisters having a conversation about Bondo Society a long time ago, at my kitchen table. A lot was discussed but what I distinctly remember being said by my mother was, "Me! I nor go put mi pikin inside dey. I nor go do am (Me! I would not put my child inside [that society]. I would not do it).

My mama is awesome. I have never had the courage to ask my mother if she was in the Bondo Society, but the fact that she objects to it is good enough for me. Had I grown up in Sierra Leone, while my peers may have been forced to join the Bondo Society, I wouldn't have because my mother is a genius.

Hearing my sisters talk about their experiences in the society, from being told about a "party" they would be going to, walking into a room with the floor decorated in the blood of other girls who have already been mutilitated, the pressure to keep the secret society a secret, the fear of dying from bleeding uncontrollably (there have been girls who DIED because of this tradition), to the brainwashing of women to think that this is an acceptable tradition, made me hot with anger and cold with fear for the future of African women.

The tradition is based on the ideologies of some idiot man who decided women should not enjoy sex so their clitorises must be removed. It is also to prevent promiscuity among women (while the men go out and sleep with anyone and keep the rates of HIV/AIDS high as all hell in the continent of Africa). And we African women are somehow brainwashed and continue to subject our daughters to this, kill our daughters, destroy our daughters sense of self and body, participate in our subordination to men, maintain the control about the conversation of sexuality on the side of the men, and remain at risk for everything that is a consequence of sexual behavior.

It is disgusting. And it is further evidence that it is so hard to be a women in this world culture. It is so, so hard to be able to give life but have our lives valued so little.

So, hey Mama. Thank you for teaching me about being an African woman. My Mommy and I have never had any real conversations about sex or sexuality, feminism or feminity, etc., but she has always been (in the midst of all our mother/daughter tumult) a brilliant example of a powerful African woman.

She is a wonderful wife to my father. Their marriage demonstrates a wonderful sense of balance in power, authority, respect, influence, and compromise. I know that I will be just like my mother in my marriage. For one, my personality is a carbon copy of hers. For two, she compromises her dominating, aggressive personality with respecting my father's authority and understanding that they must make a life together and has taught me that is how a marriage works. No matter how much trash I might talk about my parent's individually, together, they are the most perfect and cutest couple ever. Really.

She is a wonderful, selfless, kind, compassionate sister, aunt, daughter, and mother. She works so hard not to gather fine things for herself but to give us all better than the basics.

Lastly, despite our lack of an emotional relationship, observing her with my Daddy all of my life, learning of hardships with my younger brother's illness (Autism), recalling her hardships being the mother of me (the most extra child ever), she has shown me to integrate pride and selflessness into my identity as an African, as a Black person, and as a woman.

She was the first feminist I ever knew. She probably wouldn't classify herself as such, she didn't burn her bras in the 1960s, she is a traditional African woman in many senses, and she is too African to give a damn about 'feminism' as we understand it in a Western context, but she makes me so proud and excited to be a woman, an African woman.

My identity as a Black African and as a woman account for almost all the details of my way of thinking and my life. What I am studying in college, why I am studying it, what I want to do for a living, what causes I choose to volunteer under, the global political issues I follow, the opinions I have about issues, etc. are all influenced by my identity.

I identify first as an African, second as a woman, and third as a human being. That may sound a little harsh, but we must protect the portion of our identity most vulnerable to marginalization.

I gets that from my Mommy. And when I woke this morning, and sat across from her in her sister's living room, I really couldn't remember why I should be mad at her. I'm sure life will remind me later, as she always does, but for now, I love my Mommy.

...hey Mama, I know I act a fool but, I promise you I'm goin back to school / I appreciate what you allowed for me / I just want you to be proud of me...

The Etiology of Being Lost

"Whenever You Call" by Mariah Carey

...i'll be the one to catch your fall / whenever you call...

I used to listen to this song in high school. I used to listen to many songs with a similar theme because I didn't feel I had anyone who understood so the music was the witness to hidden loneliness.

I'm an extreme extrovert and not the least bit shy. I talk to anyone about anything. I have been told that I have a charming, captivating personality, but I never describe myself as such.

Nonetheless, as an adolescent, I was angry and irritated and lonely most of my time. I fought with my parents, especially my mom, ALL the time. I can't really remember why, but I didn't like to be at home or spend time with them. I liked to hang out with my friends, which I think is natural. In Sierra Leonean terms, I was a "strit pikin", or I liked to hang out in the streets. It doesn't mean a literal street with stree lights. But the street refers to any place that is not the residence of a relative.

I was annoyed by that. I never understood why it was such a bad thing to want to hang out with my friends. Additionally, I was not close to my mother. She is not the talkative, indulging kind of mother, which is okay, I guess.

Honestly, I don't know what the hell the problem was between the ages of 13 and 18. But I know what

happened following those ages. There were particular events that dampened my soul and infected my worldview. Some of them I caused with bad decision making. Some of them...life just happened to me.

And my parents so easily set me aside. I talk about this a lot, I know, but that is the truth to me. I feel so disposed of and again, this night, I cry under the burden of my resentment.

I just don't think I deserve what happened. I think over and over and over again about how I could have handled the situation better. I know I had alternatives. However, I don't feel like I should have been tossed aside at my most vulnerable moment.

It made me feel inconsequential. I feel as though I don't matter sometimes. I am jealous at the pace at which everyone else seems to travel while I am almost totally stationary.

I want to believe that I am charming, funny, intelligent, generous, considerate, think of others first, polite, honest, etc. I want to work at perfecting those qualities. But sometimes I feel worthless, all because the people I value most in the world seem to not value me at all. And if they only knew that I am just waiting to be important to them again.

God, I want my life back.

Diaper:repaiD

"First Love" by Adele

...forgive me first love / I am too tired...

I am really tired. I am not sleepy. My mind is tired of thinking. My eyes are tired of reading. My right hand is tired of writing. My left is tired of holding my papers as I write, motionless and unattended to.

My wrists are tired of typing. My legs and hips are tired of walking. My back is tired of toting around the textbook makings of a bachelors degree. My mind is tired of thinking.

And I am tired of myself. I am working really hard, diligently, around the clock. I am reading, comprehending, deducing connecting, from no light in the morning to no light at night.

I look tired too. And I'm getting sad because I'm lost; like I'm not here.

When I went home to the parentals this weekend, everything seemed so real, so normal. We laugh like nothing ever happened but returning to my not home is evidence that a lot happened. But I go, happily, eat heartily, study, and play with Lima only to return to this hell as if there is no heaven to validate its existence. And the keep sending me back. They keep dropping me off.

I don't expect to go home. I don't think I could live there anymore. There are no pictures of me where there used to be, which I think means that there isn't hope that I'll return so they'd just as soon take down the pictures so as not to be reminded of who is absent.

It hurts only because when I'm in the library for hours, alone, reading and taking notes, I have time to pause time and wonder why I am doing this. I don't know what I am doing or why I am doing it, sometimes.

This would be a good time to tell a Mom or a Dad that I feel a little overwhelmed. But I don't think I can ever trust them with my head or my heart again. Even with this light load (just a little academic melancholy), I fear that if I asked them to hold it, they would just drop me off somewhere again. Because Africans believe that there is no child that you can just throw away, except for one: me.

Special shoutout to Starbucks and 5 Hour Energy Drink for slyly stealing $30 of my money every week.

Yes, I Was the One...Keyword: Was

"Where Does the Good Go" by Tegan & Sara

...where do you go with your broken heart in tow? / what do you do with the left over you?..

I literally just walked in from working out at the gym with a new friend of mine.

I met her the day after I wrote a blog about my addiction to 7/11's cupcake cappuccino. Of course, the day after I have admitted to my addiction, they didn't have cupcake cappuccino! So I had to settle for French vanilla, which, after I doctored it up, wasn't that bad.

We randomly started chatting about school and how we needed this coffee, the line was too long, I liked her boots, she like my peacoat, xy and z.

I discovered that she is a transfer student and she doesn't really know people. Being the mother I am, I felt I had to help her start a social network. So we exchanged numbers and went to Yoga the next morning (she put me on to the most amazing activity every).

Today, we had dinner together, hung out idly, and then we went to work out! I ran about 3/4 of a mile and walked half a mile. I know, it's negligible, but I'm working up to greatness.

The point is, I feel really accomplished (along with the test I pray I Aced today). I made resolutions and new promises to myself and God and I am keeping them. I am also being realistic and counting on the fact that there will be bad days and I won't be able or won't want to maintain this regimen. I will not beat myself about those days or allow myself to fall off completely after missing a couple of days.

There will be no 3 West this year or ever again.

When We

"Easy Conversation" by Jill Scott

...I like that you don't look at me that confused kind of way when / the thoughts are running through my mind / and I can't find the right thing to say...

I wrote a very good paper for my English class earlier this month about what literature is. The question was posed to our class and we were asked to define it and argue whether or not the definition, as collectively accepted, should be expanded to include the likes of rappers and singers, who are recent additions to the ancient life that is artistic expression.

I might post that bad boy up here although it is lengthy. It is good though. My Daddy said it was wonderful and you know I think he is a genius, therefore, the essay is that fire.

I emailed it to him yesterday following a discussion of the aforementioned topic. He said he wanted to read it. I rarely allow my Daddy opportunities to read my writing because his command of language and artistic writing ability dwarf a person's entire existence with its grandiosity. But he thought it was splendid and even read it to the graduate literature class he teaches to introduce the topic. Not excited about that though.

And then Daddy called me again this morning to tell me about the conversation in his class that was sparked by my paper. Daddy has been calling me a lot. It is exciting because I love my Daddy. I think he is the coolest, funniest, kindest person alive, despite concurrent feelings of resentment and frustration.

It just seems odd though. For months, I tried to talk to my Daddy and Mommy and for months, they weren't checking for me. The hot anger of the past and the cold indifference of the future have met to make a lukewarm existence of now. I don't worry about how the relationship turns out anymore.

I guess because I am older, I'm not crazy anymore, and education continues to sophisticate me, I realize that the whole family debacle isn't really that big of a deal. I am learning that time really will heal the wounds because time allows us all to grow. That growth is what heals the old wounds and makes us stronger to sustain future damage with less energy used to heal. I just wish I hadn't been such a dumb ass the past 3 or 4 years. I wish I hadn't been so sensitive, so demanding, so dramatic, so impatient, and so angry. There is plenty I wish of my parents' attitude and behaviors, but I had and have no control over them.

The thing is, love is bold. You scream and fight and reconcile and hate and blame and recuperate because you love one another. The love is permanently bonding so the recklessness is performed under the security of forever, no matter how unsatisfying the love may be. I know I am bold as love and because of love.

Never Wanna Give It Up

"If This is Love" by Jazmine Sullivan

...if this is real / it's funny how it makes you feel...I can't see a life without love...

If I haven't mentioned this song already, this song is the meaning of life. Straight like that.

After this, I will leave it alone. I promise.

It is just that to dismiss a person as "crazy" is...is to dismiss a person. It is to categorize them in such a fashion that ignores the struggles, the pesonal vulnerabilities, the biological susceptibilities, etc. that brings a person to "crazy". No one is just born "crazy". There are environmental factors, personal coping mechanism (or lack thereof), and genetic variances that all contribute to what you see as crazy.

It is akin to the days when people with anxiety were categorized as cowards and those with mental retardation as "possessed". There are fundamental and explanatory concepts missing from both categorizations.

And that is what upsets me, I think. That he knew/knows all that has contributed the condition I was/am in (am I out of that condition?). There were things that happened, decisions I made, a disastrous social infrastructure, an innate vulnerability and some more things that I am probably not aware of but I am simply dismissed as crazy.

I don't think that's accurate and I don't think it's fair, but it's okay. Yesterday, I smoked a black and I missed him. Never felt that before.

It ain't easy and it gets hard, but I can't see a life without love...But, this song, "If This is Love," is the meaning of life, because Love, In Fact, Exists (LIFE).

So, That's Awesome

"God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys

...I may not always love you / But long as there are stars above you...

Sniki texted me early this afternoon. She is a blogger and a blog reader (I feel as though that sounds so culturally contrived).

She texted me about two blogs that she thought were interesting and told me to check them out. Her blog is also quite amazing. She is on my Magic Woman blog as The Niki.

Because I decided to skip my only Friday class, my mind was in no way occupied, not being intellectual, and not being productive.

I was checking out these blogs and then I became a little idle. Some folder in my brain reminded me about a certain someone's blog, and, like an idiot, I decided to check it out.

Now, I didn't know the address so I looked up on Google the email address I remember he uses.

And I found it. And in it, he very measuredly, very casually, callously but effectively, and hurtfully called me crazy. The entry was not even about me and nor was my name explicitly mentioned but context exposed "the last girl I called myself in love with" as me.

I spent hours, hours thumb talking to my counselors Christina and Brittany trying to figure out 1) why he would say such a thing and 2) why I am so upset about it.

Here I am: A few months ago, I received a text asking how I was doing. I did not respond and received another message a few minutes later, a reminder from him that he will always be there for me.

I was enraged. I was so livid. After having "thrown a grenade and running," he was back, I guess, to assess the damage. I cannot convince myself that he was returning to rebuild a damn thing, although I could be wrong. Still enraged, I called him and let my angry lips talk without having thought about what I was going to say. It was profane and mean and emotional and raw, but it was honest. I still don't even know how he managed to get this new number.

What happened? What happened to "I am always here for you"? How quickly we arrive at "crazy" (and he knows I am afraid that people will think I am crazy so that's an awesome choice of a word). After the whole "betrayal" (oh it was such a production), I felt (feel) so slighted that I don't think he deserves to be angry.

But that is not fair. Those are his emotions. I cannot think for him nor can I feel for him. And if there is one thing I believe, I believe that we are all entitled to our emotions. He is angry and I cannot do anything but understand.

And I am trying. I am trying so hard to forgive. I try so hard sometimes it seems like he may feel it. He may feel that I am trying to let go and stop hating him. Obviously, he does not. I am trying to let it go, realize that people do bad things and will do bad things to me, I do and will do bad things to people, and move on with my life.

But it is hard. I understand that he his angry and I have a good idea about what and why. I am a student of psychology and I have already concocted some explanations about it, but it does not help me. It does not comfort me.

I let him in...all the way. I told him all the things that embarrass me, that I am ashamed of, angry at myself for, everything. And he caudled me and informed me that nothing is wrong with me, that I am still lovable, that I am a good person and then he left. And I wonder if he meant any of it. And then I returned to the days when I was certain. I am certain that something is wrong with me. He did not want me either.

I'm not angry. For one, I should not have been on his blog. For two, he is a human being and he deserves his anger and any other emotion he has. For three, he is a good man, a very good man who's ego was slighted. Empathy is almost always wholly silenced by ego. He is a good man, but he is a man.

The Christina and the Brittany responded to me all day with texts of encouragement. They said some unflattering things about my former friend (they may hate him more than I do, and it is not as though I haven't said some things myself), mostly just to make me feel better.

And even though I want to believe them and be angry because it feels so good, so filling, it is not right. I feel for him in the midst of my anger because whether or not I am wrong or he is, both of us are still humans and your pain is always real and never soothed by pointing fingers and dodging responsibility.

I am sorry. I apologize. I hurt you and I am sorry. And I shall never be so stupid as to read the blog again.

It's like I eat stupid for breakfast or something.

The Remedial Arts

"Break My Little Heart" by Jazmine Sullivan

...boy don't lead...lead me on / you don't know how I feel / please promise me...

I know this girl, beautiful girl. Funny, smart and wise far beyond her years. Loyal and honest, generous and considerate. Wide-eyed and ready. Dreams big and feels big.

If humans could even be perfect, she would almost be there.

But this girl doesn't know any of this about herself. She isn't humble. She is insecure.

And we're all insecure. However, her insecurities outweigh her knowledge of her grandiosity almost completely. She sees very little of what the rest of the world loves about her.

It sabotages her in so many ways, like insecurities typically do. She is paranoid about how she is perceived, anxious about who she is, and hyperbolic in the examination of her flaws. She sees very little of what the rest of the world loves about her.

She thinks his actions are whispers about her. His steps are sonar rebukes against the person she is. He isn't just unresponsive to a text, but he is ignoring her soul altogether, as if he is out to break her heart just by living his life. She doesn't see his attentiveness, his sensitivity to her feelings, and his willingness to talk and explain. She sees very little of the what the rest of the world loves about her.

Although my efforts in combating my own insecurities have been quite remedial, I have assumed the task of teaching her how to rebuild herself, love herself.

So I stopped by the computer lab in the library before my 2 o'clock class and typed up a syllabus for her. I described the course in self discovery she would be taking, listed the textbooks, and gave her a rudimentary outline of the assignments in personal growth she would have to complete.

And while I have her do all this, I, the professor, too will read. And we will repair ourselves together.

We will perfect the original projection of the image of perfection the world can already see.

The Lights are On

"Teenage Love Affair" by Alicia Keys

...nothin' really matters / I don't really care / what nobody tells me...

It is a random, uneventful Wednesday, Hump Day. I have no class on Friday so my weekend starts tomorrow.

I was supposed to go to Yoga with Brittany at 9am but when I woke up, I was right tired so I decided to skip out. I feel a little bad about it because although when I wake up, I feel indomitably exhausted, no matter how much sleep I get, it subsides after a few minutes.

But I can never inspire myself to last for the few minutes it will take me to really wake up, so I go back to sleep.

Nonetheless, I woke up a little later and made my healthy breakfast, practiced my correct posture (good posture makes you feel important, maybe erroneously so), watched the news, and laughed. I feel playful today. I feel like I should have a good day. I want to have a teenage love affair with my life: happy, fulfilled, irreverent, and secure. That's what I felt like during my teenage love affair.

I'm not going to skip around downtown Richmond like a fool, but my heart will. I only have my one class today: English 215: Reading in Literature. My professor, Dr. Sharp, resembles George Carlin very much. It is some kind of creepy. He is a very smart, sarcastic, funny man too.

I know he will mention President Obama's inauguration. It's impossible to assemble a group of people on campus and the President is not somehow mentioned. My sociology professor sent us an email reminding us of the sociological significance of his election. Sociology is the study of society and society has changed immensely in recent years.

So, I'm off to have my teenage love affair with my life. Deuces.

Dante's New Beatrice

"Round Midgnight" by Ella Fitzgerald

...I do pretty well 'til after sundown / Suppertime I'm feelin' sad / But it gets really bad / 'Round midnight / Memories always start 'round midnight...

Nineteen days into this new year, I am quite proud of myself. Classes have commenced and I'm in love with my brain. I love school. I love to learn and I am taking the kinds of intellectually stimulating, humanity connecting classes that my mind was truly created for.

I am taking a World Studies class about the classic The Divine Comedy by the epic Italian poet Dante Alighieri. My professor is this balding, handsome, compactly built Italian genius who stolen my mind with his vast knowledge and my heart with his accent and animated English.

I imagined that this class would be messily boring (because I resent "the classics" written by these dead white men whose offspring annihilated what would have been African classics). But it is not. Dr. Piciche offers information about Dante the writer.

He provides historical and social contexts for many of the things Dante includes in his poem. He comments that times never really change. The technology gets better so more details are recorded and more babies are made so there is more to record. But times never really change.

Hence the term "classic". Classics survive time; remain relevant. Time gives us the illusion that things have changed so we hang on to very few things. And classics are the few things we hang onto.

Education sophisticates people. I do not mean sophistication in some saddidy, I-read-more-and-better-than you kind of way. Education sophisticates one into being humble. It reminds a person how big the world is and how small every person is...unless you decided that there is something that you can do to improve the world. That is what makes one grand.

In this new year, I have decided to discover and display my grandiosity. I have taken to praying far more often than I used to, eating as good as I know I should, being patient, and even more empathetic. I am calm.

I am still the same. I am uptight and I worry too much. I am pessimistic and I am dramatic. But I can calm myself down within a few seconds. If not, eventually, the situation dissipates totally and I think about it in a far less tragic way. It becomes correctable, manageable, necessary even.

I think I could be happy even though the situation has not changed. Beauty is a state of mind.

Come to My Window

"Sweet Mother" by Tilda

Sweet mother, I nor go foget you, fo di suffa wey you suffa for mi, ye

When I dey cry, mi mama go carry mi,

She go say, "Mi pikin, watin you dey cry?"

Stop stop...stop stop...stop stop

Mek you nor cry again, no...

My mother woke me this morning, on this last day of the year. She called me at about 9am. She has not called me in over 3 and half months and as you know, I have been pining for that woman's attention the whole time. There are several blog entries that are testaments to such.

My BF even commented recently that my blogs don't seem so crestfallen. I'm slowly moving on from my upset with my domestic situation.

This phone call along with my Auntie Yabom cooking my favorite soup, Krain Krain, seem to be signs to me. I feel as though it means there is hope for me and my family yet.

Eating my plate of rice and Krain Krain always makes me feel at home. It is so familiar and so comforting. I haven't eaten krain krain in several months because I have been away from my family.

God wants me to be at home, perhaps not physically, but He wants me to have a relationship with my family. And I want it too. Not eating Krain Krain for six months is ridiculous. Mothers pay so much attention to what their children eat and for several months, I haven't eaten my mother's food, the food from home. I feel as though I have been starving until today.

So I am interpreting this as a sign, that at the end of the day, or the end of the year, I still have a family, even if the relationship is not what I want it to be. I am trying to remember that because at first, after we talked, I tried to go back to sleep but lay down crying instead. I have missed her so much and she waited until the last day of year to call, talk to me, ask me questions, and let me know she cares.

Just when I was starting to come to terms with the idea that I will just have to do without a relationship; that I will have to bear with the distance; that I have to give her time...she calls and renews my hopes, without my knowledge even. I think I am a little optimistic that this new year season may give my Mommy the reconciliation fever. Maybe. Maybe not.

Nonetheless, I am going to continue with my plan. I will return to school next semester and finish up my degree. The other details of my life are auxiliary mechanisms to me graduating. I just want her (and my Daddy) to see that. I can manage without a real relationship with either of them. That will come with time.

However, I am still hurt about some of the things she has done or not done, as I am sure she is by me. I cried out of frustration. Any conversation we have is predicated upon me "taking responsibility". While I am totally willing to do that, I must say, I am not willing to be labelled as the sole culprit of this domestic mess.

I am no longer a child. Our relationship and my parents' role in my life has changed. Therefore, both sides are responsible and have made bad contributions. My parents, in old African style, don't believe that. It (whatever it is) is all my fault. So while I have missteps for which I have indicted them in my mind, they deny them all together and simply make me feel childish, paranoid, and overly sensitive.

But in this new year, I will try my hardest to be grateful. I will not say happy, because she is highly elusive. But I will be grateful. I am alive. I am well. I therefore still have opportunity and potential. This is especially poignant for me to remember now as two 'cousins' of mine have died in the last month, both of whom were my age. Marie of ovarian cancer at 22 and Khadija of a horrible car accident back home in Sierra Leone at 23.

Happy New Year Mommy. Forgive me for 2008. But please give me space, less criticism, and more support if you can in 2009.

Tap Water

"You Made a Fool of Me" by Me'Shell Ndegeocello

...I've allowed you to make me feel...I feel so dumb / What kind of fool am I? / You so easily set me aside...

I've come to realize that being one of the King's Kids comes with special privileges and protections. God is not one to allow his chosen people to be messed with, hurt, humiliated, trampled upon, beaten, harrassed, and/or disrespected without consequence.

--Suga (Naked and Natural)

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Other people are important. I read an entry on the blog of a blogger who I follow about forgiveness and God. It was hard to read and it even made me cry. I want to be angry. Honestly, anger is fulfilling and comforting in a way that just makes me want to keep eating anger. But anger is fattening and I cannot live on it.

__________

I once read that anger is one of the most dangerous of our emotional indulgences. It is usually borne of our desire for some reward. When one becomes angry, he or she wants some kind of acknowledgment, which is the reward. We want someone to apologize, admit a wrong was done, have something corrected in order for our anger to subside.

__________

But I have come to understand that such a thing is not always possible. I cannot wait for the person I am angry with to correct the situation. I have to let it go. And as Suga said in the quote above, as I a child of God, I will be avenged.

_______

And I should be so cocky, shouldn't I? To forget about God's power and think that I could avenge the breaking of my own heart better than God.

__________

I should already know this. I am not stupid and I should know better than to hang on to such a thing but everytime something happens to me, I must be reminded about God's grandiosity. I always want to hang onto the pain and the frustration and no one is making me. I don't see him anymore. I don't talk to him anymore. I just hang onto the situation in my head such that the pain is as fresh as the day it all happened.

__________

So I am going to pray that I can forgive. I will move on and let God pay him back, with interest, for the grief that he caused me.