Sing a Song

We used to play this song at parties all the time. And not matter the turmoil, I always sang along with vigor.

This is our Krio. Amen.

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.

Switch Lanes

"All I Want for Christmas" by Mariah Carey

...I won't ask for much this Christmas / I won't even ask for snow / I'm just gonna keep on waiting / underneath the mistletoe...make my wish come true / baby all I want for Christmas is yooouuu...

Merry Christmas. Or Happy Holidays.

I am having a wonderful time with family in Northern Virginia. I've been here visiting for the break for almost two weeks now. There is a lot of life here. My cousins and my aunt are so energetic and funny.

We talk loud, eat a lot, make a mess, insult each other jokingly, and sleep late everyday.

The house is warm and the televisions and game systems are plenty. And the merriment makes the walls all glow and we're all brighter for it.

Yesterday night we had a Christmas Eve dinner and had a pseudo-party as we cooked. We brought a CD player down and acted a fool to old and new dance songs from back Home. I haven't been able to have such moments with family and it felt so nice. I felt kind of human...and loved maybe.

We have been wrapping gifts for the past couple of days and have stuffed them under our small tree. There were 13 of us in the house for Christmas and about three times as many gifts under the tree. Although I argued that we would be ruining tradition if we didn't wait until we woke up to open our gifts, they were definitely unwrapping at 12:01am.

It's a wonderful Christmas. My younger cousins aren't so young anymore and they all have jobs and bought gifts this year. They are all such sweet, generous, considerate people, very different from the children I had to wait on hand and foot a few years ago.

We're all just happy, even if it's just for these few days. And I don't know if Christmas does really have magic about it, if it's all the food and drink, or if it's the media telling us to be happy during this season, but whatever it is, I love this season.

I love how kind people are to each other, how considerate, how selfless people are. This is how I wish the world could be all year round.

I don't think highly of my fellow human being to be honest. I think that we are a selfish bunch. We care about ourselves and possibly the few around us. We let party lines, religion, racial lines, culture, etc. to divide and categorize us such that we are evil to one another.

But during this time of year, the animosity seems to subside a little bit. We extend a loving hand that is rather paralyzed during other times of the year.

I read an article on CNN's website about another family facing foreclosure after some mess had occurred earlier in the year with illness and a jobloss. A friend put their story on her blog and set up an account so that people could make donations.

In under 2 weeks, the blog had raised over $11,000. How amazing is that? The really amazing part are the people who donated. They were people who had also lost their homes, had cars repossessed, lost jobs and the ilk.

This is a sad Christmas for a lot of people and I'm glad that despite it, people are able to preserve the spirit of the season and think of people above themselves. Go team human race. Maybe I underestimate us.

Gold State Politics

"You Don't Know Me" by T.I.

...when you see me in the street / homey, you don't know me...

I am ashamed of myself. I spent several hours of my day on a blog that is exclusively about "hating" on Beyonce. It was hilarious. Click here to go to the blog.

I read many of the entries and skimmed the others. I even read some of the comments by readers. It is such an involved blog. I want to put it on the list of blogs I follow but I feel bad because I do like Beyonce. I'm not a ridiculous fanatic, but I gets down with her music and her style (her acting, not so much).

But, I love celebrityism and gossip and all that. Bossip, MediaTakeOut, and Young, Black, and Fabulous are all great gossip blogs in the different ways and I sure do follow them to nourish my celebrity obsessed, idle, fantacizing side.

But I have never seen such an extreme thing as this blog. It has the fervor of a political movement and it's just about hating on Beyonce.

It got me thinking about celebrity culture. I love it and I hate it. I just don't understand how celebrity became such a lucrative institution. I am upset with the level of wealth of the people considering the level of poverty most of the world suffers from. I do understand that there will always be a discrepancy in earnings but it shouldn't be so ridiculous and right now, I think it is ridiculous. However, that is another entry in and of itself.

And it has taken over our culture. Celebrities are the news for the most part and it is becoming easier and easier to become a celebrity given the internet and 24 hour news. I wonder if there are any people in the world who don't want to be famous, even for something good. Even if I do something amazing with my life (which I hope I do), I'd rather not be famous. I just hope I do something for the good of humanity and go about my business.

Additionally, should I become ridiculously weathly, I'm taking all my family back to Sierra Leone so they never have to work again (aunties, uncles, cousins, and any friends that want to go) and then I will begin a campaign to get rid of all my money that I can before they put me six feet under by helping to rebuild Sierra Leone and ultimately the whole world.

30th Century Man

"Move" by MIMS

...homey, I'm the president, governor, and mayor / I control everything like a dictator...

I went on a date yesterday evening and it went very well. Believe it or not, it was only the second real date I have had in my life. I have been out with gentlemen before, of course, but typically with gentlemen I am already somehow entangled with. The date did not begin the "courtship" (because if I told you what was really going on in these other entanglements, you'd realize I'm sort of a fool).

I met the gentleman on whom I went on this date at a club performance. It was the American debut of a Sierra Leonean artist (Vida, who did not do well) and fellow Sierra Leoneans and other Africans came to support her.

He asked me out and we went to dinner yesterday. It was a cute, casual thing. He picked me up and met my brother Richard. We couldn't decide what to do for a few minutes. We had not really discussed the night's activities but we just wanted to meet up. So we ended up going to Applebee's (because I couldn't figure out where Chili's was).

We had very good conversation. He asked me a lot about myself and I sure did talk a lot about myself. I told him that I am (pseudo)self absorbed and he laughed at me. Next date though, I am going to make sure he talks more.

He was very chivalric, opening all the doors but not annoying. Chivraly gets strangely annoying. It is difficult to explain, but some will know what I mean. He was casually considerate and not overwhelmingly chivalric.

And my favorite: he is out of that t-shirt and jeans phase. He wore jeans, a simply decorated white button up and a light tan sweater overtop topped off with an adorable, plaid Kangol hat. It was very much of a grown man swag. I don't mind the jeans, the t-shirt, the kicks get-up, but that has to stop at some point, or it at least can't be his exclusive wardrobe. It becomes extremely problematic for me when he is still sporting such a wardrobe after the age of 30 (which is typically my dating demographic).

His other qualifications: he is liberal. He is educated. He is African (not from Sierra Leone but...that could be overlooked). He is handsome. He is not too "touchie-feelie", which is plus 50 points because I am not very affectionate at all. I have my times, but they are not often. I'll show my love other ways. (Strangely though, I am quite affectionate with friends and family, but almost wholly anti-affectionate with menfolk). He has the basics as well: his own car and residence. I would drool over the car, but I don't want folks calling me a gold digger (He has a beautiful, beautiful, clean, magnificent, orgasmic, awesome black Range Rover, of what year I am not sure, but am enamored none the less. It is my dream car which is why I am so excited and not so much because it indicates that he has money, although it kind of does because it is quite an expensive car to maintain. It's just awesome that I get to ride in a Range Rover, good Lord).

It was a simple, nice, normal evening. I don't have many such experiences with menfolk and it was so refreshing. It was exciting. It was cute.

I type all that to say this: I like him.

Dented Armor

Inspired by Fitting Accidents

Broken.
The state in which you found me.
I was battered and bruised
and zoned out and in u zoned.
On broken.
The answers I didn't have,you had.
The self loathing thoughts I
punished myself with,
you took my rights to and
at times you set me free
The new growth my healing brought,
you believed in almost as hard as i believed in it.
It was too good to be true.
Then I found true not at all to be you.
After copping your emotional field,
you've become another dent in my shield.

_________

This is an example of how language connects us. My blog entry about my broken heartedness (Fitting Accidents) reverberated with someone else. My language spoke to someone else as if it wasn't words talking but our pains talking. She understood how I felt from my words alone. And I didn't think that was possible.

I thought that language was miraculous but inadequate and I think now, she isn't as inadequate as I thought.

Her poem is just so beautiful. She answered my words with more words and I feel like she told me how I felt better than I told myself. I even forget my heartache to remember hers and I'd like to inform you of something madam.

The dents in your shield do not make it any less functional. And eventually, you will be equipped with what you need to strengthen your shield again. And hopefully after that, you'll find a place in which you are remade with indestructable material and shield will no longer be necessary.

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)

___

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.

Sa Lone Krio

"You Put a Move on My Heart" by Tamia

...when the world seems a lonely place / I've got a dream that won't leave a trace / of the blues...

Language is miraculous and it is inadequate. It is so amazing that we developed this tool to communicate complex thoughts to one another. We have so many different languages with so many words and so many ways to express so many different thoughts.

But at the same time, there are so many things that are left uncommunicated or left communicated ineffectively. Language itself is beautiful. The efficacy of human communication is up for debate.

I speak a language called Krio. It is one of languages spoken at home in Sierra Leone and is under the umbrella of Creole languages of the world. It's a hybrid of English, Portugese, and an antiquated African language of Sierra Leone.

I love Krio. Of all the languages I have heard, it is the most fun, most alive, most versatile, most playful, and most far reaching (this is easily due to my personal bias). I love the language. She was my first.

When I moved to the United States, I forgot her for a little while but she was just dormant in my talents. When I grew up and had cousins coming from Sierra Leone, I wanted to be apart of their club. I had no memories of Sierra Leone, but I had her language. The stories that were told, the jokes that were made, the inside jokes that were maintained, the arguments/debates had were better in Krio. So, I listened very intently and I relearned to speak my first language in one summer at my Auntie Kadiatu's house surrounded by 5 cousins who spoke Krio and Temne better than English.

I spoke it exclusively, and I talk a lot. Eventually, I would slip up and think to say something in Krio, but would have to stop and switch to English mode for my friends.

Yesterday, a friend of mine and his girlfriend welcomed a baby girl. They too are from Sierra Leone. My older brother, his girlfriend, and I went to visit the family in the hospital. She explained to us what the pain was like. I have had people explain to me what childbirth is like and I have seen several myself, but the difference this time was that she spoke Krio.

The intentional hyperbolic stress on some words dancing with the raise in pitch of her voice in Krio made me almost feel what she felt. There is a tangibility about Krio to me. When some words are spoken, they have a life of their own. She used "heavy" to describe the contractions and heavy had a scent, and light, and a physical sensation to me. That is how I know I will need an epidural.

I listened to her say every word very intently (as I do when I listen to anyone talk). I hear the stresses, the pitches, the breathes in between. I hear everything. People would be creeped out if they knew the manner in which I listened to them speak.

And, I really liked the way she spoke. I do not like the way I speak Krio. I talk too fast so I eat the language rather than deliver it. I catch my tongue getting frustrated with the speed of my thoughts. At times she'll stop working all together in protest, as if to say she shouldn't be expected to keep up with the pace of my thoughts. There is time yet to communicate them. Chill.

But she also understands my excitement. I love to speak English but I love Krio more. I get to speak Krio to the people who love me most, who understand my history the best. Language is one of the few things that we could bring over from Sierra Leone and it connects us. We get to revert to our mother tongue and encourage fellowship after the American world has chewed us up, told us we are inadequate because we are foreign, alienated us because we are foreign.

Many foreigners, if not all, feel that way. You always feel some type of way, some type of closeness to a person you don't even know when you find out they speak your language while you walk along the streets with exclusive English speakers. This is the land of opporunity and the "melting pot/salad bowl," but sometimes, you miss home.

Sometimes, no matter how acclimated you have become, you feel that you can never be American. So when you run into some lady in the store, your ears perk up when you hear the syllables of your language and maybe you think of your mom and how she used to say to you in anger "Bo, pas na ya. La I no tel you 2 tem."

You know that lady knows your food, knows your music, has her flag hanging from her rearview mirror, yells at her children not to be "lek den American pikin den." And it's comforting.

Fitting Accidents

"So What" by Pink
...so, so what / I'm still a rock star / I got my rock moves / and I don't need you...

Amy [Winehouse] has this song, "Back to Black" whichis kind of the place I am always returning to. I feel as though I awaken everyday to give it a try although I am consistently disappointed.

At this stage, it feels like I awaken just to have the comfort of Black. Someone did the cliche thing of "breaking my heart" again. And I don't mean it in the metaphorical sense. I really feel, sometimes that something, most likely my heart, is really broken.

I keep too many secrets, primarily because when shared, they come back to haunt me. I told someone all my secrets, all my passwords, all my pandemonium, all my embarrassing idiosyncrasies and he blew my cover.

I thought, for a little bit, that I was possibly worthy of having good people in my life who loved me and would help and protect me. He made me think that was possible.

But skip all that sappy business. The bottom line now is I am pissed, infuriated, livid, red with rage, and all that. Not that I am blameless because I allowed my naivete to guide me despite the fact that I know I can be naive, especially about people. Other friends warned me but I always had a response, a defense ready that quieted them, even just temporarily. I did more than that, but he can write that blog if he wants.

I learned the hard way instead. He broke all of my confidences and meddled in my family life in a way that he never should have. He reinforced the mistrust, cynicism, and fear I already had for people. And it made me feel inadequate all over again.

The letters in someone else's name, logging into my shit, the mean emails and messages addressed to hurt my feelings, scouting for my number, telling people my business, and whatever other shit I may not be aware of is just the basement of the problem. The problem is the awesome skyscraper I have built to distract everyone from the crumbling city it is surrounded by. I will never show my damage or my vulnerability again.

But like an invaded country, I wear the scars, suffer the broken infrastructure, the casualties in the street, the debris, and all the signs of invasion, while he and his troops walk away, a little bruised, but back to a home that is intact as mine is burning to the ground. I feel like he gets to return to his life while I struggle to live mine.

So he lost a good friend. So what? I lost the progress in a relationship with the woman who made me. I cannot "quit" my mother. I have to deal with this ravaged country that is our relationship no matter how inhabitable it is.

And as if to add insult to injury, I get correspondence asking about how I am doing. Do you really care? I have to say I don't think so. Guilt and a search for forgiveness are possibly bigger motivators than your genuine interest in how I may be doing.

For I am not doing well. I am not doing anything. All the things I was ashamed of myself for are now common knowledge, but continue to go unacknowledged. I still feel ashamed. I never really forgave myself for the things I did that I told you in confidence, but you somehow felt it appropriate to share them with others, whose opinions really matter to me, whose approval I really need, simply to embarrass me, not to help me.

Yesterday came the text messages (when he shouldn't even have my number). And although I thought it a good idea to call and ask for a cessation of correspondence and say my piece, I didn't really feel any better afterwards. I cried so bitterly (again) to the girls because no matter how much time passes, I just don't understand how things went so wrong. I am mad at what was done but I blame myself, instinctively.

Simultaneously, I don't understand what I did that was so bad to deserve such a thing. I try to be a good person because I've had a crappy life and I don't want anyone to live as I have. But maybe I didn't do such a good job. Maybe I didn't show the love I said I felt. Maybe I'm just not a good person. I don't know.

But leave me alone, whatever you do sir, because it isn't fair that you pop up in my life whenever you want and make me relive the whole thing again. Things are no better. I am still angry and I still hate you. I'm sorry to hold a grudge but I ain't that good of a Christian. So to answer your question: No, life is not treating me alright.

Girl You Are Rich, Even with Nothing

"Player" by 112

...I'm a player / girl I thought you knew / when you started messin' around with me/ you knew I wouldn't commit to you / cuz I'm a player...

Thanksgiving Day has passed. I spent it here in Houston, Texas with people I barely know.

I sense that my Mom thinks I skip out on the family because I don't like them. At least, that is what is communicated to me by my aunts and uncles that talk to me about the way my mother perceives me.

I love them. There is no place in the world I would rather be than home, even in these times of awkward tension.

I did not call them on Thanksgiving Day. I felt bad for not being at home. Simultaneously, holidays don't hold any significance for me because I feel like a nomad. A nomad with no family.

I feel as though lonely nomads of thousands of years ago probably died earlier than their accompanied peers.

I am going to my parents' house in a week. My Daddy is traveling home so I will be hanging out with darling Lima. I can't imagine how my Mom and I are going to get along. I know we won't fight or anything because I don't do that with her anymore. I wonder if she will talk to me at all. I wonder if I will be able to resist staying out of her way.

Something tells me that she doesn't really want me there but she has no choice. I'm the best person imagineable who could tend to Lima so meticulously. I must stay out of her way. I don't want to anger her or annoy her.

I also can't hope for a miracle while I am at home. The heart in my mind wants me to hope that having to see me everyday for two weeks will weaken her resolve to be mad at me or forget me (or whatever she is doing). But the mind in my heart is trying to let me know that I am being ridiculous and I am underestimating the strength of my Mom's will and the depth of her frustration.

I hope I can resist the temptation to make a scene while at home. It's just that I want her to know that I grew up, I understand, I miss her, I love her, and I want her to forgive me.

I don't need to move back in. I wouldn't mind but I don't have to.

When I was younger and people would tell me that they could make themselves cry, I didn't understand. I was under the impression that one could only cry when in pain. And I was one of the happiest children so I could never "cry on demand".

I can do that very well now. And it isn't just "crying on demand". I actually have things to cry about that I conceal until the appropriate time.

It's usually about my Mama. I can be sitting in the happiest of moments but if I think about my Mama, I can easily, easily cry. That is what I want for her to know. That I'm not a selfish child, I just had to grow up. The more heartbreaking thing about growing up and changing is realizing how horrible you used to be. The most heartbreaking thing is not being able to show the person who matters the most how much better you are. Sorry Mom.

Should I Go

"Portrait of Love" by Cheri Dennis
...I see you out the corner / Corner of my eye...

I think I might be standing at the edge of my life, literally. I feel as though my life is this distance I have to walk. But it's made complicated by the directions I choose to go. There is no one walking with me. Everyone walks on his or her own. There are "meeting places." These are places that we all have to come to at certain times and that's where we discuss, criticize, argue, consult, inform, advise, form teams, etc.

I skipped several meeting places. I walked slowly and by the time I arrived, there wasn't anyone of interest to me to meet.

That was my mistake. So now, the sumtotal of my wrong turns and skipped meeting places is this edge here. I can turn around anytime and continue walking and make more left turns and less righteous turns.

Or I can take another step, a gamble. I could fall to my death or I could spend the rest of my time falling in love with my life. Should I go or should I stay? I'm in control either way.

Hemmorhage

"Dream Big" by Jazmine Sullivan

...I gotta dream big / cuz when it happens / it's gon happen real quick...only get one chance...

I read an article on the http://www.nytimes.com/ in the health section that was rather disheartening. It was about filial law. Filial law, for a little while, hasn't been a real topic of concern in our culture. The government stepped in to introduce programs that alleviate the financial burden of aging, such as the Social Security program and Medicare, which functions under the idea of citizens paying into the system.

But healthcare is more expensive, drugs are more expensive, people work too much to keep their aging parents in their home, and the population of the elderly is growing quickly and their needs are exorbitant. Long-term care insurance (didn't know that existed) is apparently also insufficient in what it covers and leaves many paying out of pocket or going to government operated nursing homes (gross).

The writer of the article is discussing the last months of her mother's life and the daunting task it was to get her to qualify for Medicaid, which is not a program people pay into but an entitlement should you not be able to provide for your health coverage via working or out of pocket. Her mother's nursing home cost $14,000 a month. What kind of mess is that?

The article explains this situation in much greater depth than I am able, but I had to write down all that the article made me think of. First of all, I don't want to be an adult. It sucks and I don't understand why adults aren't warning kids not to grow up. There should PSAs everywhere about growing up and having responsibilities. I feel ill-informed and insufficient for my adult years.

Secondly, I don't know how I feel about filial laws. Legally compelling children to take care of their elderly parents seems risque. It would be a noble, loving thing to do if you are able, but legal compulsion seems drastic, messy, unfair, and undemocratic. I hope that I am able and that my parents will allow me to take care of them in their old age. Despite the tumult of our relationship, I love them dearly and have grown up to see how hard they worked for my siblings and I, how much they sacrificed, how much they continue to endure.

But my parents are from Sierra Leone and want to return to Sierra Leone. It won't be difficult to provide for them back home. Everything is much cheaper. Provided that they are in relatively good health, my parents will be very comfortable while in Sierra Leone. The entitlements of their retirement will go much farther while living in Africa than in America. I will also heavily subsidize their lifestyle when they are ready to return home. I would send them back now if I could.

Nonetheless, I worry. What are people supposed to do about their parents? I fathom that people want to help their parents, have them live comfortably as they inch closer to the grave and die with dignity. But looking around, life is hard. How are people supposed to be able to do that given the cost of living? I feel as though the idealogy of this country are cracked in too many places and there is about to be a complete implosion.

Freetown, stand up...

If you'd like to read the article:

http://newoldage.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/11/20/unenforced-filial-responsibility-laws/?hp

Pitter Patter

Homeless Veteran / Very sick with Liver Disease / Lost job ... / Please help / God bless you

...Un pour tous et tous pour un...

Why we even have wars, I cannot understand. In all the history I have taken, no war has ever seemed just or necessary or the best/only option.

War seems to be a hyperbolic manifestation of compromised human ego and declaration of economic or poliltical superiority.

I hesitate to include WWI and WWII in this categorization, but in the most rudimentary of analyses, they both do fit into the aforementioned description. Granted, on a more sophisticated and complicated level, WWI and WWII were more about world preservation than ego tripping, but there is something unnerving about what happened in the world during and because of these two wars

Nonetheless, these wars that we all learn about or discuss, agree with or criticize, were fought by real human beings, real people, some who lost their lives, some who lost their minds, and some who came back generally incomplete. These are real people.

Yet we discuss them and live our lives as if they are just concepts, as if they were intangible, as if they were not real. But they are and they suffer. They risk their lives for the freedoms of the country and they return to a system that is slow and sometimes totally unhelpful. They are homeless, they cannot get complete healthcare, they lose their jobs, and they are lost in paperwork and apathy.

How is this possible? Of course, there are those who throw their lives away no matter what help they are given, as is true with any group of people in any system, but the system is also insufficient.

I do not think that the United States of America means to ignore the needs of, mistreat, or take for granted the veterans and their sacrifice. I think that the problems of veterans are a product of the general individualistic culture Americans subscribe to. This country, with all its rights, qualities, justices, beauties, and fairness is also a country that does not encourage community the way others around the world do. Maybe because we are so rich, we do not need the close interconnectedness of communities in other countries (because even the poorest of this nation are better off than those in Asia, Africa, Eastern Europe, and everywhere else really).

But I think it is the biggest failure of American culture. We ignore one another. We do not care about one another. When a group needs help, we label it the new red label, "socialism". But what the hell is wrong with socialism? Socialism does not mean unending help for nothing. It is supposed to help people maintain while they strengthen in order to provide for themselves. What is wrong with that? That's a different blog altogether.

If you don't want to take care of the poor, the teenaged moms, the sick, or the disabled, please at least take care of those who fight to give you the right to complain about who you do and don't want your tax dollars spent on.

Super

"Boom Bye Bye" by Buju Banton
...ooman is the greatest ting dat eva put pon the land...

The PJs is my new jawn on television. It is a stop motion show that ran on what was then known as the WB from Januray of 1999 to May of 2001. During the show's tenure, I don't think I was that into it but I have rediscovered in the last few weeks.

It follows the superintendent of a urban development building filled with Black people and immigrants primarily from the US's neighboring islands like Cuba and Jamaica.

There is a character that represents many groups in poor, urban communities, including crackheads. It jovially discusses the tragedies of urban life in its humor. It has the bittersweet quality of a functional communities, friends amongst neighbors, juxtposed against the dreariness that is the life of the poor.

The PJs has a lightness and a simultaneous depth in every punch line, situation, and character. I don't know if the humor is exclusive to poor people of color, as I am not White. But growing up in the culture I have, I wonder if White people get it, especially economically fortuante White people. I wonder if the humor and the tragedy are balanced or if they only see the misery of poverty.

I think it was Sonia Sanchez who wrote a poem about how defining "they" make poverty to be. She explained that they poverty of her beginning does not qualify the success of her later. She happened to be poor economically, but that does not mean her life was lacking in more meaningful ways. I think that is forgotten about the poor.

Michael Eric Dyson (my intellectual lover and these blogs possibly being our love child?) likes to argue that America has entered a stage in which the poor are blamed for being poor. His most poignant point is that despite their station in our economic hierarchy, they are people with dignity, with pride, with heart, with happiness, whole lives, and with potential but missing the opportunity and the resources.

So, I am struggling to remember that despite my mess in life, I am a whole person, with potential . Plus, The PJs is just funny as all hell.

Little Darlin'

"Stir It Up" by Bob Marley

...it's not really about the words this time...but at minute 3:25 starts this melody that stops the earthquake, pushes your life off the edge of death, and gives the solutions an outline at least, which is better than the nothing you had before...

Yesterday I travelled to my third world democracy: the parentals. My Dad has been asking for me to come over and discuss some suggestions he had about my life.

It's funny: suggestions about my life. As if my life is some piece of unfinished art, some uneditted book. But I guess it is. That is exactly what my life is.

He and Mom think it is a good idea that I go home, but home as in Sierra Leone. I think it is a good idea. They think that I should get away from this "toxic America", and I think I agree. I am immeasurably unahppy. I am constantly lonely. My vices are my friends now because my friends are simply inadequate. My friends lack nothing as human beings or as caring friends. I simply do not care about my life enough. However important they say I am in their lives does not translate into a reason to live.

But I know that I should be alive, so I am quite conflicted. I cannot lose anything by going back home for a while. Maybe being away from my vices will help me make more and better friends.

The thing that I worry about though is my Mommy. I do not feel like there is anything to be done to get her back. My pictures are missing from the living room. I know that was her idea. My father would never be that angry. And it is painful. It is that kind of painful that chokes you and makes you cry even when you do not want to. You are simply forced to cry at even the most inopportune of moments.

Funnily, I did not notice my pictures were gone until I was about to leave. It rocked me so hard that I could not even wait for my brother to finish talking to my Dad. I had to go to the car and cry like I had died. My pictures were gone...as if I had died.

I wrote her a letter. I said I missed her. I said I loved her. I apologized. I said I missed her. I cry all the time because I just want to talk to her. And she has removed my pictures.

I cannot just walk away. I cannot just let it go and move on. She is not a mean boyfriend. She is my mother. And my Lima Bean. I have to be in his life so I have to be in her life. The guilt I would feel if I left Lima would kill me so I'll endure the torture that is seeing my mother who does not say a word to me. He is worth it and if I think of this problem in terms of Lima and not Mommy, maybe I will not cry so much.

Because at minute 3:25 of "Stir it Up" until the song goes off, I have the outline of a solution at least, which is better than the nothing I had before...

Keep Me Where the Light Is

"Gravity" by John Mayer
...gravity...is working against me...

I keep doing stupid things. I keep calling him or emailing him or rehearsing a phone call or mentally writing an email. I keep messing up. I keep dragging it on.

I told him that I'm not trying to drag this on. My actions indicate otherwise.

I'm not trying to drag this on. I'm trying to walk away; trying not to make us the end of me. But I keep doing stupid things.

I keep crying; like a bitch. I reprimand myself for crying and then I cry because I reprimanded myself. And then the songs on my iTunes start arguing. Lyfe Jennings hands me a tissue and tells me my tears are cathartic. He says God is counting my tears and will replenish my spent energy with happiness.

Toni Braxton hugs me and says I must let it go. I must let him go. She says that all of him Will escape in my water.

R. Kelly croons that I am sinking to rise no more. And as the cold tears gather around me, I realize I am losing the energy to swim. I'm not going to make it.

Mary J. Blige stays up late with me every night. We cry and scream, cuss and shout, sleep and get some peace of mind, and sit in silence while I go down and pretend not to cry.

John Mayer tells me about myself; calls me out; blows away my smokescreen of lies and sets up the most unforgiving mirror. I get angry and I change the song, but his words are intrusive and relentless.

Lauryn says that love is just like water: replenishing and deadly like shit.

Mariah doesn't do a damn thing but put on her tragedy and make me cry. Then when I begin to reprimand myself, she pushes Jazmine Sullivan on the stage.

Jazmine don't do nothing but tell the truth and spell G-o-s-p-e-l. I am sad when she sings but I dare not cry. I feel like she can hear me and will reprimand me before I can reach for the tissue box that is already soaked from the water I have caught in my hands.

You're Lucky That's All I Did

"Bust Your Windows" by Jazmine Sullivan

I bust the windows out ya car

And no it didn't mend my broken heart

I'll probably always have these ugly scars

But right now I don't care about that part

I bust the windows out ya car

After I saw you laying next to her
I didn't wanna but I took my turn

I'm glad I did it cause you had to learn...

I must admit it helped a little bit

To think of how you'd feel when you saw it

I didn't know that I had that much strength

But I'm glad you see what happens when...

You see can't just play with people's feelings

Tell them you love them and don't mean it

You'll probably say that it was juvenile

But I think that I deserve to smile

I bust the windows out ya car

You know I did it cause I left my mark

Wrote my initials with the crowbar

And then I drove off into the dark

I bust the windows out ya car

You should feel lucky that that's all I did

After five whole years of this bullshit

Gave you all of me and you played with it

Oooh ahh... I must admit it helped a little bit

To think of how you'd feel when you saw it

I didn't know that I had that much strength

But I'm glad you see what happens when...

You see you can't just play with people's feelings

Tell them you love them and don't mean it

You'll probably say that it was juvenile

But I think that I deserve to smile

But it don't comfort to my broken heart

You could never feel how I felt that day

Until it happens baby you don't know pain

Oooh Yeah I did it (Yeah I did it)

You should know it (You should know it)

I ain't sorry (I ain't sorry)

You deserved it (You deserved it)

After what you did to me (After what you did)

You deserved it (You deserved it)

I ain't sorry (I ain't sorry) no no oh... (I ain't sorry)

You broke my heart

So I broke ya car

You caused me pain (You caused me pain)

So I did the same

Even though all that you did to me was much worse

I had to do something to make you hurt yeah

Oh but why am I still cryin'?

Why am I the one whose still cryin'?

Oh oh you really hurt me baby

You really you really hurt me baby

Hey, hey, hey

Hey, hey, hey

now watch me yule

now watch me yule

I bust the windows out ya car...

Emotional Diplomacy

"I Need You Bad" by Jazmine Sullivan
...when you want it so bad...say oh oh oh oh...

So again, I have arrived in negotiation territory, and to be honest, I do not trust my own bargaining skills. For one, I can be, at times, wholly unrealistic. And two, I can be, at times, tragically pessimistic.

The juxtaposition of those two attitudes can sometimes make it impossible for the negotiation enzymes to fit in my life and do their job in making my life better (biological analogies might be my favorite thing to do with my writing).

Nonetheless, I make my offers, good or bad, always walking away feeling good until the deal does not hold up and I am left short or overwhelmed. Rarely, since puberty, has the negotiation of my happiness been close to what I was hoping for, but, be it resilience or ignorance, I still resort to the same negotiation table after less than satisfactory records.

Romantic happiness has been the most elusive, influenced by the ways in which I am damaged and my failed negotiations in other departments of happiness. For example, I am very unhappy with myself and present a lackluster product (broken me) and expect consumers to be satisfied. The disconnect is obvious but the solution is less easily seen.

But no matter what goes wrong, if it is/was my fault or his fault, whether or not I am sure I am ready to even begin negotiations again, or whatever other factors there are to be considered, when the situation presents itself, I am already drawing up contracts of expectation and documents of hope. And, I do so as if I haven't been hurt or as if the hurt did not matter.

But in those moments I was in the worst of pain, I felt as though I would never recover, and somehow, without my conscious effort even, I am reconciled and ready to try again.

My last negotiation fell apart because I was with someone who only wanted to fix me so that I could be good enough for him. There is obviously an inherent problem with that deal because ultimately I am not being "fixed" but being repaired to the standards of someone else. If I were indeed "fixed" to those foreign standards, I would still be broken to myself. I still would not like myself and I would still be unhappy. Consequently, so would the relationship with the person whose standards are being used to "fix" me.

Now, the negotiation is only with myself. I do not expect anything from him other than to listen and respond the way he feels appropriate. I will tell him when and how far I will go and I will even allow myself to be pushed a couple of inches, but I will have final say in the ending destination. In other words, I'm just going to let it flow and say if I can or cannot do something.

And if this doesn't work, I'm lynchin' this fool.

The Way You Make Me Feel

In My Mind by Heather Headly

...he's been through some things and I'm thinkin' he could really use a friend / in my mind...

Clearly, this is a rather racist advertisement (and it is a real American Apparel advertisement). Aside from the fact that it is racist though, it is striking, just aesthetically.

But...what the hell?

Who's idea was this and what is the point of it? What are they advertising exactly? I know that clothes are being advertised but the advertisement has to have the ability to connect the image to the product and make it relevant to the consumer's life. I don't feel like this advertisement is doing any of those things.

Still, while I am mad about the racist content I am stunned, a little, by how beautiful this is. That is a little disturbing that I am offended and mesmerized at the same time.

And who let their daughter pose for this? I assume they must not have noticed the racist overtones bleeding from the page. At least, so I hope, otherwise the tragedy is doubled in size.

I found this image looking for something about Black people in the media for an entry on my other blog and I had to use it. But it was so amazing that I had to comment on it separately. It is rather unbelievable that this is an advertisement is of the 21st century, because I thought racism was extinct. Just kidding.

September 12th

"I Decided" by Solange

I like using this small font. I don't know why exactly but it is much more aesthetic to me. The blog entries I write tend to be rather long and somehow a smaller font seems to consolidate the chaos.

Today is the day after September 11th and I was trying to remember what I was doing, what I noticed, what was going on around me on September 12, 2001. I was 14 at the time and the only thing I can really recall is that my Mom did not want us to tell people that we were Muslim and she would not let us go outside. That was annoying but having grown up, I realize what she was trying to do and I understand.

I remember it took a while before school went back to normal and freshman year of high school ended up being the longest year of my high school career for some reason.

I thought it was interesting that although I forgot that it was the seventh anniversary of the attacks, my blog entry on this particular blog was about planes (be they paper) and democracy (about home life). I didn't mean for that to happen, but once I realized that it was 9/11, it struck me as an unconscious attempt to remind myself. Read Magic Woman if you want to know what I currently think about the whole anniversary, consequent war, and all that.

Third World Democracy

Paper Planes by MIA

The parentals make me feel as though I am crazy, and really, I am. Despite being the victim of my own insanity, I still want my parents approval. I only denied that to myself for a brief moment, years ago.

I thought I was above pining for their approval, but no one is. No one is above pining for approval, period. The audience from whom you seek your approval may be different from the next person's, but the fact remains that you want to be accepted, you and all your bullshit.

So, to the idiots that think I don't know that I want my parents' approval, shut up. I know. Christina and I discussed this last night on my super dope phone and it kind of pissed me off. I don't understand how that is a reason for spilling all my business. But, such is life.

And on the subject of life, I still haven't been able to write that letter to my Old Lady. I have outlines and notes, but nothing cohesive. I just feel like nothing I write is good enough, clear enough, genuine enough, calculated enough, gentle enough to counteract the stupidity of another author. F. man, f. So with each wasted page, I sit and practice making paper planes, throw them around the room and pretend I am on them going to different vacation spots.

Brittany laughs at me and Christina fusses me out via text. No one else could control me like these heffahs. The truth hurts and they pack a punch, but they are right and all our personalities are too strong to back down, so a compromise is always made, which is good. I fix my life, and they get to keep me in theirs.

No one on the corner has swagger like us.

(MIA has been awesome for the past 4 years and I'm upset everyone else is picking up on me and Ravi's girl, because we loved her first, quiet as it's kept. Please believe me.)

Karmic Responsibility

In Love with Another Man: Jazmine Sullivan

This song doesn't apply to me, but it does something to a person that tricks you into thinking that it is somehow relevant to you. And if it is only a little bit true, that makes it all the more convincing.

Especially when she gets to apologizing in the song; it's so heavy and so dramatic, you forgive her even though she's not really talking to you.

And forgiveness is a funny, funny thing. It's fleeting and evasive but always around somewhere, almost as if to tease you.

I feel like I'm being teased. At times, I see it clearly and I forgive and I feel fine. I feel unburdened because anger is a heavy load to bear. Then at other times, when I am giving the solace of my own company, I feel just as bitter and even try to tell myself that I am entitled to my anger.

And I am entitled to it. I am entitled to feeling angry and betrayed but I am not entitled to keep malice on my mind such that I wish bad things for other people.

I am hard of forgiving like folks are hard of hearing. I almost can't do it at all. But I have learned from some people that forgiveness doesn't mean you forget or you are ever fully repaired or you forget how it hurt. It means you let it go. You don't add it to the tally of things done against you in life.

It's hard though because being bitter does taste sweet. But it ain't right.

Flaws & All, Part 4

Henry Ford Hospital, Frida Kahlo (1932)

The last consolation prize I can think of right now is I can get rid of the people who don't agree with that. I can walk away, at any time, from anyone whose help is not actually helpful. I might be damaged, but I'm not irreparable. I might be going down the wrong path, but I can turn around at any time. God does not believe anyone is hopeless.

I was however, angry with God. I feel as though each time I am about to do the "right" thing, I am somehow sabotaged. It was time to tell my mother. It has taken me a year to face the shame and guilt I caused and cause myself and I finally felt it was time to tell her. God knew I was thinking to do it and wanted to.

And I feel as though He should have blocked anyone else from doing it for me. It was important that she hear it from me and in the way I wanted to tell her. I know her. She is the woman who's approval I have pined for my entire life and I knew that news like that is devastating. I imagined the disappointed of hearing such a thing about one's only daughter.

And my poor Daddy. Our relationship has been rocky of late anyway. His frustration has turned into anger and now, I am sure, disappointment or even alarm.

But she needs to know...from me. In a calculated, sensitive, and gentle way, not from a note, a callus list she was never intended to see. Not from a piece of paper that was my personal thinking and mapping, meant to help give ME courage to say it the right way.

My Christina says to tell her anyway; to carry on just as I had planned because God is simply testing how serious I am about improving this existence of mine. And I am serious. I will tell her in the same sensitive and careful way as if she did not know already.

Because ultimately, I can never abandon my mother. For all her missteps, I have matched them, and she has done what she knows how to do. She will always be my mother, but I don't ever have to see him again. So hate on me...

And when a person tells who they are, believe them, all they say and do.

Flaws & All, Part 3

Funnily, I am not angry. I think anger neutralizes resilience and because I must move on with my life, I must pick resilience. It shocks me still, because anger is the emotion I am most familiar with, most ready to run to, and most likely to rely on.

My solace comes from a knowledge that fundamentally, I am a good person. My Christina reminded me that with all my bad decisions, my secrecy, my deceit, etc., never has she known a person to do so much for people without hesitation or invitation.

No matter what I do wrong, I can choose to do things right. That is one of my consolation prizes. Another is that there are people who love me no matter what, bullshit and all, and will not dangle my imperfections over my head in order to reign me in, in order to compel me to be and behave the way they want me to, like some people I have chosen to leave behind did.

My life is still and will always be the sum of my decisions, whether they be wrong or right. At least I have the right to make them. Depression, BPD, etc. gives no one the right to evacuate my life of privacy and does not make investigating my every move permissible. It still is and will always be my life. I exist even without you as you do without me.

Flaws & All, Part 2

Some of my ignorance, I think, is something all people share. Everyone needs and wants someone in their corner. So the people one has decided are reliable and in their corner are scrutinized in a different way. A person wants to believe the best about their family and friends, sometimes even in the face of abject contradiction.

So I believed the best although I knew the worst. Don't they say you may know better but not do better?

The tragedy really lies in denial. When everyone said it wasn't any good for me, and it was proven right, I hung on, not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. I felt like I'd had enough heart break for a lifetime so I didn't want to walk away even when SO many said I should.

Flaws & All, Part 1

Maya Angelou once said that if someone tells you who they are, believe them. I read that quote quite some time ago and I thought it was such a dependable piece of advice.

But I missed the more complex application. When she says "tell" you, she doesn't actually mean speech. A person may not tell you with his or her words who he or she is. Most people simply aren't that honest with themselves or the network of people around them to tell you who they are with their words.

They may give you generic and empty descriptions like "kind" or "thoughtful" or "intelligent" or "outspoken". Those adjectives are subjective. What I consider to be "thoughtful" or "intelligent" may be much different from the definitions another person has. So how, really is anyone any of those aforementioned things?

Of course, there are universal consensus about kindness and humanity and respect. We all agree murder is generally wrong. The difference in opinion come with the subtlies in details, not the big picture.

Nonetheless, rarely is a person emotionally equipped to tell who they really are. His or her true character is revealed in tests. The situations of one's0 life will test and provoke a response and the sum total of those responses will reveal who that person really is.

I missed that. I understand now, but I missed it. I saw someone based on what I heard. I trusted what I heard and overlooked what I saw.