blaqintrovert

I received this card for my 11 year anniversary. It reads:

An Anniversary Promise FOR THE ONE I LOVE

Although I cannot give you everything that you deserve, or always understand you in all the ways you’d like me to – I can promise that I’ll love you all the seasons of my life – and be thankful for the joy of simply sharing them with you. Happy Anniversary

Handwritten beneath are the words: Not enough words can express my feelings towards you!!! Love you very much!

It was a beautiful card. It is a beautiful card that I received and I thanked my husband for the cake that was placed on the counter beside it and kissed him on the lips before I left for work. So why was I still feeling pangs of emptiness inside?

Well, on my actual anniversary date – I had to work a 12 hour shift, overnight so I knew I would not be celebrating much of anything. After getting off at 7:00 in the morning, I went by the grocery store, dreary eyed and tired but picked out a card for my husband so I would at least have something to give him. In my mind, which is my main problem, I envisioned the following occurring:

Coming home to a card on the counter, maybe a balloon or a bouquet of flowers as normal. I knew money was pretty tight because we just blew a lot of our extra cash on some needed expenditures for the house so I wasn’t expecting much and that’s okay. What I was really hoping for (but deep down I knew it would most likely never, ever happen) was acknowledgment on social media. Yes. My husband has 1, 134 friends on Facebook. I have 383. We spend a ridiculous amount of time on social media, between Facebook, Instagram and Twitter – we definitely interact with our social media “friends” and family on the daily basis. So what I was expecting was acknowledgement, in a post, that said something special about me, our marriage, our family, our friendship, our love, our commitment, our trials, our highlights, our successes, our failures, our ups and our downs, our highs and our lows, our good times and our bad times, our son, our daughter, our village, our friends – just a note of blessing and thankfulness for our life together in some way, shape or form.

But that didn’t happen. I did get a Happy Anniversary greeting and after I gave him his card, I went to outside to pain the front porch. Yes really. After painting for a few hours, I decided I needed to go to bed because I had to pull another 12 hour overnight shift – so I kind of thought – well, he received his card from me – maybe this will trigger him to share a post about me? After checking my FaceBook a few times and seeing no spikes in my notifications, I knew he hadn’t done shit. So I went to bed – mad. After waking up after having slept on that disappointment, I showered, dressed and prepared to go to work. I spent a few minutes with the kids before I left and literally did not say shit to him as I left. Maybe the silent treatment will sink in. Leaving the house in a bit of a slow simmer rage, I decided to pump some Future “Same Damn Time” as loud and as ignorant as I possibly good as I left the house. Why you ask? So he would know – this is mighty unusual behavior for her – what gives? Hmmmm, maybe I should ask her. Or maybe-I-should-post-something-for-our-anniversary-even-though-it’s-already-6:00-in-the-evening.

After driving to work and sitting on this anger, I decided after an hour or so of being at there that I needed to say something to his ass. Prior to that, I googled ‘what to do if someone fails to wish you a happy anniversary on social media’ because I knew damn well I wasn’t the only one. Sure enough, there were some posts from men and women with their takes on whether this is actually necessary or not. The main takeaway I read was ‘it’s only important to post about significant events if it’s important to that person’. Well hell yeah – it’s important to me and with that, I called him on the phone and let him know exactly how I felt.

I explained to him that my anniversary was ruined because it was not celebrated in any way shape or form. Nothing. I couldn’t even get a Happy Anniversary from my husband of 11 years on Facebook. Nothing. I told him I felt like throwing my ring in the damn trash. That I wasn’t some teenager looking for attention – I am a grown woman and so is he. We spend hours on social media daily and for him to not take 2 seconds to post something about me was terrible. I harangued him for not even telling the kids to wish me Happy Anniversary properly. I mean, he couldn’t even make it special for them. I told him that if he didn’t love me or feel that this date was important – because remember, he asked me to get married – I didn’t ask him; then maybe we could go our separate ways. Yes, I went there.

When I was finished ranting – because he was perfectly quiet during the entire spill, he responds with this:

“I’m sorry. I love you. I have no excuse for not posting something. Can you accept my apology?”

“Uhmmmmm. No, I cannot accept your apology and I’m really taken aback that you don’t have a reason. That’s really worrisome to me. ”

“You don’t accept my apology?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Well I remember a few months ago I posted something and a lot of people thought it was our anniversary back then and they made a lot of comments and I just didn’t want to confuse people again but…that’s really not a good reason, is it? You’re right. I am a grown man. I should have said something but now if I do it, it will be insincere. I’m sorry I ruined your day. You really do not accept my apology?”

“No.”

So there you have it. That is the real reason I received a beautiful anniversary card, a day late, along with a cake for my anniversary. Still no acknowledgement of any sort on FaceBook but what I can do about that now? Nothing.

To put everything in context, my marriage is a good one. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in world to be honest. I feel like I’ve won the lottery as far as relationships are concerned, but I’m still dealing with collection agencies – and that my friends is why this situation makes so sense. Our marriage is full, vibrant and fun. There should be no reason why that can’t be celebrated and for the life of me, I will never probably understand why every birthday, every mother’s day and every anniversary I have this same conversation with myself. I have this continued disappointment. I have to take several days to get over this disappointment before I can get back to ‘normal’. Inevitably I get retrospective and think there is something wrong with me? I’m too fat, too old, too this or too that for him to want to celebrate me in a post with maybe a picture or two. If he were proud of me, he’d celebrate me, right? At least give me a shout of for being the mother to his children, right? Why would someone not acknowledge that?

So to conclude this venture down a memory lane I’d much rather forget – I just want to encourage other couples to celebrate each other. I see too many RIPS and I miss you to folks celebrating Heavenly Birthdays and Anniversaries. Celebrate those you love while they are still alive. It sounds simple, but truly, if it’s important to them, by all means, do it. It’s the cheapest most gratifying gift you can ever give someone. Give them their flowers now. Words from the heart are what I deserve. Words from the heart is the perfect way to gain my understanding. Maybe he’ll give it a try next year. Maybe I’ll be less focused on what he posts next year and greatly appreciate his actions. Posting is an action though, right? LOL It’s a verb people! There I go again…Mrs. Can’t Let Shit Go.

Until next time peeps…pray for a sistah.

 

 

 

My Loc Journey has been quite the trip. I’ve always wanted locs, inspired more by fashion and the style of the 1990’s in beautiful and strong Black women like Lauren Hill and Lisa Bonet but since style was my motivating factor back then, I went in an entirely different direction.

I decided to cut my hair extremely short, feeling a connecting to Brownstone’s Nicci Gilbert and the character “Clarke” played by Cynda Williams from ‘Mo Betta Blues’. I liked the simply stated sexiness of a short do and wanted to accentuate my facial features and strong chin by going short. Eventually, I grew tired of keeping it that length and wanted to challenge myself and see just how long my hair would actually grow if I left it alone. During this time of growth, I experimented to several bobs, blunt, inverted and the Chinese bob. Soon, my life and lifestyle became complicated as I grew older. I was trying to establish my independence after an unsuccessful relationship and really just needed to take care of me. My hair could wait.

This philosophy of putting my hair second, third and sometimes fourth of my personal things to tends to – I wound up growing out pretty long hair, definitely down my back and past my bra strap that I mostly wore in a bun or a ponytail. If I wanted to be fancy, I would do the old faithful Pocahantas style – or “Brokahontas” as my husband would tease me. I enjoyed my length when it was “still” but I abhorred the wind to blow and have it blowing all in my face or take it in directions that had me looking like an idiot. Growing up in a majority white town, I refused to flick my hair like ‘Jan Brady’ or mimic any kind of hair etiquette that would allow anyone to presume I “thought I was white” or “acting white” so half the damn time, I’d let my hair fly all over my damn head looking like a complete fool because I didn’t want to do anything that looked like a ‘Becky’! I have to laugh at myself because I was so self-conscious but hey, that’s me! Eventually, it just became easier to wear the ponytails and buns and not worry about it. I quite a while I still continued to get relaxers, 90% of the time doing it myself at home and mostly getting a kiddie perm. Just for Me was my favorite because it was quick, simple and worked like a charm. Thank goodness I evolved.

Chris Rock produced a film called Good Hair back in 2009 and it changed my life. I realized that as a Black woman I needed to stop getting perms and stop patronizing the Asian dominated beauty supply stores. Asian owned is inspiring but Asian dominated to repressive and represents a huge culture vulture for Black women. So I decided to go relaxer-free in 2012. Yes, it still took me awhile but I finally made the decision to go natural and transition after viewing the YouTube video Aron Ranen’s Black Hair Documentary. I felt an obligation to not contribute to an industry – the black beauty supply industry – that made it so difficult for actual Black women to be an owner and not just the consumer. My personal ban on Asian owned beauty supply companies began at this time as well as the fire that rose up in me in 2012 also. Trayvon Martin.

The murder of Trayvon Martin awakened me. I’ve always been aware of social injustice and racism. I’ve been a social warrior for justice since high school when my friends and I organized a club called S.H.O.U.T which stood for Students Hopes & Outcries United Together. Together with my friends we advocated for respect, equality and a dismantling of overt, covert, micro and institutional racism in education. So my awareness level has always been high. I did not wear rose-colored glasses though. I could identify a coon just as quick as I could recognize a racist buckra. So when Trayvon Benjamin Martin was murdered by George Zimmerman on February 26, 2012 – I was woke. The term woke has come to mean to me – awareness, action and accountability. I made it my mission to be aware of what happening within the Black community in America, my state, and my city. I vowed to be active and take action physically or monetarily to support the causes that uplift the Black community toward liberation. I held my self-accountable to my fellow brothers and sisters in the diaspora to support Black business, causes, creativity that uplift Black men, women and children 24/7, 365 days a year. I did not have this commitment prior to February 26, 2012.

I enjoyed a decade of between 1992 and the LA Riots and 2002 post 9-11 where I was living in more diverse areas, experiencing the west coast of the United States and seeing and receiving love and compassion from all sorts of nationalities and ethnic groups. I believe I experienced the American Melting Pot or the American Salad Bowl during this time and I ingratiated myself into my environment and embraced it. If I was shown love and respect, I gave love and respect. My personal life was in shambles but my friendships and career was blossoming and growing stronger every day. The decade from 2002 to 2012 was truly a different kind of time and I dedicated my entire life to my relationship with my partner (and soon to be husband in 2007). We met in 2003 and he changed my life completely. I can honestly say I feel in love with him as soon as I saw him. Not in lust. Not in like but in love. We didn’t immediately begin our relationship as both of us hand some loose strings to cut off. I had to make a decision to stop dating and pursue this man and truly I put all my eggs in one basket. Thankfully, that basket of eggs hatched in marriage and a baby carriage! Our son was born in 2008. Our daughter in 2010. I became a stay at home mother to our children and it was one of the best decision that I’ve ever made. Yes, I postponed my career. Yes, I knew our finances would be tight but I decided that my little family was all that important and my children deserved to their mother home with them – if at all possible. My husband provided and worked hard and showed us every day what a wonderful husband and phenomenal father he was. The love he has for our children is tangible, he shows it, he tells them, he proves it and it’s the most honestly loving relationship between a parent and child that I have ever personally witnessed – including the relationship I had with my own parents. He is a kid’s Dad. A Dad’s Dad and I’m blessed. But even he was changed on February 26, 2012.

Trayvon Martin was only 17 years old when he was killed. He was visiting his father in Sanford Florida and wanted to walk from his father’s apartment complex to the corner store to buy a Snapple and some Skittles. As he was returning home, he was profiled by George Zimmerman – a buckra who was overtly racist and decided that Trayvon did not belong in “his” community so he called 911 to report him to police as the potential home burglary suspect who had robbed some apartments in that area. Why was he suspected of this crime? He was Black. Dassit. Trayvon was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood attached which apparently was over his head as he walked home – not knowing he was being profiled. The 911 dispatcher told George Zimmerman to stand down. Do not follow him. Stay in your car and wait until police arrived. George Zimmerman did not listen. He decided to follow Trayvon and as he did, had his weapon on him. See, George Zimmerman was the community’s self-appointed neighborhood watch captain and he took it upon himself to surveil his apartment complex and he took this self- appointed responsibility dead seriously.

As Trayvon walked him, he quickly became aware he was being followed and since he was on the cell phone with his friend, he told her so. Eventually, the two made contact with one another as George Zimmerman confronted Trayvon or Trayvon confronted George Zimmerman. Either way – the self-professed armed neighbor watch captain and the 17-year old son of Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin and the younger brother of Jahavaris Fulton interacted. A scuffle unfolded, screams were heard and shots were fired killing Trayvon. Dead on the sidewalk – in between two apartment buildings lied the child of Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin. The younger brother of Jahavaris. Trayvon could have been my son. He could have been my husband. He could have been any Black male in my family or a friend. His very existence was snuffed out forever by a buckra, a racist who eventually was acquitted of murder based on Florida’s Stand Your Ground law. So the message from February 26, 2012 was clear to me. It was time to wake up. It was time to recognize that our very lives can be snuffed out in a blink of an eye – by any buckra – at any time, any place and anywhere and the American justice system will view this as acceptable. Never taking into account racism. Allowing racists to dominate the juries and the prosecution offices. Racism running rampant throughout the court system, the police department, local, state and federal government. Racism embedded in the neighborhoods where we live. The stores where we shop. The racially segregated churches we don’t attend (white churches) the school we matriculate through and the places where we work. 2012 was a defining year for me in that my socially conscious spirit and Blackness became my strength and my source of immense pride and I was viciously protective of my Black culture and my people.

Old things became old. I experienced a transformation where I began to question every damn thing. First out the gate was my religion and my relationship with Christianity. I found myself having unanswered questions. Why was there two cemeteries? One Black, one white? Why was there a White Jesus in very bible in every church – everywhere? Why was there verses in the bible that pertained to masters and slaves? Why did slavery last so long? I just needed answers so I began to study. I began to listen and I began to learn. I decided that I could question the bible. I should question my religion and I should follow my conscious to find the answers I was looking for and guess what? I found them.

I listened to Ashra Kwesi. Malcom X. Marcus Garvey. The master teachers. Dr. John Henrik Clarke. Dr, Frances Cress Welsing. Dr. Yosef Ben-Jochannan. I listened to spiritual leaders. Ray Hagins and conscious educators such as Anthony Browder. I’ve explored General Sara Suten Seti and Young Pharaoh. My interest in African culture and history is thriving. My deeper sense of my ancestors and those that came before is growing. I’m fully engrossed in The American Slave Coast written by Ned Sublette and Constance Sublette as I learn more about true American history and the story of my ancestors. I began to meditate on the my family’s names that have come and gone – John Oats, Martha Coles, Golden Coles, Addie Golden Coles, Jeanetta Dabney, Joe Harris, Hugh Harris, Pauline Jackson, Grace Brooks, Louise Fernandez, Margaret Page and Helen Wesley. My maternal grandparents Rosa Harris and Joseph Henry Harris, Sr. whom I’ve never meet. My aunt, Frances Harris and my two little first cousin nieces who perished in the fire of 1955 that claimed my grandmother Rosa as well as her daughter – and my aunt, Frances. The way was paved for me, friends and my roots were calling.

Looking in the mirror, I saw a Black skin woman with textured hair that could get as straight – if not straighter – than some buckras. I saw a Black skin woman with a natural that revealed the obvious signs of race mixing with no explanation in sight – other than from rape. The softness of my hair was the fruit born from some interracial exchange, between someone, on both sides of my family. This outward display of lighter Black skin has been used as a weapon to divide Black people – one from the other. The softness of my hair used to be a weapon that made wives worthy of marriage proposals and taking up space in the bed of some grimy slave holder. The melanin that I do possess is what makes me African. The melanin that you do see is from my African ancestors that refused to give up so that I may stand here. Their melanin is what you see. Their lives is what I want to uplift. Their sacrifice is what I want to honor. My roots are calling me. The roots on my head were calling me to recognize them. So I listened. I became aware, I acted and I held myself accountable. I have abandoned all traces of Eurocentricity. I am fully embracing my Africaness. My Blackness. My locs. My loclife journey started Wednesday, July 18 at 9:00 AM. I desire is that my ancestors are pleased.