I Got Nothing But Gifs For You Baby

I know as a black femme woman I’m supposed to be here for Azalea Banks but I can’t. She’s that one skinny girl from the projects who kept fucking with the boys until one popped her in the mouth. Like I feel bad that she got spit on but I have better places to put my anger. She totally needs to go sit all the way down. Can we order her into counseling? Some is direly needed.

Some people lose Facebook friends over who they’re voting for. I lose Facebook friends over people calling me stupid over who I’m voting for. I don’t even say a thing just *unfriend* or *unfollow* they’ll notice six months from now when my likes are missing from the pics of their new kitten.

Speaking of Kanye did he really say that Jay-Z and his kids don’t play together? Maybe because like cousin Azalea up top Kanye is always in some shit. My mama used to kill plenty of friendships of mine because the friend was too messy. #YouAreWhoYouHangWith 

I’m so over this damn election cycle. If I only had two fast forwards left in my fast forward bank I’d totally fast forward to the day before Thanksgiving. I need time to bake my pies. 

I love my wife. I love my child. #Simple

If I ever become a name dropper please slap me and remind me of this post. *curtsies* Thanks in Advance 



I’ve just returned from a writer’s retreat with one of my favorite writers in the world. We  worked on our respective projects in a townhouse in Orlando. 2.5 days of uninterruptedness focused solely on doing the work, on writing.

For me a part of writing is the unpacking of things. The novel that I’m currently working on is set in a fictionalized version of the town where my father is from in Southern NJ.

In the beginning of the story I’m nostalgic. I miss the Custard Ranch and Lake Nummy. I want to take my family there. At the Climax of the story I realize that I have all of these reasons why I never go to the family reunion, how I’m always too busy or “want to remember them how they were when they were alive” for funerals, and I realize that I haven’t really been back to my father’s town since the night that I was raped, in my aunt’s home, in my cousin’s bed. How that night pretty much changed everything. How my father’s reaction was the first time anyone broke my heart and how it taught me that no matter who says that they will always have my back, I can always only depend on me.

How after that night I haven’t spoken to my cousin since:
1: she didn’t believe me
2: she was naked in her bed so why did her man come and destroy me.

I realize that these thoughts too are rape culture.

I realize that that night in my father’s town was my introduction to rape culture and how it was the final lesson on why as a woman child I needed to learn to disappear.

I watch this election cycle and witness rape apologists question why Drump’s rape victim waited until she was an adult when the allegation happened when she was thirteen and I want to yell at them that the reason she waited all of this time doesn’t matter. Hell I told and not much happened to him. A person can have cuts and bruises on her vagina and people will still figure out a way to make the incident that person’s fault.

See the Stanford Victim.
See the women in the Holtzclaw case.
Witness the questions.

What were you wearing?
What were you drinking?
Did you laugh with him?
Like Nate Parker’s victim had the two of you been intimate in the past?
Why were you at the party, the club, his house, your aunt’s house.
Why were you doing whatever you were doing that made it possible for him/her/them to do what they did?
 The burden of the proof for alleged rape is on the complainant and anything that they say or do or don’t do or wear will be used against them in a court of law. 

Anything that they say or do or don’t do will be judged on the internet by a jury of the world. Their name and address may be leaked on Fox News.

After that night It would be many years before I would wear a bikini. I never drank in excess, especially if I wasn’t around a shit ton of people who could protect me. I didn’t experiment with drugs. Always walked to my car with one key sticking out of my fist. Took self defense classes. I was leary of all men and most women. I wouldn’t dress provocatively for many years- remember when I was in that jeans and t-shirt phase for a long ass time? That and so many things came out of that night.

A night when I went to sleep a teenager wearing a long nightgown and awoke to someone already inside of me. A temptress with perky breasts and no panties on. A night that taught me that the police don’t have the rape victim’s back in the ways portrayed on Law and Order. A night that would eventually lead to the first heartbreak of my life when my father didn’t believe me. Where I lost one of my best friends. Isn’t that a Facebook meme? How a cousin is your first best friend?

Writing is supposed to be cathartic but I didn’t enter the writing of this story hoping to get any relief from the events of my past. I’m a Landmark Grad. I’m over that. Or so I thought.  I went in to the writing of this story hoping to write a story about a girl who gets raped and portray the way the adults act in a manner that shows adults how they should respond to girls who are victimized in their lives.

I hoped to raise awareness.

I hoped to show other girls that they aren’t alone. To inspire them to tell someone. If that person doesn’t respond appropriately, to tell someone else. (I find that teachers are great people to tell. They will tell some shit and back you all the way up.)

I hoped so many things  that authors hope when they write novels centered on true events, mostly about lessons, and I still do. But now, I also hope to get the courage to go to my father’s hometown. To take my family to buy chicken tenders and french fries from the Custard Ranch with honey mustard. To convince AB to swim in the lake even though it is not the clear blue water that she prefers to swim in. To introduce DJ to cousins whose entire adult lives I’ve missed. To take back the power from my rapist. Because he did rape me. And  I did wake up with him already on top of me. Already inside of me. And I deserve to get back every single thing that he took on that day.


Gratitude List 10.13.16

  1. My alarm sounds like the theme music from from a nineties video game. When it goes off AB complains that it is not soothing enough. I tell her that I don’t care. She proceeds to jump around our bedroom as if she is Mario from Super Mario Brothers making the noises, acting as if she ate a mushroom and has grown, and just being an all around character. A. She taught me to not care about certain things. B. I wish to be as free as she is but just watching her be free is plenty good for me. For now.
  2. Darian is oversleeping in his bedroom which is next to ours. He is alive, loved, and comfortable.
  3. Snapchat, it’s filters, my best friend’s stories.
  4. My mother’s hilarity and our text messages.
  5. On Sunday my father kissed my cheek and refrained from lecturing me on how to lose weight. I’m losing it. I obviously have it covered. I think he gets that.
  6. Today is the first day of my writer’s retreat. I plan to write, and write, and write, and write. With a little editing and planning thrown in for balance.
  7. My grandmother is alive she has lived through so many things and I’m getting better at preparing myself for when she is ready to be done with this earth.
  8. Friends who come to your job just to hug you and kiss your cheeks. Those are the best kinds.
  9. Cyn. Mystical, Warrior, Woman; full of grace and knowledge.
  10. That gospel song that goes “Woke me up this morning started me on my way.” that one. That happened.
  11. Love. It’s all we need.

10 Random Things 10.12.16

1. I’ve been feeling really guilty lately. For being alive, for being depressed, for complaining about this hole in my roof while being lucky enough to have a roof over my head. And friends who come over and tarp it without you asking them to.

2. Darian is 5’6″ tall, when I found out I was really excited. He’s growing. He’s taller than both of his moms and the same height as his dad. Then I realized that he’s 5’6″ and in this country he could be mistaken for a man. A black man. So he went from being officially the same height as his dad to officially public enemy number one in a matter of moments. All in my head. Where I keep the things I dare not say. 

3. I really really really fucking want this fellowship. Like stupid dumb crazy want. AB says that since I’ve applied I need to move on and work on the other writing things that I need to be working on and to give those things my focus. Which I have. But I’m also internally fretting over whether I will get it or not. 

4. I wish that I were closer to my siblings. Sometimes being in my self appointed isolation gets old. 

5. Candida is the devil.

6. My grandma is lying to me about her cancer. She keeps saying that everything is wonderful while she is losing weight and showing other signs of deconditioning. I love her dearly for those lies.

7. I allowed myself to start wanting things. I now feel like I am in a perpetual state of wantingness. (I am aware that I just made that word up.)

8. I’m tired of being so aware of my blackness. It’s 2016. The promise was that we would be so much further by now. They lied.

9. I really want some ice cream. See number 5. Life.

10. I’m reading Small Great Things by Jodie Picoult. So far it is amazeballs. I hope she doesn’t fuck this up. 

Love, peace, and hair grease. 


Diversity Must Start At Home

Currently there is a lot of attention being paid to the lack of diversity in the Tim Burton directed Ms. Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children. As a constant reader I have read and enjoyed these books for years and was not surprised at the lack of brown faces on the screen. There aren’t any people of color in the books. Why? One would have to ask the writer. The stories are fictional books about children who do everything from be invisible,  float, eat through a second mouth in the back of their heads, to emit fire from their hands; surely with an imagination that can create these characters some of them could have easily been a shade of brown.

Even more astonishing; the novels are set in a fictional version of Wales. Where is Wales? The United Kingdom. Are there black people in the Wales, UK? Yup. For the record black and brown people are everywhere.

So if this is true and people write what they know then why is there such an abysmal lack of diversity in books, movies, and television. Why is there always only one black person or Asian person included in these settings? And then why are those people usually comic relief or the villain? (See there’s a black person. And some potentially brown people. Their villains.)miss-peregrines-home-for-peculiar-children-poster-banner


Simple: The people who get chosen to write movies- the directors, casting agents, financiers, decision makers, screen play writers-the authors who get chosen to have their novels first published and then made into movies; are usually white. Are usually male and they were usually raised in a home in a place with at best one black family or one Asian family-with one other family. Thus we end up with a world whose entertainment is written by people who don’t know how to write other because they don’t know other.

As long as white people continue to love segregation (Thirty years after the civil rights era, the United States remains a residentially segregated society in which blacks and whites still often inhabit vastly different neighborhoods.) the lack of diversity in their lives, the lives chosen so frequently to be portrayed in the media- will continue to exist. Thus the lack of diversity in media will continue to exist.

How do we fix this? Simple: We give publishing contracts and publish books written by POC. We hire POC directors,screenwriters, casting agents, financiers, and decision makers. Who will then hire POC talent. But As long as a small segment of the people continue to be in control the rest of us will always be left out.

Oh and if you’re wondering if I’ll watch the movie, I will. I’ll just wait until it comes out on Netflix. I’m the best silent protester I know. Don’t include me? Cool. But you won’t be getting my money.



I’ve been awake since 4am. Funny enough I didn’t go to bed until after midnight. I wasn’t doing anything important like editing my poetry manuscript which I’ve just received from my editor or paying bills. I wasn’t doing anything fun or anything that felt good. I was arguing.

My arguments are interesting in that I don’t argue very much. I’ve never felt like I was one of those people who could, in the heat of an argument, get my feelings or facts out in a very eloquent way. In fact my arguments (I’ve been told) are reminiscent of a four year old, I raise my voice, I sway back and forth, I punch the covers. I can’t get out what I need to for the other person to understand me. My verbal communication is trash. A whole fucking dumpster of flaming dog shit. And it physically hurts. Hence the reason why I don’t do it very often.

So I argued until midnight, went to bed, and awoke at 4 am. Since then I’ve been sitting around thinking what I could have said better, how I could’ve said it better, or better yet how I could’ve avoided an argument in the first damn place. You see, we don’t argue. We have probably had four arguments in as many years. For a number of reasons. Mostly because I see something I don’t like and I adapt to it. I deal with it on my own. For two reasons:

1. I don’t believe that adults can change their behaviors. They have had these same behaviors for most of their lives and a lover or a friends annoyance or uncomfortability isn’t really going to change that.

2. I question every single thing that  happens. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the way I reacted to that. Maybe I should’ve done this differently. Maybe I should’ve done that differently. Yadda. Yadda. Blah blah blah. I attribute most things that go wrong in my life to myself. I am responsible for my own experience and all that jazz.

Yes I know I created the word uncomfortability and just slipped it in there like you wouldn’t realize it. *shrugs*

I do question though, how much another person is responsible for when it comes to another person that they are in a relationship with be it romantic or not. Do you owe your spouse a modicum of understanding when it comes to most things? Should  you try to gauge whether your friend is comfortable about a thing? Especially when they are exhibiting signs that things are not a ok.

What say you?


Because Sometimes You Need To Spill Your Guts To Everyone You Know And Some You Don’t.

I just want to write and write and read and write and read some more. And since I’m me of course, I want to read some more. And since today was such a shitty fucking day I blame my mother.


Because on shitty days I remember that I wanted to be a writer and a teacher and while I’ll admit that I would’ve been a horrible teacher-I cant decide whether I selectively like children or not- I would’ve been a great writer. Prolific. Genius level. Or so I think. Who knows.

We certainly won’t ever and for that, I blame my mom. Like most black mothers she told me that I needed to become a nurse or something that would pay well so that I could take care of myself. So of course I secretly vowed not to. Only to do exactly that.

So when today was a shitty day becuase my partner wasn’t very partnerish and I got sucky news about a writing thing that I was really looking forward to, I spent most of my day sobbing about the fact that I would rather have been a struggling writer and went to some shitty as liberal arts school so that I could have at least known what it was like to be what I want to be most, a trained writer.

I also vented to one of my best friends for an hour only to be informed that I have “white people problems” translation rich people problems. (No my ass is not rich.) So let’s say first world problems. I did laugh when he said it because I’m not silly, I realize in the midst of my breakdown that three black men have died this week and America is losing it’s mind over whether disobeying a police officer is reason enough to die. And maybe that’s why I’m feeling so stuck, so tired of doing shit that doesn’t make me all the way happy, because life is so fucking short. Even more short when you’re black and a woman.

Regardless, in this moment I am miserable, whiskey and apple juice does not cure anything, and I just want to write, and write, and write some more. And maybe sleep.


Travel Chronicles Act I

Laguardia Airport. There’s a Spanish lady white shirt, black pants, sensible black shoes. She’s driving a Toyota SUV. She’ll get you to wherever you’re going. It’s going to cost you $75. She doesn’t give a solitary fuck if you take her up on this offer. 

Her face says “Don’t give me no shit. Take it or leave it. The price is the price.” 

She’s appealed to a woman who follows behind her like a puppy waiting for her to get enough riders to make this trip worthwhile. The group of Asian ladies are not here for this lady, her brash demeanor, and they’re really not here for the $75 a piece. $75 times 5? No.

There’s a guy. White. Black suit, white shirt, leather computer bag. Typical New York business man. He’s not here for her shit but he needs a ride. 

“Sir, it’s gonna be an hour ride. I’ll get you there. You wanna go or Not?” She pauses in her steps barely momentarily as she allows him to make up his mind. She has shit to do. He follows. They leave. 

On Things We Should Never Forget

Sundays at the beach:I read articles, blog, and write.

She meets random people who invite her to do Acroyoga. 

I am both astonished at the beauty of life and because today is 9/11, I am also disgustingly aware of my privilege. 

I hope as people change their profile pictures to reflect on how we will Never Forget that they’re not smiling. Idk, there’s something that just doesn’t sit well with my soul every time something terrible happens and the Internet becomes flooded with smiling profile pictures, boobs up, hats cocked, teeth shining with banners across the bottom talking about how they stand with Paris, Syria, New York. 

I reflect on how the same people who can understand that 9/11 should be remembered yearly can get angered about the fact that people of color in this country are still being killed over misdemeanors and demanding (begging) to have fair treatment. (I.E if my brother is accused of a crime please just take him to jail, don’t kill him before her gets to see a judge, and don’t sentence him to a thousand years of prison labor for stealing a swisher sweet.)

Even though We The People are supposed to have the right to a fair trial. And since we don’t Colin, and whoever else should (can) do whatever they can/want to draw attention to the injustices that their people are still facing. I mean isn’t that the purpose of changing your profile pic in solidarity. To draw attention? Or is that something else that’s only reserved for certain people? 

And since I’m on the beach thinking of priviliges that are reserved for certain people I’m reminded that 63 years ago I couldn’t have even come to this beach
I’m reminded of all of the many reasons we still have so much further to go and I hope that we get a lot further a lot faster. And I pray that too many people don’t lose too much to get us there. 

Sundays on the beach. I’m privileged. I watch random men throw my wife around acrobatically. I enjoy the breeze. I listen to Sean sang about how One Man Can Change The  World. And I hope that one man can. Or one woman can. And I hope that they do it soon.


Same Stuff Different Day

I’m still nursing. People come in and sit around fidgeting while they wait for their issues to be diagnosed. Sometimes, when appropriate I make them laugh. I relate to them. I let them know that this isn’t anything that any of us really want to deal with.

In my head, as all nurses do, I diagnose them: rheumatoid arthritis, liver problems, diabetes. I don’t say anything even when they begin to share their ailments because we all take the vow not to diagnose people. No matter how much training we have we aren’t skilled enough to diagnose people.

It’s the same. I’m not a doctor. I’m not a mechanic. I don’t tell them that I think that their brakes are bad or that what they’re describing sounds like their power steering pump is going out.

I use my training to  let trained people do what they are trained to do and when they give me the go ahead I break the bad news. I sit next to people or I stand behind the counter, depending on what the customer needs. I try to break it to them easily, gently. No one wants to hear that their compressor, the heart of the ac system isn’t working. No one wants to hear that because they didn’t come in for their regularly scheduled check ups a simple thing has gotten out of control and they now need a new rotor, transmission, engine.

I’m still nursing. I left nursing but I am still nursing. Still taking care of people.