Letter from An Angry Black Woman

We grew up exposed, witnessing and experiencing things we were too young to adequately process, without protection and defense, vulnerable and on display. We watched our women, your women, our mothers, sisters, aunts, and cousins, endure hardship after hardship with stern and steady faces. We saw our Grandmothers, your Grandmothers, on bending knee, daily, praying for our families' deliverance and holding on to faith when all that abound was captivity and despair. We kept weary eyes on our mothers, your mothers, as they balanced life strained by stress, weighed by pressures, and silently suffering from untreated traumas. We loved you, our brothers, like second mothers, sacrificing for you, carrying a hope in our bellies and a fear in our chests for you, wanting you to succeed and beat every obstacle we knew would be in your path. And, we still had enough courage to love. We endured loss after loss, and we still had enough gumption risk ourselves.

And your frustration is that we were hardened in that process?  Hell yeah, we are harder. We were absolutely toughened, and many of us are still processing those experiences and the hurt and anger that accompanied them.

How is that you, our men, our black men---our fathers, sons, brothers, uncles, cousins, husbands, and partners---lack so much understanding and compassion for our experience? You witnessed, firsthand, the cyclical disappointments that shaped our countenance. They were, afterall, the same experiences and disappointments that shaped you, for better and for worst.

Do you still want to make corrections?

Every day it's something new.
There's so much confusion between us two.
It's not all me; it's not all you.
Neither of us know what to do,
But we both realize we're too much to lose.

Can I make a suggestion?

Let's blur the noise; focus on this truth:
You love me, and I love you.
Let's make love felt til we're both renewed
And create an intimacy that leaves no room.
We can make our relationship bloom
By loving each other enough to actually improve.

I need you to answer this question...

Zumba Meltdown

On Sunday, I decided to give Zumba a shot. I went to class on Monday and Tuesday, and I planned to go this morning. I woke up on time. I got dressed. I walked out the door, heading to a Zumba toning class. Then, I turned around.

I talked myself out of it!

I enjoyed the first two days of Zumba. I really did. I know it burned calories and caused me to break a sweat, but I am the most uncoordinated person. (I break every stereotype about black people and dancing.) In the past, all dancing I've participated in involved lots of vodka, but liquid courage probably would not be a good idea in this case. (Or would it? No, it definitely would be disastrous. Damn!)

I'm sitting at home, beating myself up for not going to class, and I almost burst into tears. I was having a full meltdown about Zumba. Why? I can't tell you. Maybe I'm sensitive. Maybe I'm dramatic. Maybe I'm just a "strange little man." (Please see Toy Story if you're unfamiliar with this reference.) Maybe it's because no one can bring me to tears like I can. In any case, it is not that serious.

One day of lost courage is not worth ripping myself to shreds and discounting my progress. I had to remind myself to calm the fuck down, have a laugh at my expense, and carry on. I'm about to go to the gym, get on a stationary bike, give it all I have, and be proud of myself for not wasting this morning. And, I will be back in Zumba on Friday horrifying the friendly class who's probably not horrified at all.

P.S.
Have a good morning of being kind to self!

Taste and Preferences

We give too much credence to people's opinions. No one's preferences have bearing on our quality, worth, character, or beauty, and we should not allow ourselves to be pressured into competition with others or conformity to societal standards of femininity, masculinity, and beauty. Some people prefer diamonds; others prefer rubies, emeralds, pearls, etcetera. I prefer opal. None of these gems lose their value or desirability because of our taste and preferences. (I wish I had accepted this as a teenager!) Let's all get a firm "Like what you like, homie! Your preferences do not impact my talent, gifts, productivity, and overall fabulousness" and live life accepting our worth is intrinsic not imparted.

Understand you are not for everyone, and you're not supposed to be!

Have a goodnight, Kings & Queens. 👑

P.S.
Damn, I'm "brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous."

"There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same."
- @mariannewilliamson

Book Review: Milk and Honey

Turn to the last page of Milk and Honey, and you will find the "about the book" section which reads: 

"Milk and Honey is a collection of poetry about love, loss, trauma, abuse, healing, and femininity. It is split into four chapters. Each chapter serves a different purpose, deals with a different pain, heals a different heartache. Milk and Honey takes readers through a journey of the most bitter moments in life and finds sweetness in them because there is sweetness everywhere if you are willing to look."

Rupi Kaur certainly delivers. Each page, every poem, made a connection. I cried. I laughed. I sympathized. I exclaimed. When it was all over, I sighed. This is the book I wish I had navigating life as a teenage girl; it is a book I am grateful to have found as a young woman. Milk and Honey is something to be appreciated for its honesty, boldness, and ability to reach the reader in his/her most tender places. 

For me, personally, I am a better writer for having embarked on this "journey of surviving through poetry."  It took me back to the place I travelled to with Dr. Maya Angelou's And Still I Rise, and I was a delighted reader. For all lovers of poetry and anyone who desires an artistic rouse, Milk and Honey is a must read.

Not so much...

Master Status

Yesterday, I was talking to a friend, and he told me how sometimes it's necessary to tell people:

"You know who I used to be. You don't know who I am today."

It made me think of something I learned my freshmen year in college. Ms. Dee, a beloved professor, taught our class about the sociology term "master status." I found the concept interesting; it made an impression.

Following the conversation with my friend, I went online, searching for definitions to explain master status as well as it was presented to me. I found a definition I really like on study.com; it read:

"Master status is a type of label that may be given to you by others you encounter in the world, or it may be the status that you personally feel is most important. It could be a part of you that is first apparent to others when they meet you, or it could be an element to your identity that others would not realize simply by looking at you. Master status shapes a person's life and can be a positive, negative, neutral, or mixed label, and it can change over time. While disability is often viewed as a master status, those with disabilities may have other areas of life that are dominant, such as being an athlete.

For some, their master status may come with a sense of prestige, the consensus from the community around them that a status is to be desired. On the other hand, when a status is seen as undesirable, the status may be stigmatized. A stigma can result from choices someone has made, such as breaking the law, or from circumstances outside of a person's control, such as illness or disability."

As I considered my friend's statement I thought about the master statuses we are ascribed based on versions of ourselves we no longer are and choices we regretted and corrected. It's a frustrating thing. I thought about statuses I've assigned people especially the negative labels.

There are people who have been clean and sober for a number of years whose master status is still dominated by "crackhead," "cokehead," "pillhead" etcetera. There are people who were unfaithful but now embrace commitment and honesty who are still considered "cheaters."  There are individuals who committed crimes, served time, and actually reformed whose primary label is still "felon."

While I don't believe how others perceive us is as important as how we view ourselves, I see the obstacles that statuses, ascribed or achieved, present. Labels can hurt. They definitely have social consequences, and sometimes the impact spills over beyond the social aspect of life.

Generally speaking, I think people are cognizant of the fact that people can change and many do. I also think our experiences and observations have us jaded and skeptical about the likelihood of true and lasting transformation. I get that, but there is a caveat that you and I have to remember.

My experience with someone does not determine who he/she is and vice versa. It can and should inform how I choose to interact with him/her. It determines how much space or closeness is warranted. It is an indicator of how much I can trust him/her and what I entrust to him/her. It's revealing, but it is not be a life-long description of who he/she is.

We don't want to be naive or lack discernment. We have to be able to recognize behavior patterns and respond appropriately. We can acknowledge that a status may be accurate at a particular point in time while also understanding it may no longer be appropriate today or in the future. If everyone knew the worst thing you've ever done, what would your master status be? Would that label be an accurate description of who you are today?

Conversations With My Father: "Man up, LeKechia!"

I once called my dad in tears over a young man. (I emphasize once because not only did it happen at some point in the past, it was a one time thing. I learned my lesson.) This guy wasn't my boyfriend. We had no exclusivity or commitment at all. He was my "best friend" with benefits, and I knew that from the onset of our "relationship."

He was a great listener. He could initiate, hold, and carry stimulating conversations. We talked about any and everything. He was funny. We were sexually compatible. He made me feel so comfortable, and I allowed myself to become emotionally invested. I wanted more, and more was not an option.

So I'm feeling particularly sad because there's this "great guy" who I'm emotionally and physically invested in, who's not my boyfriend, when I call my dad...

"Man up, LeKechia!"

That's a verbatim quote. He actually told me to man up. Incredulous and offended, I immediately regretted calling him as he went on to say something along the lines of:

"You knew this dude wasn't the type of dude you could have a relationship with. Young men like him may be good for sex, but they're not good for dating or marrying. Hell, he's supposed to make you feel comfortable; you're giving him the gift of you for nothing at all. What do you get from this, LeKechia? Besides a wet ass?"

("Wet ass" is also a verbatim quote.)

After that conversation, I was mad at both the guy and my daddy, so I  threw myself a pity party, thinking and saying things like:

My dad was rude and insensitive. He did not have to say that. He doesn't understand. He's so wrong for what he said. He's sexist. Telling me to man up was sexist. You wouldn't tell a son to woman up. Would you? Why didn't he say woman up? _________ is a jerk. He's at fault for this whole thing. Why couldn't he become the person he told me he wasn't from the beginning because I wanted him to? What an asshole!

I wasted that day feeling sorry for myself and mad at my dad for telling me the truth. It was certainly truth, and he was certainly right. I just didn't want to hear it. The only person to blame in that situation was me. I ran, full steam ahead, into a wall, knowing it was a wall, and was mad at the wall for not turning into cotton when I hit it. It obviously hurt, but it wasn't the wall's fault.

I now understand that when my dad said "man up, LeKechia" he meant no harm at all. He was telling me to take responsibility, toughen up, and deal with the consequences of my decisions. It was an unpleasant situation. What I needed to understand then, and sometimes even now, is that some heartaches and head bumps are avoidable. If we choose not to avoid them, eventually, we will have to woman or man up and deal with our consequences.

Conversations With My Father: "Slippin Counts"

One night, many years ago, I spent a night with one of my cousins. On this particular night several of her boyfriend's friends were there. I don't know if I was too trusting or thoughtless, but the next morning I discovered the cash in my wallet was missing. Incredibly pissed, I called my dad.

His response after I finished ranting: "Slippin counts, LeKechia."

You have to understand that my dad was raised differently than my parents chose to raise me. He's known a lifestyle that is foreign to me. When he was nineteen years old, around the same age I was when this incident took place, he was sentenced to thirty-five years in prison. He served nine years. I'm not glorifying this fact, but I do think it's important to mention here. My dad has been exposed to things I lack exposure to and all of his experiences inform his worldview, and he is a street savvy individual.

So there I was livid about my stolen money and receiving a lecture on being "caught slippin..."

"Slippin counts, LeKechia. You got caught with your guard down. You have to be aware of your surroundings and know who you're dealing with at all times. To some people," he said, "it's all fair game. I don't codone it, but I understand it."

As you can probably imagine that was the last time I was "caught slippin" in that manner, but I have slipped in other areas. I've had my guard down. I've lacked awareness of my surroundings and about some people in my life. All of that matters. Predatory people are not going to miss an opportunity to prey because someone is uninformed, unaware, and/or unprepared. "Slippin" does count," and we have to do our part to be and remain conscious and focused.

Maybe

Word Weaponry

We don't engage to further communication;
we engage to commit verbal violations.
Your tongue is the bullet that pierces my armor.
I know which linguistic concoction will disarm you,
And we hold nothing back.
It's blow for blow, emptied clips, poisonous shots, hurtful quips,
And we don't stop until we both fold.
When we're lying wounded in our home turned battlefield
and the lethality of our words is alarmingly clear, we wonder:
How did this happen?
When did our mouths become guillotines?
Where did our speech grow so damn mean?
Why did you and I take up word weaponry?

Catharsis Letter Six: Frustration

Catharsis
ca·thar·sis
\kə-ˈthär-səs\
noun
The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

Frustration:

There's so much to be said; I don't even know where to start. I expected this letter to be the longest, but I can't even articulate the frustration I feel with you. And, it pisses me off. I'm annoyed with you, and I'm at odds with myself because of you. Everything with you brings about intrapersonal conflict adding to this damn inaudible frustration that I can't seem to vocalize. I'm angry. I am so mad at you, and I don't know how long it'll take me to move past it. I offered you something I couldn't give to anyone before you. It was the very thing you requested from me, but you refused it while insisting I give it you. It was fucking insanity. It is absolute insanity and not the kind that intrigues. You've affected, effected, infected, impressed, impacted, and influenced me. Yep, you've done all of that. I'm living with residuum of you right now, and it frustrates me.

I wish I could put all of this frustration into heaps and drop them off at your front door. I wish I could make this frustration audible and disturb you with it. I wish I could make this frustration tangible and accost you with it. When I get over this, and I will certainly get over it, I will be so much better than I was before. I will take this frustration turn it into motivation, inspiration, and energy. I will channel it into something that's going to drive me to be better, want better, know better, and do better. One day, all the frustration I currently feel will turn into gratefulness. On that day, I will not be too proud to admit that I am a healthier, happier, wiser, more experienced woman because of the frustration I endured with that man.

Catharsis Letter Five: Responsibility

Catharsis
ca·thar·sis
\kə-ˈthär-səs\
noun
The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

Responsibility:

I was depressed during our relationship, mourned when it was over, and cycled through all of grief's stages until I finally arrived and rested at acceptance. For too long, far too long, I've spoken and behaved as if I singlehandedly dismantled everything. I've taken full responsibility time after time while you've sat passively with no objections, but we are co-owners of that destruction. It was both of our action and inaction that led to that outcome.

I absolved you at my expense. That was a costly and wrong decision; it made it difficult to forgive and live with me. All that's left to be said is that I want to be successful next time around, and I want you to be successful too. We have to share responsibility, recognize where we both went wrong, and work on being better individuals who make better choices. I have to take responsibility for me, and you have to take responsibility for you. Taking ownership of your shit is apart of growth, and we've been through too much not to grow.

Catharsis Letter Four: Aftermath

Catharsis
ca·thar·sis
\kə-ˈthär-səs\
noun
The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

Aftermath:

I still chuckle thinking about the irony. We were together for one semester, and we spent the yearS that followed completely frustrated with one another, somewhat cool, or somewhere in between. The aftermath lasted longer than the relationship. Now that I have a better relationship with my sanity, I can laugh at that.

There's nothing humorous, however, about how unfair I was to you. I won't offer any more excuses; I'm just here to provide an unsolicited explanation and apology. Here's the thing. You and I crossed paths when I was nineteen years old. I was a serial monogamist, and the thing I needed most was a break. I had been in a relationship, consistently, since I was fourteen. I was ready to have fun and enjoy being away from home.

I should have brought all of that to your attention. I didn't because I was 100% selfish. I enjoyed you. I enjoyed our accelerated, intense relationship and all that came with it. I enjoyed your company. I enjoyed our deep conversations and passionate debates. I enjoyed the madness that we both possessed. I enjoyed being your girlfriend although I wasn't ready to be a girlfriend. Clear as mud?

I'm sorry for not giving you all the information from the beginning, so you could make an informed decision about me. I'm sorry for any hurt my selfishness brought you. And, I wish you well. You are a good-hearted, funny, intelligent, beautiful man whose deserving of reciprocity, honesty, love, and happiness from life and your partner. I hope you've found all of that and so much more.

I used to feel pissed about the slew of reminders coming from you. I always processed them as insults intended to make me feel guilty about my behavior. (Some of them probably were, but that's not the point.) Now that I'm actually trying to "stay above reproach," I can appreciate them. The day you said "you are more than your sexuality" meant more to me, at that time and now, than I can express. Thank you for seeing and saying that before I even grasped it.

Catharsis Letter Three: Family

Catharsis
ca·thar·sis
\kə-ˈthär-səs\
noun
The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

Family:

I was walking to my aunt's home from work. It was hot. I was tired. I was not in the best mood. You emerged from your group of friends, approached me, and said the most arrogant thing. "You're going to my girlfriend one day." "Whatever," I retorted, while walking away.

My family had recently moved from a home we loved in one town back to an apartment we tolerated in my hometown. The once loving, happy marriage of my mom and step-dad was changing for the worst. Life as I knew it had taken on a different, harsher form, so that day, and most days honestly, I just wasn't in the mood for bullshit.

I ignored you.

Our next interaction happened when you approached me as I was sitting in a car at a gas station waiting for my mom. You, with more humility this time, asked for my phone number. I could tell you were older, so I informed that I was newly seventeen years of age. I must admit that your next move surprised me. You went into the store and asked my mother if you could have my number.

On October 17, 2007, my mom attempted suicide. I was at the hospital, quietly losing my shit, when one of my aunts brought me her cellphone. You were on the other end, and everything you said was something I needed to hear. Not too long afterwards I actually became your girlfriend.

It was a relationship that most people objected to or could not understand. I was a seventeen year old junior in high school with plans for college. You were a twenty-two year old high school dropout who embraced criminality. Our relationship was not all good. You had two stints in jail. We argued about my high school activities and after high school plans. You were overly possessive, jealous, and lost your temper a time or two. We were dysfunctional, but we were family.

You felt like home at a time when home stopped being home. Nothing bad that happened between us can overshadow that and all of the good. I remember how you used to cook my mom these amazing omelettes, and she would actually eat them. Although she lived on Newports and Dr. Pepper at that time, she ate your omelettes! I remember when you and my step dad were trying to teach me how to drive. I panicked and ran into something.

I also remember the difficulties we experienced with my mom when she returned home from the hospital. I remember you saying, "Kechia, that's not Mama. She's not herself right now." You were right. Thanks to that reminder from you all the love, support, and everything my mom got so right as a mother was not forgotten in her moment of crisis.

Those are the things I choose to hold onto. Although ours was an unbalanced, unhealthy relationship, you helped me through the most difficult time of my life. When everything that kept me grounded was falling to pieces, you were there to remind me that I would survive. That's why, to this day, whenever I see you, I still hug your neck.  You will always be family to me, and families are not perfect.

Catharsis Letter Two: Retribution

Catharsis
ca·thar·sis
\kə-ˈthär-səs\
noun
The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

Retribution:

One day I was in the kitchen with my mom. I had just finished a conversation with my sweet, same aged boyfriend in which I had not been gentle. She looked at me, sternly, and uttered words I have yet to forget. "You had better stop treating him that way before someone comes along and mistreat you. You reap what you sow, Kechia."

You were retribution indeed.

I met you the summer after my eighth grade school year. I was excited about starting high school; you had just graduated. Naively, I believed our age gap was insignificant. My parents felt otherwise, but they allowed our budding relationship while making their disapproval loud and clear. My mom who became pregnant with me at sixteen did not want to create a situation where her teenager would feel "sneaking around" was warranted.  I later realized that, just as they warned, you were much "sharper" than the fourteen/ fifteen year old me, and I thought I was as sharp as they come.

There is no need to delve into all the particulars here. Everything has been asked and answered, and we, as adults, have offered one another apologies and forgiveness. Even still I have to vocalize some things that went unsaid.

Thank you for not pressuring me to have sex. As heartbroken as I was when we ended the way we ended, I was comforted knowing we didn't take that huge step. I was able to stand so firmly partly because you did not push. That was unselfish, and I appreciate it.

I don't think you know, but you have been one of the most influential people in my life. I learned from you. I did. I learned about the resilient nature of love and power of forgiveness. I learned that my parents know their shit, and it's a good idea to listen to them. I learned humility; there's always someone sharper. I learned that love does not negate standards. Most importantly, I learned that people can love each other, really love one another, and not belong together.

Overall, I'm grateful for the experience, and as you well know, there's no love lost.

Catharsis Letter One: Starburst

Catharsis
ca·thar·sis
\kə-ˈthär-səs\
noun
The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

Starburst:

Though I hate to admit it, I was not kind to you, and you were deserving of kindness. We met in the sixth grade. (That already seems like a lifetime ago!) We were so young, but your thoughtfulness was mature. My parents saw your good nature and kind heart, and they loved you. They trusted and welcomed you, and now I understand why. I understand why you were the only young man who could come to our home, hang out with our family, exert influence over my younger brothers, stay for dinner, come into my room, etcetera. I so get it now. I hope you've not lost that quality over the years, and I sure as hell hope you are so damn happy! So many people regret their "first," but I never have. You were my first kiss, my first date, my first boyfriend, my first opposite-sex friendship, my first intimate partner, and my first experience of genuine love, unyielding respect, and honest closeness from someone who wasn't a family member. I don't think I've ever thanked you for being you with me or apologized for my inconsistency. I really am sorry. I titled this letter Starburst because Starburst candies were my favorite, and you knew that. I will never forget how you brought me a pack of Starburst to school on an almost daily basis. It's so indicative of the kindness and thoughtfulness that was native to you. Thank you for everything; I'm still ever so grateful for you.

Azelynn

A is for always. My prayer for you is that you always find happiness and happiness always finds you.

Z is for zest. I know you will have it, baby girl. Let zest be your faithful companion as you go into the world.

E is for embrace. Sweet Azelynn Grace, may you champion kindness and forever be in goodness' embrace.

L is for love. My highest desire for you is that you experience an abundance of love, everywhere you go, in all that you do.

Y is for youth. May your youth be filled with the fondest memories, heart satisfying laughter, quality friendships, and a passion to learn. May you enjoy discovering the world through the many book pages you'll turn.

N is for never. Never forget these words. You are valuable, capable, and deserving of every opportunity to succeed, so harness your potential. Accomplish your dreams!

N is for nurture. Our families' promise to you is to be the village needed to become the best version of you. We will model acceptance, welcoming one another. We will provide you with love, stability, community, and nurture.

"RJ, use your words."

One of the many precious little cousins I have is a baby boy named RJ. I have been fortunate enough to spend a lot time with RJ, so he and I are pretty tight. He even says some adorable version of my name that's not quite Kechia, but is still the cutest thing I've heard. I often talk to RJ as if he's not a toddler. (And I'm almost certain he understands.) Among my most favorite things to say to him is "RJ, use your words" and "make a good decision." He would havs his sippy cup in hand, ready to throw it, and I'd calmly say "RJ, make a good decision." When he decided not to throw the cup, my aunt (his grandmother) and I would lavish extra attention on his stellar decision-making skills. He could be in the middle of a miniature tantrum, and I'd say "RJ, use your words." I always found it amusing. While it's effectiveness for getting him to communicate with me differently is a debatable, it was all apart of me acknowledging that RJ is a smart AND autonomous being.

Today, I was thinking about RJ whom I haven't saw in six months.😩😔 Those two phrases came to mind. "Use your words." "Make a good decision." If RJ who is now two years old can use his words and make good decisions, we who are two times a double digit number are certainly capable of doing the same thing.

I'm offender number one. When my feelings are hurt or I'm upset, I often  do not rely on my ability to communicate effectively. Whatever message I intend to get across is so often lost in my poor delivery, also known as the adult version of a toddler's tantrum. Like RJ, we are smart and autonomous. The responses and reactions we choose to employ are independent. So, let's use our words constructively and make good decisions.

Some things aren't meant to be.

You asked me to stay
knowing I couldn't.
I asked you to follow
knowing you wouldn't.
We went our separate ways,
refuting truth with expectation,
both dreading the day
we'd have to accept this realization.

The Right To My Freedom

Mae Alice's Girl

A long time ago someone told me "they used to call you 'Mae Alice's girl.'" While I cannot recall who told me or when, I've always felt proud of that title. Mae Alice is the heartbeat of my world. She is a Jesus-loving, scripture-quoting woman. She's accidentally hilarious. She's someone who will help any and everyone. Her kindness is unconditional. She laughs at her own jokes, and I'm talking fits of laughter. She has coined many words and phrases that only her family members understand. She sings. Her loved ones have been fortunate enough to see her dance. She is generous. She's a collector of all sorts of odd things that she always managed to find a home. She's friendly. She can, will, and does talk to anyone. She enjoys Walker Texas Ranger and In the Heat of the Night. She prays. When I say she is a praying woman, believe me; she is a praying woman! Even without much formal education, she is a smart, innovative, and resourceful individual. She is the mother of nine. She loves her family. She is loved by her family and community. She is one of the loves of my life, and I am grateful to be her granddaughter. It is and will always be an honor for anyone, presently or in the past, to think of me as "Mae Alice's girl." Happy 80th Birthday to my sugar dumpling pie! May she continue to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Self-Sized Void

It took some time to realize it. Now certain of what I need, I stopped outsourcing to others; it's my job to profoundly love me. I need to meet my own expectations, push myself to succeed, and be with myself in solitude affirming my ability to care for me. I have to tend to my emotional injuries and nurse myself to a state of well-being. I want to feel the pain of growth without employing anyone as a crutch then experience the joy and peace from the realization I am enough. I want to make me happy and have assurance that happiness is concrete. I have to show myself I wasn't lacking anyone and fill the self-sized void inside of me.

Is reading apart of your family's lifestyle?

Parents of minority children:
Are you taking your children to your local library, reading to them, letting them read to you, fostering their love of books and reading, and teaching them how to navigate a library? If not, please do it! Start today! Your local library is a wonderful tool at your disposal. Reading helps children learn; it aids literacy and language acquisition. It will expand their imagination, vocabulary, and intelligence. Please, please make reading apart of your family's lifestyle.

Poor and minority children have so many disadvantages. It's a sad, unfair, ugly fact, but we can help do something about it. Read to your babies! Please! Our children are just as smart, capable, and amazing as all children are. We have to help them succeed. Call your library see what programs they offer. Give your children allowances for reading books and completing reports rather than chores. Make it fun. Expose them to comics and graphic novels. Just make it a priority. It's so vitally necessary.

"What happened to that girl?"

After years of (a) making piss-poor decisions, (b) experiencing Kechia-created crises, (c) cycling through building, destroying, and rebuilding, and (d) feeling so much inward and outward pressure, I made the decision to be honest with myself and more transparent with others. I grew tired of pretending, shocking the hell out of people I love, providing explanations, apologizing, and alienating people to keep my messy shit from exposure. All of that was incredibly exhausting.

My dad has always told me "no matter what you tell other people, be real with Kechia." I so get it now! Although I used to think, "being real" with oneself was a no-brainer, I realize that it's not. It is so easy to make excuses and displace blame and accountability. It's easy to tell yourself bullshit to make you feel better about your bullshit and keep you involved in bullshit, or at least it is for me. Self-deception comes with costs, always, 100 percent of the time, guaranteed costs. It affects your perspective, judgement and decision making thus infecting your reality. And, it hurts other people. It hurts all of the people you deceive to while deceiving yourself.

So when someone says something to me that amounts to:
"You used to be so [insert adjective]. What happened to that girl?"

I'll usually provide an abbreviated reason for the change I am experiencing. This time the explanation comes from a  place of courtesy or respect not guilt or obligation. The mask has come off. Who I am in public is syncing with who I am in private. ("Syncing" because it is an active process.) And, I'm not saying that I have (or will ever) expose all of my "messy shit" publicly. I haven't, and I won't. I reserve some revelations and truth for the people who love me most and a Licensed Professional Counselor.  I am saying, with confidence, that today who you see looks more like who you'll get. My character, displayed and intimate, is no longer akin to an angled, edited, filtered social media photo.

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