Perspective

When he looked at her with that combination of hurt, anger, and distrust, she realized how you must have felt. She gasped for forgiveness and was choked by resentment. His sadness was palpable. The end discredited the beginning and her. He interrogated every "I love you" she'd ever spoken. He charged them though they were innocent. He dissected every moment, looking for contradictions. He searched her eyes as if the woman he knew was lost in her distance and resolve. There was nothing she could say. She cannot forget that violent, lacerating sound; his heartbreak still haunts her. She lacked grace for you until she stood in those breaker's shoes. His pain is as meaningful as her own, and your reasons for leaving are equally valid.

Letter to Fear

You, so full of yourself, actually believe that at the end of her journey she will find you. Ego will not allow you to feel threatened by her quest for intrepidity. You are convinced her growth, health, discovery, and truth cannot rival the status quo and you. She is no competition? Look at her. Broken and strong. Fearful and brave. Pained and compassionate. Wounded and fierce. Does pride prevent you from admitting what we both know? You were only able to subdue her after life weakened her, love ravished her, and self-doubt consumed her. Look in her eyes. Does egoentrism steady you when you see her earthshaking determination? It is only a matter of time. You that know. Right? This woman, in revolution, will force you to abdicate her rightful position. She will take her place as King of her kingdom. She will not relinquish her reign again, and there will be no place for you in her. That terrifies you. Doesn't it? She was always worthy, and you will find she is a ferocious opponent.

$482.50

$482.50,
His appraisal of her self-esteem...
He put the offer on the table
and was certain she wouldn't leave.
$482.50?
A rude underestimation...
She paused for a moment
stunned by his observation.
"$482.50 for freedom?
$482.50 for peace?
$482.50 for health?
$482.50 for me?"
There was nothing to debate.
She was searching herself
and the allowances she's made,
her contributions to his arrogance.
Her habit of shrinking self
made room for this moment.
$482.50.
He evaluated her worth,
but his judgment was empty
unless endorsed by her...
$482.50,
Depreciation she refused.
The decision was him or her
and she had the audacity to choose.

Bold. Wild. Free. Kinky-Curly.

My natural hair is a conversation piece. It doesn't bother me that this afro commands attention. Bold. Wild. Free. Kinky-Curly. These coils have flourished through my frustration, learning stages, laziness, and neglect. They even "pop" on the days I need a bit more confidence. I know it's "just hair" and the crown doesn't make the Queen. I know right now I'm singing their praises, and later I'll likely complain. 🤦🏿‍♀️ What can I say? I'm a work in progress. 🤷🏿‍♀️ Though this relationship is complicated as heck, today I wanted to give my hair a wash, condition, and a little more respect.
(I've been natural for 5 years! My current goal is to go three years without any more chopping.)

When A Man Cries

"There's nothing sadder than when a man cries." We were watching television, Walker Texas Ranger, Matlock, In the Heat of the Night, Murder She Wrote, or one of our other favorites. My Grandma said this as an inconsolable male character sobbed. I do not remember my age at time; I do not know why the sentiment was stored with significance. I only know I had not saw a man cry yet.

I cried. My Mom cried. My Grandmother cried. I witnessed women cry my whole life. Maybe the frequency of tears amongst the women I knew, in my young mind, equated to normalcy. Is there anything special about commonplace occurrences? In my ignorance and youth, the answer was no, and our tears, the tears of girls and women, were relegated while their tears, the tears of boys and men, were elevated. 

I was 17 when I saw a man cry. He was my 22-year-old boyfriend. With good reason, I broke up with him hours earlier, but there he was, standing outside of my Grandma's home, wanting to speak with me. "Is it really over?" He came for answers. When I stood unwavering on yes, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and my first encounter with domestic violence ensued. 

Did I cry? For the life of me, I cannot remember if I cried. I only remember his tears. I mostly remember being activated to a state of emergency because he cried. "There's nothing sadder than when a man cries.” Comfort him, something within me demanded, and I obliged. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I love you. I'm here. I'm yours." 

Regrettably, that was not the last time I hierarchized tears. When I saw my father cry, all alarms within me sounded. "Do something. Do anything. Make it better." When I miscarried and my then-partner cried, guilt resounded, "Do something. Do anything. Make it better." After the storm settled; when we returned to sanity; when reality finally overwhelmed his anger, he cried. On cue, I did something. I said anything. I made him feel better. "There's nothing sadder than when a man cries."

I internalized this falsity, and I am still unlearning it. My Grandma was a victim of a society that overlooked the value, importance, and equality of women. Perhaps her mom, her mom's mom, and the generations of women before were taught this untruth and bequeathed insignificance to her. Perhaps her experiences validated this lie. Perhaps no one ever told my Grandma otherwise.

She was born in 1937 in rural America. Poor. Uneducated. Black. Woman. I can only imagine the hardships she endured. I wish I could time travel, with the knowledge and language I currently possess, to the very first time my Grandma shed tears that were not met with the nurturance she needed. I wonder how young she was. I wish I could meet her at that place of sadness, hold her hands, and tell her "There is nothing sadder than when you cry. Your tears are no more or less poignant than a man's tears."

No.

When he resigned "I don't know what it is about you," her mind wandered to Phenomenal Woman. "Men themselves have wondered what they see in me..."  She liked to fancy it was her "inner mystery," love for writing and music, oddities and peccadilloes, passion and recalcitrance, strength and vulnerabilities. Disheartened and dragged to They Went Home, inevitably she had to admit: "My praises were on all men's lips, they liked my smile, my wit, my hips, they'd spend one night, or two or three. But..." In those moments, she had him, hook, line, and sinker, and he almost had her believing until reality crept in reminding her moments are fleeting. She knew what coyness prevented he from speaking... That was then; this is now. Her body is not an accessory, and her mind is sound. No longer moved by compliments or resignations, she evolved along with her expectations. She is not built by his ovations; his rebuke will not bring her to devastation; and she is not open for his exploration.

Mutual will be our word.
We'll embrace generosity
without fear of depletion
confident in the other's ability
to be filled without leeching.
Reciprocity will be our word.
We'll trust Love's restraint.
Conscious that mutuality relieves strain
and selfishness provides fleeting gains,
we'll ensure each other remains...
- Replenished