doing me

Absence and presence are more than habitual practices or well developed coping skills. They speak. They have varied voices. They can be pitchy. They are loud. They are necessary. 

What does support really look like? Is it anxiety ridden discomfort masked in pretty clothes with smiling make-up? Is it likes? Is it hour long conversations? Is it encouraging words? Is it expectations we will never meet? 

I'm present in community. My absence is felt. My absence is that test, that break showing me the river is deeper than some folks can swim. It becomes safe. It rescues me from the pressures of people pleasing. I do me. It looks like I don't care. It looks like I have other things to do. I don't move like that. Maybe I should've been in a band. 

What happens when who you really are ain't who folks want? What do you do with yourself? I stay home. I see who shows up. I count the texts. I watch the timelines. I realize my values are, again, different. 

What is Love?

English is such a limited language. It arrests it's speakers with words that handcuff them. They are policed by context, tone, and maybe intention. They sit on a bench built by conflation. English can be the jail we have no choice but to live in.

If you've studied other romance languages and other indigenous tongues, you will find that expressions are varied and different. There are many words to express a concept. Love is one of those words. Love isn't reduced to the romantic. It is grand and beautiful. It's friendly, familial, and firm. English denies us this pleasure.

And, now that we type far more than we talk, we are bound by how social media and different writing styles deliver expressions. Character limits and grammar rules. AP and Chicago styles. Text and threads. The absence of inflection. The interpretation of tone. Millions of people who have never spoken with each other are now reading each other's voices. As a writer, it's a goal. As a reader, it's overwhelming.

I love Love. I love how it shows up and defies the constraints of English. How it exists like a fine mist around us. How it is as unique as the person expressing it. Love is and it isn't. It's not only the memes and short, vanity blogs. It can be a one night stand in Barcelona. It can be 57 married years in Culver City. It can be smiles from babies. It can be a choreographed dance. It can be none of these and altogether something else. 

When we choose to limit ourselves, we fail. We have permission to be bigger than English(colonialism) says we are. We are full human BEINGS. English does not define our love. We define it. We are wordsmiths. We write the dictionaries. Define love as you see fit. Polyamorous, asexual, and everything in between. Just don't let your definition condemn another.

Menopause, Men on Pause, Middle age Musings

There are assumptions we make about lovers. For instance, they improve with age. Humans are evolving. We can move on from people without regret or extended attachment. HAHAHAHAHA!  Getting older only confirms what we knew as children. Some people fire our synapses. Some folks are the collagen, the connective fibers, to who we are.

Do you remember your first kiss? Your first boy/girlfriend? Your first crush? Your first love? How do you hold these memories? Do you laugh at your innocent akward? Do you savor fine details like a particular shirt or class? 4th grade was the year Black men became beautiful for me. They taught me French and Math. They got me to run faster than ever. They led my elementary school with a loving discipline I'd not known before.

I love Black men. From my father to deacons in my church, my affinity is cellular. My momma thought, at one point, I was gonna marry a white boy. They were not my John Henry. They didn't know the unsaid parts of being Black. They had no swag. They didn't love me the same. The only loves I've know is from Black men.

And Love ain't all it's cracked up to be. We have casserole dishes full of baked macaroni and cheese we've perfected, but cain't nobody be honest 'bout how long it took to get it right. Why is Loving seemingly so hard?

 Some folks are acquaintances. Others are family. A few are friends. Then, there's lovers. I used to think of a lover as reserved for LGBTQIA. I used to have this notion that monogamous relationships had to be titled boyfriend/girlfriend. We don't always act lovingly with these people. Often, we are more loving, freer when we have no titles.

Black men are my forever loves. They are the ones I chose to marry and divorce. We have children together. They make me laugh. They write songs and poems about me. They trust my creativity. We are intimate. They talk me through my worst moments and hold my hand. They love me.

That love doesn't come without risk. It demands I trust beyond trauma. Yes, their trauma and my trauma. What they've been through and what they inflict. It asks me to always see his humanity. So, the greatest hurt has come from Black men. I wouldn't have it any other way. To be in relationship is to be open to all a person has to bring, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Where else will they unpack the anti-blackness that won't love them back?

The song says we can be lovers and friends. My friends don't love me the way lovers do. The dynamic is different. The expectations are different. Maybe, that's my downfall. For me, Loving is Black.

Feb U Are Worth it

A new month presents the challenge to begin anew, to tackle some internal struggle. I played with doing a new journal with inspirational thoughts. That fizzled. Instead, I've been quiet enough to hear the messages. Friends, who don't know each other, echo sentiments. They are more than encouraging. They demand I hear the universe through them. It comes in conversations. It came in an astrology workshop. It even came in group therapy.

My worthiness tastes like I'll never deserve to be happy. It's sour and thrilling, as if I am watching from the top of the roller coaster. The twists and turns come fast. I still leave the turnstile alone. Roller coasters used to be my greatest escape. Then, I stopped riding. It wasn't becoming of who I was supposed to be.

I've spent so much time inside someone else's box, I assume I am not enough. This is why I see the humanity hiding behind a monster's actions. That light is all I need to see. Where did that come from? 

Psychology says I was born into it. Circumstances molded me. My bloodline talks out either side of its neck. I am both great and no better than where I came from. I can't escape the violence. I can't educate my way out, without the greatest guilt.

And, then, there's Love. February is all about Love. I'm wired to remember past lovers with a smile, to forget others. Some became the blur of survival. Others are eternal. Loving is different when you're never sure if they love you. Or if you could ever love them grandly. 

To be hidden means two things. You love to be shown off and you prefer the dark to the light. My whole story has hidden parts, redacted, to make me more lovable. How do you love when this is your life? You accept the secrets nobody shares. You assume you will never fully know a person. You trust the moment without attachment. You love as openly as you can in a few slices of time. 

My most familiar is the distance that love brings. The distance from the top of the roller coaster back down to the bottom. Some say I'm worth more than the design of a passionate thrill. I deserve to be the ride everyone waits in line for. The highest point in the park. The reason people come out. I've performed for more strangers than friends or lovers.

Life has taught me how to injoy the ride in my preferred seat, either the first or last car. Love feels good in both. I don't want to be in the middle.