The Baby Giant is Thirteen

They said I wasn’t maternal.

I was supposed to be the one who traveled the world deeply committed to “the cause” and fully prepared to burn the dynamite at both ends if it meant results for my work. So when, at the tender age of 23, I announced that I was carrying my first child, the reactions were deeply divided – not between right and wrong – but between degrees of wrongness. Some thought it was a terrible “career move” and that I was cutting short what could shape up to be a promising future. Others thought that the man was just all wrong. “He’ll leave you know,” they said. However, what most agreed on was how much they couldn’t see me raising a kid. Me with the occasional bad attitude who had “bacdafucup” tattooed in the corners of my side-eye, me with the flippant mouth and the tendency to let a sailor or two fall out sometimes – in the name of justice of course, me the work-a-holic, who will always get the job done, but may forget to eat or…you know, sleep in the process.

“How you gonna take care of a baby?” was the question that I heard most often.

And I didn’t know.

The fear that I had, like any normal first time mother, was exacerbated by the buzzing undercurrent all around me. “What ARE you going to do?” was the chorus.

And I really didn’t know.

It was all I could do to ask anybody anything, but somehow I managed to ask God. I didn’t have a relationship with Him at the time. “I’m just spiritual” was my canned answer, but really, I was absent. So when I asked questions I didn’t know what to expect or how to expect it. But there, in the midst of the questions and the fear and the confusion and the anxiety, my God introduced me to my baby.

She was calming, she was funny, she was attentive, she was magic. From early on there was connection that made me feel so protective of my child as much as it made me feel so protected by my child.

And then she was born.

It was clear once she was here that I was just a vessel. When she came home elders made comments like “She’s got an old soul” and “You know she’s been here before.” Even now there are few people who meet her that don’t just feel the magic, but also leave with a little fairy dust on their shoulders. When she was four years old and boldly proclaimed that she was not eating meat anymore because of “…how they treat the chickens and the cows mommy” people thought I put her up to it, until they saw me sucking down beef baby back ribs with a side of fried chicken. When she took her love of animals to another level and tried to start a petition in her school to stop cruelty to animals in the third grade, again, they thought it was me. I did teach her to read and write and think. I did introduce her to the concept of justice and injustice – or rather I gave it a name because she had a keen sense for it already. I did nurture her exploration of her identity and I still do. But, I didn’t make her write the poetry, I didn’t ask her to loc her hair, I didn’t even teach her to dance. Not at all. In fact, if I am completely honest with myself (and I am) I can readily admit that I often stand in awe of her. She is different. She marches to the beat of a different drum and she is okay with that. Her convictions, her worldview, her voice – they are not up for compromise. It is what I admire and enjoy the most about my dear child.
As I have watched her grow up, I have grown – and that”s no cliché. I’m a better mother, a better friend, a better communicator, and at least a better woman because she is in my life. I have had to stretch my understanding of humanity and grasp of humility because of her and when that happens there is no turning back.

Once, in the fourth grade a group of girls decided to “jump” her in between classes. It was the final straw in a long line of attacks and bullying that she had to endure all year-long. I was angry at the teachers and the school and the parents, but I was also a little angry at her.

“What is wrong with you!!”? I screamed at her. “Why won’t you defend yourself?” I wanted her one time to just grab one of those little scrawny girls and shake them or punch them or something! I was frustrated with instructing her day after day on how to stand up for herself only to have her come home with yet another story of torment. As I yelled at her, she began to cry and I didn’t care. “You need to defend yourself! Just HIT one of them one day! Why won’t you do that??” I continued to scream. And my sweet baby, looked up at me with her little eyes filled with tears and yelled back, “I just don’t like violence!” It killed me. What was I doing? I had become so consumed with my own past with bullies and violence that I lost sight of who she was – and that was – that she was not me. The following week in school I was called in because she had received a demerit for lingering in the bathroom. When I got to the bottom of the story, my child had stayed behind because a little girl in her class was having an issue with her zipper and didn’t make it to the bathroom. The little girl was embarrassed and needed help getting the zipper down and out of the pants to clean them. It didn’t surprise me that my kid stayed behind to help the child, but it did stun me to find out it was one of the four girls who had jumped her the previous week. “I had to help her mommy,” she told me, “it doesn’t matter what she did before, the kids would have laughed at her and I know what that feels like.” I just shook my head in agreement.

I have raised my girl child, my baby giant up until this point to the best of my ability watching her go from toddling around in her babyGap sweats to stumbling around my house trying to own this 5’8 wonder body she has developed. I shower her with love and affection, but more importantly, I try to understand who she is as an individual. It’s the only way I can parent her and I think it’s the best way. I often deflect praise for how well she is turning out because I feel like I have had so little to do with it. I understand now that thinking that way is both right and wrong. It’s right because she is a gift, like all of our children are, not belonging to me, but to the world. But also, what God gifted me in her was a lighting rod. From her birth until now she has been the thing by which all things in my life are measured. In essence her life raised the bar for my own, as it should. I have worked hard to live up to her expectations because that’s all she had – expectations. Those expectations, even the ones I failed to reach, have helped me to create a standard for myself that I don’t know if I would have reached alone.

Thirteen years ago, today, just days before Thanksgiving, I was formally introduced to the most energetic, effervescent, sensitive, brilliant, magnanimous, poetic, talented, intelligent, deep thinking, thoughtful, wonderful person I know and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Many would probably argue that I’m still not maternal, but I am her mother, and that’s everything I need to be.

Requiem for a Dream

I was never a girly girl.

I wasn’t exactly a tomboy, but I wasn’t doing the Barbie doll thing either – not as a toddler, not in elementary school and certainly not in middle school.

As I got older that didn’t change very much. There were a million “girl” rules of which I knew very, very few. I just didn’t get it. In fact, when I did get a real boyfriend I didn’t understand all of the fuss from my girls or why they had a new set of “rules” they wanted me to follow:

“DON’T give him your number yet, wait until he asks two more times.”
“DON’T call him first.”
“DON’T call him again if you called him last.”
“DO ignore him in the halls at school when you see him.”

Huh? This is how you treat a boy you like? I was so confused. As a result, in the end, as naive as they might have been, I followed my own rules.

I have pretty much always followed my own rules, made my own path and had my own dreams. These dreams included things like traveling the world by the time I was 25, meeting interesting people like artists and heads of state, becoming the head of my own non-profit and driving a convertible Volkswagen. They did not include getting married and living happily ever after – not at 16 or 20 or even 24 after I became a mother.

I was never the girl who wanted a big wedding in a chapel with 200 of my closest friends gathered around. I was the girl who wanted to plan the big wedding for some lucky girl. In fact, the idea of being someone’s wife scared the mess out of me – mostly because the concept seemed so daunting. First I have to wait on a man to choose me, then when he chooses me I have to hope HE thinks that I am worthy of marrying, then I have to figure out how to keep him happy for the next like FIFTY years. Really? That sounded crazy to me like there was no “me” in it. I knew how to meet and date a man. I even learned how to be a good girlfriend eventually, but to keep that momentum going for decades and decades? Scariest thing ever in my mind. I just didn’t get marriage.

As a child the only marriage I had seen work in my family was that of my grandparents. My grandfather, much like Yoda, was almost a mythical being to me. He was “all-knowing” and “all-seeing” and wise beyond (my) comprehension. His relationship with my grandmother seemed like it existed in a vacuum. I didn’t have any other frames of reference for it – in or out of my family – and I didn’t know it’s origins or history. They just were.

For me, my first outward desire to be married was vocalized as a revolutionary act. As a young woman living in an activist community and trying to find ways to strengthen and empower the black community, I framed marriage as apart of our self-determination as a people. It was strategy. Meaning, creating spaces for like-minded, conscious, black people to marry and reproduce would serve as a way to structurally build and rebuild strong black communities across the country. I felt like if more “conscious” people married and became examples of what a healthy, functional marriage looked like it could start a movement of healthy, functional marriages in the black community. I still believe this. The difference is, when I believed it at 22 I didn’t connect it personally to emotion or love or romance – just “the cause.” At that point in my life my personal history dictated that I didn’t get the happy, loving, romantic part – I got the work. Besides, I wasn’t even sure that other part existed. My relationships up until that point were dismal at best.

When I had became pregnant I thought it made sense for me to be married. It was very matter-of-fact. I loved my daughter’s dad, but I seriously doubted his ability to be a good husband. I really didn’t want to just get married because I was pregnant, but my mentor at the time encouraged me to do so “for the cause.” She urged me not to become another statistic for black women and I kinda agreed but thankfully, I didn’t comply. Although I espoused these wide-eyed ideals for building strong black families and thus communities, I actually felt more comfortable as a single parent. In contrast to the lack of marriages I saw in my family growing up – I had seen plenty of single, black mothers. I knew what it meant to be single and raise a child. That felt more normal to me. I didn’t want to be a single mother…I just sort of knew it would happen to me…if that makes sense.

By the time I had my daughter I had only been in love once – with her father. Love in that relationship was euphoric…in the way I imagine a first crack high to be. It is said that crack addiction is so hard to break because the addict is forever chasing that first high that they can never, ever, ever get again. I was that addict for (an unsettling number of) years. Although I loved him in a way that I will never love another man again – I came out of that relationship so clear that I never want to love another man like that again. The next time I was in love was the relationship that changed everything for me. It made me believe that normal love was possible in my life. It showed me what partnership looked like. It shaped my ideas about real family and even, marriage. That relationship helped me to understand a little better what it meant to commit to one person and still be one person at the end of the day. But, alas he was not “the one.” And, what I found out was now that I had been opened to this idea I wasn’t ready to leave it on the cutting room floor. I wanted what I saw.

Over the next several years, as I got older, the vision that became clear in that great relationship became less and less visible. I didn’t see how it was possible. I started to feel resentful because I had wasted so many years harboring all of the high ideals and low self-esteem that led to the failed relationships and bad decisions that led to me being where I was. Mid 30s, single and searching (bleech!). I wrestled with that for a few years as I dated a good number of “he’s not the one’s” and “he’s just not into you’s” and then it all changed.

Last year, one of the counted out was counted back in. A man from my past came back. If you have read anything else I’ve written in the last year, you already KNOW this story. If you haven’t here it is in a nutshell:

Boy meets girl, boy likes girl, girl likes boy/Boy is mid-divorce, girl is mid-break up they decided timing is off and part ways.
Boy searches for girl on social networking site years later, girl is impressed and falls for boy again.
Boy moves fast and proposes, girl moves faster and accepts
Boy is happy in love, girl is happy in love./Boy and girl plan intimate late summer wedding for family and friends
Boy lies to girl big time, girl finds out./Girl calls off wedding. Boy goes away.
Girl starts a blog and gains 12 pounds.

That pretty much sums it up. And that is where I am now. Today would have been my wedding day. August 21, 2010.

We chose the day because we reunited in August and both of our birthdays are on the 12th and this day had a “1″ and a “2″ in it so…

Yeah, we were that stupid. Remember that part about things moving fast? Well we didn’t take our feet off of the gas for four months. When we ended our relationship we had not only planned our wedding, but the next ten years of our lives.

I was completely caught up in the fantasy of it all. Something had happened to that revolutionary girl of 22 and the disillusioned young woman of 26 and the cynical, resentful woman of 30. She had been replaced with this women who was ready – in my heart, in my mind, in my spirit to share this abundance of love that had been secretly accumulating just below the sarcastic surface. I had done all of this work in my life to become a better person, a different person, a more evolved person and I just knew my reward for that was…him.

I was wrong.

I know that to even think I should be rewarded for moving closer to who I am supposed to be in the world – is absurd. But it sounded right.

I could write a whole other post about what I thought was going on for those months and what was really going on. As a matter of fact I might just do that.
But in the meantime, here is the bad news for you. I am just writing. I don’t have a great big bow for this one – because I am still digesting the jagged pieces. I have gone over every last detail in my mind – as you can probably imagine – a million times. Was it all him? Was it all me? Was it the timing? Was it Karma? I don’t have answers.

I have only been able to draw small conclusions and that has been much to the credit of a few close friends. It has been a little over six months and I think I have come to terms with the idea that I didn’t really love him. I am pretty sure at this point that I fell “in love with the idea of him more so than the man himself” it’s so cliché that it makes me sick. But, oddly enough, it’s not that part that bothers me so much. It’s that it happened at all. And it happened to me. I can readily admit that I want to be married. I do. (No pun intended) I just can’t believe that the girl who didn’t play with Barbie dolls, didn’t go to the prom, didn’t go out of my way to impress boys, didn’t choose to settle just to be married, never chased a man down – ME – I got caught in a cliché?? The idea boggles my mind. But the truth is – that’s exactly what happened.

It is now officially a year since he came back into my life. Next month, on my birthday, it will be a year since the proposal. I’d be lying to say that I am fully recovered from the world wind of it all. But I am (as my close girlfriend pointed out the other day) “leaps and bounds” better than I was a few months ago. I am grateful for that.
This is the first time I have been able to write anything about it – partly from shame, partly because I had no words. How do you describe a dream deferred?

I am sure more words, better words will come over time and I will welcome them. Until then I will take what I can get and pray for the kind of healing that will breathe life back into this dream and give her new words, new wisdom and new wings.

A Fresh Ten

This was originally posted on December 30, 2009 on Facebook:

Snakes are fascinating. They are one of the most reviled animals on the planet. They have no orifices on their body with the exception of a mouth and somewhere a small hole to release poop. They have been cursed with the “mark of the beast” since practically the dawn of time thanks to the whole Adam and Eve thing and yet they proudly slither around on their stomachs. Many eat whatever they can catch in their grip and live in the darkest, most dank places….but when they are tired of the skin their in…they simply shed it and move on.

Imagine.

The ability to go through life and move as you please around people, chase them away or squeeze the life out of them – being able to make mistakes publicly or create havoc unintentionally and then simply shed that skin – of that person – who did those things – and start anew. You, but fresher.

I don’t want to be a snake – but there have been so many times when I wanted to start again – still me, only fresher.

Life is so full of surprises. People always say that as if it’s a great thing…like: “you never know what will happen!” But, I am actually not fond of surprises. Well parties and gifts yes, but like missed periods and pink slips – not so much. The fact is they happen – good and bad, large and small – convenient or inconvenient. They happen. My goal in life is to find a way to handle life’s surprises like a snake. As it so happens the snakes that do shed – HAVE to. It is a necessity of life for them. Imagine for a minute if they didn’t. I’m no snakeologist, but I think we would have fat, scaly, smelly snakes lying dead all over the place. The weight of all that old, dead skin would eventually kill them. Like it’s killing me.

Well that’s dramatic, but it is certainly weighing me down. I know it’s cliché to talk about starting anew for the New Year…but cliché’s exist to be utilized so, why not? I don’t have resolutions; I stopped making those a few years back around the same time that I realized that this journey to be the “me” that I envision in my mind was going to take some time and that that was fine. Instead, I take on a new “thing” each year; a new goal, something off the dream board in my head. In 2009 it was all about understanding “who I am”. You know like, finding a very comfortable space for myself in the world and respecting, honoring, and protecting that lovely little space at all costs. It was also other really boring stuff like setting both boundaries and standards for the people already in my life and those coming into my life. Can’t say that it’s a total mastery, but I’m very pleased with the progress thank you. However, I can say that the reason it’s not a one hundred percent win for me is because of this aforementioned weight.

My name is Tarana and I am an emotional hoarder.

I can recall practically every emotion I have ever felt since I was six. No lie. I don’t act on them, I don’t think of them often, but when prompted – here they come flooding to the front of my mind. It would be great if they were all like “the wave of joy that came over my heart when I realized the big surprise was that we were going to the circus!” type feelings, but they are not. I won’t rehash, but I will say it’s a hard knock life for real for some of us. And, just for kicks, I don’t just hold my own emotions – I manage to stuff some other folks’ stuff in too.

When I take a closer look at this practice it seems the emotions I tend to hold tightest too are worry and fear. The one two punch of emotions.

These two will seep deep into your pores and live on your body like a thin, almost invisible coating. They burrow into your psyche and take up residence in your heart and will rewire your whole system if you let them. They are dangerous and it turns out that holding onto the memory of old worries and fears – create new worries and fears. So, when life’s little surprises throw you a curve ball there is no hope of catching it and tossing it back. I don’t want them – the old or the new.

This is the year that I release worry and eradicate fear. I want a clean house. I’m ready to shed.

My goal is to lay old worries down in a final resting place. If my faith can’t carry me through it, it was not in God’s plan. I believe in a God whose grace and mercy is sufficient. I read it, recite it, sing it, pray it – but I don’t quite live it. Fear has no place in faith. I know that intellectually and spiritually, but on the real – I’m a little shaken even as I write these words. Sitting here thinking about my life without worry and fear – actually scares me! (I have probably revealed a bit too much there, but I’m all in now.) It’s the truth, and it’s why I am still writing.

What I know about myself – that 2009 taught me – is that I (we) can get too comfortable with “okay”. I was doing okay: the job, kid, apartment, a little cash, friends, church…kind of okay. I had learned to live with my “stuff” and function and be just “okay” enough not to be crazy. Which is crazy.

If I didn’t start breaking free from the “okayness” of my life this year, I would not have been able to recognize or accept the blessings – in all of their uncommon packaging – that came to me. But I have also become too “okay” with these crazy emotions – worry and fear. I have accepted them and made space for them in the space that I am supposed to be respecting, honoring and protecting (‘member that?). That can’t happen. They don’t really fit and they don’t belong and I don’t want them. And I will remove them. I’ve already started. This writing helps, and I’ll find more ways in 2010. Even if it’s not all the way licked 365 days from now – those emotions and other negative ones – will no longer be comfortable in my space. It’s my goal to shed that excess weight, that self-inflicted pressure, the old, stale, dead feelings.

To be me, only fresher.

Happy New Year!

(Or happy mid-year….depending on when you read this)

I’ll take an ‘aisle seat’ thank you.

So I’m a bit of a prude. (*pause for snark*)

Whatever. I am.

Particularly in the realm of public nudity and public displays of affection. I just happen to believe that what you are working with is your business.
It’s important that you know this about me as you read this post because you may wholeheartedly disagree. (Although that will likely have NO bearing on my feelings)
I am also a creature of habit. You need to know that going forward as well. I eat the same thing from the Chinese restaurant. And when I get tired of eating that one thing I occasionally order the other thing I eat from the Chinese restaurant. I sit in the same section at church. I cook my pancakes the same way….etc, etc, etc.

Up until about few months ago I was a regular gym go-er. I had a little routine three times a week at the local Bally’s. As a creature of habit, naturally each visit found me swiping my card, going into the locker room to the same section and more often than not the same locker. I like my little section because it’s in the corner of an open area. I have this weird fear of being in the back of a locker room too far away from the front door. That, coupled with my need for privacy, made this corner pocket perfect. As you turn the first corner in the locker room you run into it but you’d have to extend your neck a bit to see me in the corner and most people don’t – they just continue on past.

Well, there I was loving my little spot (few women even change here, probably because unless you’re in my little nook, you’re pretty exposed to every woman coming in and out of the locker room) when one day I come in at my regularly scheduled time and run smack into an older (like 65 years old) black women standing naked as a jay bird. (Never really knew what that meant…do they not have feathers or something?) Anyway, this chic – butt, booty behind nekkid turns to me and smiles and says “hello.” Naturally, I am like “hey” as I quickly turn to save what’s left of my retinas. As I sit down to start my changing process I am so disturbed by the snail’s pace at which this lady is changing her clothes and she’s still trying to carry on a conversation.

She is pulling crap out of her bag to put on and she’s all “I am taking the advanced step class – have you taken it?” Now, In my mind I’m screaming “What lady?? Stop talking to me!” But I say, almost under my breath, head still down and turned to the side, “Nah, I’m taking body sculpting.” I’m thinking my obviously uninterested body language and my barely above a whisper response will let her know that I need her to tuck what’s left of her Broom Hilda breast inside of something – anything actually – that will keep them from dangling in my peripheral. But no. When I go to stand up I drop one of my rings on the floor and as Murphy would have it my little silver band rolls away and stops right next to Lady Godiva who promptly picks it up and holds it out for me to retrieve. You would have thought it was a reprisal of “Lady Sings the Blues” with her in the role of Billy D. “you want my arm to fall off”

Ooooh. I was sick.

I turned around after a long internal sigh and managed to keep my eyes down while simultaneously just about snatching the ring from her outstretched hand. With mission accomplished I just left. Pissed off. I didn’t even know why I was so mad – but I was. I thought about it throughout my whole class and after class I didn’t even change I just grabbed my stuff from my locker and was out, still fuming. Part of me, I realized, was angry at the invasion. This is MY space. Remember the mean ghost in the subway from the movie “Ghost” who didn’t like Patrick Swayze haunting his train? That’s me. I’m like “Hey. YOU. Get off my Isle…” Like, “why are you even here to begin with?” Then, not only do you bring your hind parts to MY section of the locker room, where I have gone on happily changing (mostly) alone, you have the nerve to stand here doing a geriatric strip tease for all available eyes to see? Really?

I’m also thinking why can’t she be more like me? Stealth. I come in and I’m on task. I sit, open my locker and put my purse in first. Next, I take my gym clothes out of the bag and lay the sports bra and tee-shirt on my lap. I then take whatever top I’m wearing off and put the sports bra on OVER my regular bra. At which time I unfasten my regular bra and slide it out from under the sports bra, then – never revealing so much as a hint of areola – I put my tee-shirt on. The bottoms are a bit trickier but still doable if your focused. After my top is on I stand quickly to get my (already unfastened) pants down to my knees and then promptly find my seat again. As I sit down I am also taking off my pants the rest of the way. Once the pants are off – it’s just like poetry in motion . One swift movement has my jogging pants on and a quick pop up off of the bench has them up to my waist and drawn in. All that’s left are my socks and sneakers and done.

Take a note biddie in the buff. That’s what I want to say to her.

I actually want to find a poised way of saying to her “listen, it’s not a show. I get that you may have lost 20 or 30 pounds recently or maybe have some new, young 50-year-old stud hanging around you or you’re just glad to be here and you feel, I don’t know, liberated. But what about my liberty? I don’t want any part of your audacious display. I just want to work out so I can feel good about running around in the privacy of my own home butt, booty, behind nekkid.

Translation: I don’t need your bold declaration of independence a stone’s throw away from my insecurity. You make me uncomfortable. Get your Window Seat on elsewhere.

This week, after a short (well long-short) absence from the gym, I was so excited to get back to my classes. The first day back I was running late so I hurried into the locker room not even thinking about the aged jay bird – when BAM! There she was – as she was at birth – standing in front of her locker. Unreal.

She greeted me with a big grin and said, “Wow! I thought you had abandoned us! How are you? It’s been a while” I was honestly taken aback by her enthusiasm, but it also kind of warmed my heart. She continued, “Where have you been darling?” in that affectionate way elder, black women sometimes address younger sisters. “You know they have changed all of the teachers for the summer, but the 5:30 guy is great!” My back is to her. I am in my seat going right into my routine, top off, sports bra on, regular bra off…when she says, “Is everything okay?” Well, at this point she is being too nice for me to continue to give her polite silence and half smiles. So I half way turn my body toward her and say, “I’m good, just ready to get back to work.” She, who now has on just a bra and no bottoms at all, bush forward, says, “Well you know these workouts are the best way to work out the kinks in your body and your spirit.”

I couldn’t even speak. Her words said everything.

Before I could think too hard about it I turned to face her, careful to make full eye contact, and said “That’s exactly what I need too” and I smiled. She smiled back warmly as she bent over to put on her bottoms and continued to drop jewels. “Oh yeah, this is my favorite part of the week. The days I come in here I leave my crazy job, my crazy husband and my crazy kids at the door, I work all of that stress off baby – it will kill you if let it.” I should mention that she has now put on her clothes and is standing over me with her hand on my shoulder. (I should also mention that I don’t do touching and closeness with strangers either…but I digress) Instead of doing what I normally do – which is make some sort of gesture to release myself – I listened to my nudity prone elder carefully as she shared her “life lengthening” wisdom. That’s what she called it. She said after her bout with “a bad illness” she decided to change things and she only surrounds herself with people and activities that “lengthen her life” not shorten it.

Maybe that’s why she likes nakedness. Maybe it’s life lengthening for her. I felt bad. I didn’t understand this woman at all. I had her read as a kookie old broad who got a kick out of flashing what was left of her once possibly banging body.

I smiled at her again. This time big and genuine.

Before you go wrapping this up in your little hallmark mind…NO, the moral of this story is NOT that I will now consider baring my body in public places. I think this woman is brave. She has a resilient spirit that invites you right into the midst of her throes of passion. She lives her life fully and that is enviable. I do however hope to one day have less inhibitions about so many things that I now regard as “personal” but really are fears lying dormant waiting to jump out at me so I can cut and run.

I learned some things about “life lengthening” from my naked senior sister that I’m sure will continue to unfold as I’m marinating over them.

In the meantime, who knows, maybe I’ll show a lil’ leg.

What’s meant for me is for me…

Preface: So this is my first post. They won’t all be personal statements. Some will be political, some whimsical, some raunchy, some just social commentary. I also want to offer space for my friends, other **colored girls** to express themselves in similar ways. There is so much that goes on in a day-to-day basis and although we have social networks – sometimes even that isn’t enough.
I hope you enjoy what you read here. If you do let a sista know. If you don’t you can’t let me know that too, but don’t leave your real name, bc I get salty fast and I have stalker tendencies. I’m just saying. *hehe – jokes*

Enjoy.

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“If I had a dime for everything you forgot.”

That’s what my mother would say to me when I was younger and I’d go to the store and come back without the bread, or the 2-liter RC, or the change for the laundry that she asked me to get.

My memories are tricky. I think of my mind as a maze or a big, old haunted house. I wander through the halls being very careful not to go into certain rooms and slamming shut those scary, creaky doors that fly open without warning. I am always present because living like “past is prologue” is a real danger for me. The problem is existing this way has severely affected all parts of my life. I have friends who are probably still mad at me for forgetting dates scheduled to hang out or leaving them stranded at the mall. But my particular memory affliction is different because I have “selective memory loss.” It’s short term, unless it’s work related and it’s long term unless it’s something I don’t want to remember.

I’ll explain.

If you ask me to stop by the store and get you a soda on the way over – nothing, If you ask me where Maxine Waters likes to stay when she comes to Alabama – I will tell you on the third floor at the St. James (a corner room with a balcony facing the water)

Ask me about the Selma to Montgomery March – don’t ask me about 5th grade.

It’s just how it is with me. I love it and hate it. The ability to remember a number of small details has always helped me pull together events, no matter what size, and still make individuals feel important. At the same time, the ability to forget the things from my past that I wished never had a chance to form memories has been my best protection against my mind slowly drifting into an apathetic abyss. I can care about those individuals at those events because I have shielded them and myself from what my memories could have made me. I have reasoned this to be a fair trade through out my life but as a result I have broad and random memories of much of my youth.

I remember Christmases but not presents. I remember classmates and teachers (sort of) but not interactions with either. I have carefully navigated my memories my whole life. I live out each moment thinking about what I can and cannot think about. If that sounds like a complicated and edited way to live life – it is. Whenever I am challenged to think back on something “too far back” I do so treading lightly, peeping quietly around corners so as not to wake the sleeping giant in my brain that would gladly rear its ugly head and send a flood of unwanted memories right to the front of my mind.

One of the saddest parts of living this way and maniacally managing my memories is forgetting the precious ones. I’ve simply had to let some go because they were too closely attached to ones I can’t bear.

I recently lost the eldest member of my family. My great, great Aunt Ella she was nearly 100 years old. This past mother’s day, while thinking about her, I pulled up a number of old pictures and posted them online in an album dedicated to my mother and grandmother. As I looked through the pictures I remembered the various occasions surrounding the photos – but again – not deeply. A lot of people will say, “Well I don’t remember details either.” But the difference is – I want to. I love the details. I love remembering the smell of my nana’s house when she made sweet potato pie or my grandfather’s weird mix of ale, “smoke” and whatever cologne he wore. But I can barely conjure those up – because when I do I am forced to take the good with the bad. It leaves me feeling like I don’t have anything that is uniquely my own. I feel like I temporarily borrow these passing memories being careful to put them back exactly where I found them before anyone else sees that they’re missing.

Recently something happened.

I was talking to my uncle on Mother’s Day and giving him details about my work as usual and I mentioned that we’d be honoring Nikki Giovanni this year at our annual event. His first response was, “Is your mom coming? I know she loves Nikki Giovanni.” I told him that I had invited her and hoped she was coming, but I didn’t know. He thought it would be great that after all of these years of loving her that she finally got to meet her through me since she raised me to love her.

When I hung up the phone something in my mind clicked. Ever since I knew that we would be honoring Nikki Giovanni I have been excited and for the precise reason my uncle said. In my mother’s house women like Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Audre Lorde, Alice Walker, Toni Cade Bambara, June Jordan, Gwendolyn Brooks and Toni Morrison were household names. My mother always had a library of books and vast collection of albums. It’s one of the things she is known for. I was excited about Nikki Giovanni coming but had not thought about how deeply connected to her I am because of my mother. When my uncle mentioned it the memory of listening to Nikki Giovanni’s first album with her while watching her sew came right back to my mind.

And it was clean.

That’s what I call it when I have a memory of my childhood that is not attached to anything else and doesn’t conjure up any other bad memories. This was a clean memory. I could see my mother sewing and me there watching her and her turning to me and mouthing some of the poetry along with Ms. Giovanni as she kinda rocked to the gospel music backing it up. I instantly had another memory of her trying to decide what to listen to and me saying, “oh can we listen to the one with the baby on the cover!” I was young and I didn’t know Nikki Giovanni’s name well yet, but I knew her words and I knew her voice.
Right after these memories came to me I did something that I almost NEVER do – particularly when I have a “clean memory”. Normally, I am just grateful for that and I carefully place the thought back in my head so as not to disturb the others. This time I explored it. I sat for a minute and really thought back to that time. I thought about the album cover and about talking to my mother about her and about my mother pulling out some of her books. I held my breath just a little as I did this because I was honestly scared, but I did it anyway. This is usually a bad idea because I don’t know what is lurking right behind these beautiful memories…but this time I just let myself, slowly, carefully, gently traipse back.

Right smack in the middle of getting that wonderful, vivid memory of my mother and our literary rites of passage, an awful memory of what I was going through at that time came flooding back. And, like clockwork, it took up residence in my head shoving and pushing and tugging at my mother’s books and me and Nikki Giovanni.

But I wanted this one. I needed it.

So unlike many other times when I acquiesce to the demons – I held on. I closed my eyes and I held on to what was mine. “It’s mine because my mother gave it to me and I want it. “ Is what I kept saying over and over in my head. Literally.

I didn’t beg like I usually do. I didn’t plead with the demons to leave me and what little memory I have alone – I just took it back from them. And it felt good. I went online and looked for the album that I remembered from my childhood. I called my mother and asked for clarity on the name and cover – just to be sure – and then I went on and found it.
I held my breath and bought it. And from the moment I pressed play…I have never felt better. When I heard her voice it took me back instantly. It was so calm and soothing but so strong and honest at the same time.

I began to remember my mother’s bookshelves and how I spent countless hours in awe of the books on them. I spent so much time with my mother’s books that they became a comfort to me. I was too young to read certain books but I wanted to so badly! I was an avid reader to say the least. I went through my own books, from Judy Blume to Alice Childress as quickly as the breeze changes in fall. My mother kept my own personal library fresh – but I was longing to get into hers. And, at eleven or twelve years old, honestly – I was dazzled most by the titles:

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Singin’ and Swingin’ and Getting Merry Like Christmas

My House

Just Give Me a Cool Glass of Water ‘For I Diiie

Praise Song for the Widow

For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Was Enuf

The books seem to call to me with their festive covers and rebellious titles. I would ask my mother over and over “please can I read this one” and she would say “not yet” or I don’t know if you’re ready ” and I, being obedient – didn’t even peek. I pulled them out and looked at the covers and put them right back in place because, my mother – the omnipotent – might detect that one of her books was out of place.

Once one memory came they all began to jockey for a position on the main stage. I started to remember all sorts of things, but mostly I remembered the first book she let me read. I don’t remember how old I was, but I was somewhere near eleven. I remember asking for the millionth time if I could read one of her books and she got exasperated, went over to her shelf and began to mull things over. I vaguely recall the excited feeling I had not knowing what she would pick and being giddy and grateful for whatever it was! And then she pulled it out.

Nikki Giovanni – Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day

I don’t know how my hair was styled or what I wore or what grade I was in at the time. I don’t remember if I hugged her tight or just said thank you and went into my room. But I remember reading the poems in that book and getting it. It made me feel smart and validated somehow and it made me feel more connected to my mother. As an adult I have friends who love these same authors and quote from their poems and reference passages from their books – but I can’t – mostly because I don’t remember. I have read just as many, if not more, of the great Black women in literature as most women I know and these books and authors, poets and writers have influenced my life in so many ways that I probably still haven’t discovered them all yet. My mother gave that to me. It’s my inheritance. She sowed the seeds and gave me a foundation that would help build and shape my life. It’s what I have that is uniquely my own.

I almost forgot it, but I won’t anymore. I’m working more proactively to take back my memories and my thoughts and not be afraid.

I remembered this time and it felt good – clean or unclean.

Just one thing.

(Requisite disclaimer: Yes, I only read it once…i just needed to get it on paper, so forgive typos, poor grammar, etc…or don’t.)

Last year around this time, I was so struck by turning 35 that I sat down and wrote a list of things I knew for sure. There were 11 of them. Each one was a thing or act or accomplishment that I was distinctly proud of and felt some sense of relief in saying out loud. When I was done and I read the list back to myself I remember being overcome by a sense of transition and growth. I felt like I had arrived at a place that I didn’t even know I was on my way to. That list inadvertently opened up a world of self-discovery that became extremely important to me at precisely the moment I finished.

I almost knew instinctively that I would write a sequel. I even began thinking about it back in the spring when my best friend’s birthday came. I remember trying to reflect on my year thus far and coming up with a sort of contrived list of randomness like – “I can fill out a ball gown” and “I have decorated my home with great taste”…even as I jotted down these sort of empty achievements they fell flat in my mind. The things I listed at 35 were real – even the whimsical, were real, hard-earned, and meaningful in one way or another to me. This new would-be list of 12 (because that’s how contrived it was – I thought – “I’ll one up myself from last year, genius!”) was so insincere that I just stopped altogether and left the task alone. When my birthday came this year I didn’t even think about it. As a matter of fact, my life has been so “topsy turvy” – if you will – lately, that I barely thought about my birthday at all. But tonight, after what has been one of the longest weeks of my life, I sat reading in my living room and I was struck with a thought that led me back to this task.

I actually don’t have a funny list this year. I don’t have a list at all and what I have to say may or may not tickle you…but its honest and it’s me – today.

This year has been one for the record books. There has been significant change in several areas of my life. I have a magnificent new job and I feel fulfilled and appreciated for my work for the first time in a decade. My daughter started Junior HS – which is just unbelievable to me because according to my calculations she is still about four years old. And, I have a man in my life that is in a word – wonderful. As I sat thinking about these occurrences I couldn’t help but to think about how I feel like they are connected even though they seem so disparate.

My work, as anyone who really knows me, knows – is very important to me. I love the idea of working hard. I love to see something from inception to fruition and know I played a role in making it happen. And, I love to learn and then master something new. It is my absolute delight and my new job allows me to do that everyday. In the past, I have put my blood, sweat and tears into work only to have it go unappreciated and frankly uncompensated. Neither of those is an issue at this job and I love that the most. I have been humbled quite a bit doing this work too, but I have come out all the better for it. The kind of chin check this work gives me helps me grow as a professional and brings me closer to being even better at doing the work I truly love.

I love my baby. I don’t even have to write that because if you know me well enough to read this, you know that. She is growing up very fast now like someone was waiting at 11 and just put some duct tape on the fast forward button. She is my height and her feet are bigger than my feet! She is also “blossoming” quickly with things growing out of places that make me nauseous. Her taste in clothes, her taste in music and her taste in rules have changed drastically in a very short period of time. She is “funky” at times and she seriously irks the mess out of me at least three times a week. But as much as this pre-pubescence just makes me crazy, I love watching her grow. I love giving her the space she needs to discover exactly who she is – and she is doing just that. I love seeing the independence in her eyes when she is given another little freedom here and there – I remember that so well from that age. She has morphed from a little girl to a little lady in less than a year and while it is painful to watch sometimes, it feels like the kind of pain that you’re grateful for. It’s a bit of sadness for me each time she wants to stretch her pretty wings a bit further, but I am struck with a tinge of joy at the same time. Our relationship feels complicated at times, but then it shifts right back and feels as simple as the baby I just love.

Last year on my list of eleven things I made a bold claim, I said that at 35 I knew how to:
10. Appreciate a good man.
Good men aren’t exactly as hard to find, as they are hard to “de-fine”. All of my girls describe this supposed anomaly differently. By my own definition, I have run into quite a few and although they weren’t my soul mates or husbands…I did (and do) appreciate them for who they represent in the world. Learning to appreciate a good man has definitely prepared me to be appreciative of my own – when he comes. And chile’ he’s coming.

I’ll be darned if he didn’t.

I didn’t even know this man was thinking about me at this time last year, didn’t know if we would ever find our way back into each other’s lives or if we did would it still be the same. But he did – and he was determined that it would happen. I love him for that. The biggest surprise to me this year has to be that I would reach my next birthday and be head over heels in love – and getting married. (What? Stop playing.) It even feels weird to write it and read it aloud. In just a short period of time, I have (re) met the man who will be my husband and that reality has also helped me to put this year of my life into perspective.

It has been all about love.

I thought when I started thinking about this that it was all about him, but love has been an overarching theme this whole year.
My appreciation of, my desire for, my expansion into, my tug of war with, my cautious understanding and trepidation about, and my bold exclamation of…Love.

I was reading the breakdown of love in Corinthians 13: 4-8 in the Bible and was so struck by how this small passage covers so much ground. It is significant for each of the life changes that have occurred for me in the last year. Love is so difficult to comprehend and so simple at the same time. I know God is Love. And yet, as I have to go about my life dealing in and out of love in relationships with people and situations, it just doesn’t feel that simple all the time.

If I have learned anything else this year, it is that: Love is complicated and love is simple.

But I have also learned that love is a verb. It is kinetic always moving and always working. When you’re at your best it loves you back and at your worst it loves you through. It is real, it is tangible, it is messy, it is raw, and it is powerful.

And there is nothing wrong about it.

The verse says it never fails, and it doesn’t. We fail it.

This year I figured out a lot about myself by looking at how I love and why I love and what I love and when I fail and succeed in love; what it means to me and what I do in spite of and because of it.

I got all of that in the last year and some of it in the last week.

I am so very excited about what’s next. If it’s God’s will my work will be taken to another level in the next few years; my baby will continue to grow and develop into an even brighter star than she is and I will have a wonderful man to share my life with and make even more dreams come true for us both…

I don’t have a list this time because there is only one thing I know for sure at 36 and that is that each of these things will begin and end with love.

Karma?

We fight in N.Y. – we just do.

I have met so many woman (and men) over the years that have not had fights and it always boggles my mind. I’m thinking “how did you make it through 12 years of SCHOOL without scrapping ONCE? Impossible.” My first real brush with ‘inner city violence’, was in P.S. 106 – in the 4th grade – when Tyra, Latisha and Keisha decided that they were gonna “jump” me. I’m sure most of you know, but in case you don’t being “jumped” is when a group of people decide to beat up on one person or a smaller group. It’s weird how I don’t remember the circumstances now, but I think it had something to do with a boy named Gregory Wilkenson who we all sweated back then (and maaaybe my general ‘goodie two shoes-ness). In any event they followed me as I walked to my grandma’s house in an area called Parkchester and pushed me into a bunch of bushes, they hit me a few times, dumped my book bag out, broke my glasses and stole my bus pass (which for a NY latchkey kid is like the holy grail).

I was devastated by this incident. And, what was more devastating was that I had to continue to go to school with these heifers! Something happened to me after that though. I was NOT a hell raiser in elementary school. I pretty much hung with a group of girls that I had known most of my life and we rarely beefed. But after that, with the help of my young uncle and aunt who constantly talked to me about not letting anyone bother me – and my mother who took no shorts AT ALL (she was of the “go get that jump rope back from them NOW or don’t come home” ilk) I developed a thick skin. Latisha caught it by the end of the year, I didn’t even have to get at Tyra bc she already started trying to be my friend – and that was that. I had found a new power.

Now fast forward a bit. Maybe 6th or 7th grade. Not because I was evil, not because I was a bully – just because I was a strangely calculating little kid, I launched a campaign against a girl in my school because I was jealous. She never knew this I’m sure, but I was jealous because she seemed smarter than me, she seemed nicer than me and she was taking my best friend away from me or so I thought. So I went in on her. I am embarrassed to say now what I did – but it was mean. Like the “Mean Girls” movie mean, but SO out of my natural character. She was so hurt behind it and I remember sitting in our principal’s office and seeing her red eyes and feeling so very bad. She doesn’t know it, but that kind of changed me in that moment too. I promised myself that I would NEVER bully anyone or make them feel bad purposely. And I didn’t.

Every fight I had after that (Oh, because we fought – she was not a push over like that, she even spit on me during the fight) But after that, anytime I fought I was provoked. When I started at public high school girls thought I was some type of punk because I came from catholic school – so I had to fight to defend myself – a lot. I was suspended 7 times in my freshman year. The girls would just fuck with me for no reason and after a while I didn’t even wait for the bell to ring. (One girl I fought three times – Rhonda Coleman- just for the record) But I didn’t LIKE to fight, it was just necessary for survival after a while.

Since high school I have had a few more scuffles here and there. My roommate in freshman year of college, A Kappa talking breezy at a party sophomore year, some random ass girl who threatened my friend and a mechanic who tried to keep my car…and possibly a few more. Really I have had hundreds of more “violent arguments” than I have fights. It weeds the punks out. I’m clear who I am gonna have to take on (1-D) as we used to say meaning one on one – in the first thirty seconds of an argument. Girls who want to fight don’t argue – well we do – but only long enough to get the adrenaline pumping and then its on. Once all of that back and forth and explaining starts, hands down – no scrapping is happening.

Well, now I am a mother. And like my mother before me, it is well-known that I will lay you OUT about my baby. No questions. Although she wasnt born or raised in the Bronx, I thought she would SURELY have a little of her mama in her. I mean her daddy aint a slouch either (evil, I believe is the word I’m looking for) and Lord knows her auntie, my bestest, is worse than me! But, alas, my baby is me in the fourth grade – on steroids! . She is “sunny side of the street” on the darkest, cloudiest days…she is rainbow skittles in your bowl of brown M&Ms – she is just “joy”. She doesn’t understand why people don’t get along, she doesn’t understand why people randomly don’t like her , and she certainly doesn’t get bullies. She is now in the 6th grade – you remember that year, right? Full onset of puberty, loads of self-doubt, weird emotions – and boys. She is in the midst of all of that – and dealing with bullies. And I am at my wit’s end. Part of the reason I am writing this at seven in the morning is because she has shared yet another story of girls messing with her this morning while she was dressing. Its been two years and its only escalated since we moved to Philly. She wont fight back. She just won’t. The one time I tried to push her like my mother pushed me backfired so badly. I kept screaming at her, “you better hit those girls back if they hit YOU!” Her auntie and I were tag teaming her back and forth and finally I screamed “why wont you hit them back!” and she yelled out, crying “Because I don’t like violence!”

What do I do with that? I raised her on the non-violence of the Civil Rights Movement and reading the Bible – and now I wanted her to ‘choke a bitch’? I couldn’t be that contradictory. That was 4th grade, now we’re in 6th and it’s getting worse. They are calling my house and hanging up, threatening her, last year she even got a death threat in her desk – A note in red that said “Kill Kaia” in big red letters. I can’t take it – and as I have said before I am not above fighting a 6th grader, especially the ones that look like they are my co-workers. But I know that will not solve the problem. Did I say that I’m at my wit’s end? I talk to her constantly about ways to stand up for herself without being violent. She is too afraid. We are working on self-esteem issues and she does talk to me a lot, but I am really, really concerned. What happens next? People never think about how they scar these kids for life – I know I didn’t. Even if every subsequent fight after that one back in 6th or 7th grade was self-defense (or some version of) it doesn’t change what I did. I apologized, sincerely then, and since she is still my friend, I sincerely apologize again, now. But I can’t help but think as my girlfriend mentioned the other day, is this Karma?

help. help lawd.

Random Sharing #1

My job sponsored a writing workshop for high school students recently and they were given an assignment to complete. I was a little bored so I decided to join them. *Ai, yi, yi* This came out…a whole paragraph (lol) I swear it was like a page and a half written. I found the notepad tonight and decided to share it…bc……idk. I need to? I feel compelled to share that I am going through a healing process of some sort right now. A lot of it involves writing and I think it started with this piece at this workshop….anyway I would like to know what you’ll think?

“keep in mind I’m an artist…so I’m sensitive about my shit” – e.badu
————————————————————————————

… I can’t believe I’m doing this. I actually chose the question from the short list of possibilities. I thought it seemed compelling and not cliché. Now I was sitting in this auditorium full of kids with high school tuition bills that amount to more than my collective college loans – doing this…this thing that has in a single moment started to turn my life inside out.

The question was compelling, albeit simple.

“When was the last time you lost something?”

Come on man.

Okay.

I could go in two directions here. Tarana –lite….(”are you kidding me I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached! I lost my fourth pair of hoop earrings just yesterday…”)
or Tarana – real…

I lose something everyday. I start my mornings off by lying in my bed and watching my ten-year-old daughter get ready for the day. I have a bird’s eye view of the bathroom from my bedroom, so I watch through the crack in the door as she washes her face and under her arms (or not) and then brushes her teeth wildly. After what seems like forever she emerges from the bathroom, but not before taking a long, deep look in the mirror at her beautiful face. I watch her make scowly faces, smiley faces, silly faces and then she might mock sing in her air microphone or give herself what seems like, from my vantage point, a pep talk. It’s at this point I usually bark some order at her from my posturpedic throne and she quickly moves on to her next morning task. What she doesn’t know is that this is my favorite part of the morning. It inspires me daily because for that brief time I am able to remember a time when I was that carefree and cavalier with mirrors and other objects of reflection. It was a time when I loved myself – for real, because I didn’t know that I shouldn’t. I was into me because ‘me’ was ‘aight.
Watching my baby ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and giggle at her image inspires me to want to get my aged body out of the bed and take a stab at finding that sparkle that I see in her eyes. But the moment I fool myself enough to take a step in that direction – the moment I get myself in front of that mirror, I lose it. It’s just me. The me that I loved so sasha fiercely is gone and the me that is left is lost. I don’t love this person. This me is touched and tainted. This me is a before picture that happens to be after – incapable of looking directly in a mirror, no less mustering up a giggle. For me the mirror is for business: eyes – clean. nose – clean. mascara and eyeliner – fine. But smiles, laughter, air songs – impossible.

Seventeen things about me. (Yes, the facebook game)

When I first saw this game on Facebook I thought it was silly…but then I was tagged and realized how hard it was to think of this many things. It was eye-opening to say the least. I think it’s a great way to get to know someone and without question a conversation starter. So…here it goes:

1. I love Twizzlers, they are my favorite candy (outside of almond joys) and I once ate nothing but Twizzlers for like 4 days straight (for real)

2. Because I’m cynical and sarcastic and a bit roguish…I pretend that I don’t like my daughter’s Pollyanna, susy sunshine, all around glowy indomitable rosy disposition (hugs, kisses, butterflies, pigtails, flowers, and sunshine – ALL of the time) but I do. I cherish it.

3. I am extremely flexible, not as much as when I was younger, or as much as my daughter is now, but I can still do a full split (on good days) and a mean high kick

4. I know every last word of The Color Purple and The Wiz. Every one.

5. I absolutely looooove Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant and my two favorite movies are Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Bringing Up Baby

6. I was once kidnapped. (see #15)

7. I love crafts, I have a major craft supply collection and love home projects and Martha Stewart. I actually once built my daughter a tea-table

8. I was catholic until I was 13 and then my family became muslim. I’m Christian now with no denomination.

9. I once let my best friend take me through a Burger King drive through in a shopping cart, they tried to not let me order food, but I disputed it and they relented.

10. Although I am a type A work-a-holic…If I could I would quit my job, become a housewife and have lots and lots of babies, do my other work as a volunteer and write novels.

11. I was once scolded to tears by Harry Belafonte

12. I have OCD and anxiety attacks – both of which I have learned to control through prayer and meditation and breathing, Seriously.

13. When I am really sad I sneak in my daughter’s room and get in her bed…

14. I made Barack Obama laugh out loud during a moment of silence while Rev. Lowery was praying.

15. I met the love of my life at 15 and I still love him today like I did then; probably always will.

16. One of my biggest pet peeves is when people play or procrastinate on the phone, like, the whole, “hello?” “hello.” “hello?” “hello.” thing… it infuriates me

17. I want another baby. A son.

Eleven things I know how to do at 35

Written on Friday, September 12, 2008 at 12:33am

When I turned 30 I was so depressed. Not so much because I was turning 30, but because I used the occasion to lay all of my cards on the table with the man I thought I was supposed to marry – and he politely picked his up and walked out the door….crushing.

But really I was okay, I was kind of happy to be officially in my “thirties”. I thought it validated me as a parent and made me more socially acceptable as a “know-it-all”. It was cool to me…..but ooooh, I was not ready for the next four, err five years. They have been so interesting to say the very least. Mind you “interesting” is my catch-all phrase for when I can’t quite capture the exact wording to describe what I’m really trying to say.

The prospect of Thirty-Five has been daunting. I have 3 other close friends who are ’73 babies and the first one was born in January. So, from the beginning of the year I have been on 35 alert. The next birthday was in April and then August and now….me. September. When my best friend turned 35 in the spring I spent hours on end just staring at her (for real) until she wanted to fight me. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it all. This last week has been no different. I don’t think I’m depressed…actually I KNOW I’m not depressed, but I am a Virgo – so I tend to freak out a little bit about some things.

Now having said – ALL of that…in an effort to calm my own damn nerves and gain some perspective at about 2AM this morning I made this list (on the back of my daughter’s trip permission slip – but oh well) and I am going to share it with you….

(Disclaimer: those of ya’ll that know me, know that “everyting from me mout’ is slut!” Those of ya’ll who don’t know that…shouldn’t really be on my damn page anyway.)

Okay, so here it is –

I have learned how to:

1. Apply mascara and eyeliner.
Maybe not major to any of you Cover Girl types, but a tremendous feat for me. I am not a make-up person and the fact that I can do this without stabbing myself in the eye or wiping it all off as I dab away my tears – is huge.

2. Dress.
Age appropriate, body conscious, stylish, classic – my closet is finally (very, very, very close to…) where I want it to be. Who the hell wants to be “forever 21” anyway? The only thing I would go back to 21 for is my credit.

3. Negotiate for what I’m worth.
Another major accomplishment. I spent years taking other people’s EVERYTHING into consideration when being compensated. But now I take no shorts and my mantra comes directly from the immortal word of Henry (played by Ray Liotta) in GoodFellas: “You need board approval before you can do that? Fuck you. Pay me. – You need to come in under budget or you’ll be in jeopardy? Fuck you. Pay me – You really wanted to squeeze out some more money but you can’t until this grant comes in? Fuck you. Pay me. Works like a charm, try it.

4. Flirt
For years flirting for me involved me tossing around the word “pussy” at some point in the vicinity of a man I was interested in and letting nature take its course. Over the last several years I have refined my skills and developed a real knack for flirting with brothers – even just for sport. It almost always starts with a smile and a friendly comment…

5. Do my hair!
See profile picture. ‘Nuff said.

6. Travel light
This goes for through the airport…and through life. I almost always over pack. It’s insane with the bag of shoes, the bag of jackets…ridiculous. I can now go to Paris for a week with just two bags. (that is an open invitation for anyone that wants to take me) But also, I now travel “people-lite”. Don’t need an entourage. Don’t need the bullshit in my life. I divorced the drama, got rid of the riff-raff and now I make moves easily. I LOVE my friends – all 5 or you. (Syke, I’m playing you know you on the list too.)

7. Tell someone off.
This is distinctly different from cursing someone out. I mastered that skill in the fourth grade – really. I, as you all may well know, can curse anyone out – at the drop of a dime – no questions. However, as the mother of a ten-year old girl, who has to sometimes play hardball with principals, store clerks, cashiers, cab drivers, etc…I have had to round out the hard edges and figure out a way to get my whole (muthafuckin’) point across with out people looking at me like “some (fucking) mother she is”. Example: Recently, a gentlemen was quite rude to my baby as she was trying to be a “big girl” at the supermarket and “pay the lady” – at which time I had to step in and inform him that although I play about a lot of things – this little muff wasn’t one of them and seeing as how she is a human being – I would kindly ask you to treat her like one, bc at the end of the day you really have just two options: quietly watch her learn to be responsible by counting her little change and making sure she has all of her purchases…or watch me take out my clown shoes and politely invite you to an ass whuppin. (Yes, I used “ass” but that’s in the bible and you get my point. I’m evolving.)

8. Navigate my mother.
It’s amazing. I love her soooo much (I mean I always did – but you know) Now I miss her when she’s gone and she doesn’t aggravate me – much. This kind of just happened though life experience, time, motherhood, who knows. I just woke up one morning in a love affair with my mommy!

9. Bend it like Beckham.
“I don’t want to toot my own horn, but…beep, beep!” They say our libido increases with age – and it must be because we finally, or at least I finally feel like I have a complete grasp on the whole art of luuuuvmakin’ – and I’m good. Whatever, I just am.

10. Appreciate a good man.
Good men aren’t exactly as hard to find as they are hard to “de-fine”. All of my girls describe this supposed anomaly differently. By my own definition, I have run into quite a few and although they weren’t my soul mates or husbands…I did (and do) appreciate them for who they represent in the world. Learning to appreciate a good man has definitely prepared me to be appreciative of my own – when he comes. And chile’ he’s coming.

11. Pursue my dreams vigorously.
I think most of my angst around thirty-five (like most people) is directly connected to not being in the place I want to be in life. I did the whole “I shoulda been here, I shoulda did this, I shoulda made that…by now” thing – yesterday. And then I got up this morning praising God that my eyes opened and so did the eyes of my beautiful baby girl – and realizing (seriously) that my life has really, really just begun. Life lessons are something else – but they are invaluable. I am so grateful that I know, what I know – and would not trade a minute of my three and half decades – and I am not shooting you the shit. I really would not – not the tragedy, the heartache, the disappointment, (not even that scandalous night during freaknic ’95), absolutely not the birth of my daughter (after which so many people wrote off my dreams…) not my time in Alabama or my move to Philly.
If I had to add one more thing to this list it’s that I’ve learned and now know how to – not just like myself, but deeply appreciate myself or the “me-ness” of it all. I love Tarana for who I was, who I am and who I am on my way to be.

Love, love to you all!

Happy Birthday to ME!