Category Archives: Uncategorized

What If They Had Left US Alone, Too?

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  1. 400,000 acres equals about 625 square miles. To put it in perspective: Dallas, TX, with a population of about 1.3M, is about 340 square miles. Los Angeles, CA, with a population of about 3.8 million, is about 470 square miles. Houston, TX, with a population of about 2.3M, is 640 square miles. The end of the Civil War saw approximately 4M slaves freed. ​ ↩︎

Drunk Auntie

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I have a drunk auntie, as I’m sure most people do. My drunk auntie is one who we have been hesitant to invite to cookouts or other family gatherings, simply because we never know what the heck she’s going to say. She “reads” people on the regular, because as sure as you think others have forgotten from whence you came, she is here to remind you that nope! It’s never a quiet read, and it’s always rife with profanity and colorful metaphors that equally embarrass the victim and entertain any onlookers. She gives me my entire life every time I see her. I want to be the person physically closest to her so that when she gets that unction to make her observations and frustrations  publicly known, I will have the best seat. She is a joy.

I started calling my auntie pretty regularly a couple of years ago. Not regularly enough for her, tho, as I have to bite the bullet for the first 7-10 minutes of the conversation while she calls me names, scolds me for not calling her for such a long time and tells me I’m good for nothing and disrespectful. I realize she is mostly joking, but if I’m keeping it real, I definitely could do better. But then we get into the meat of our conversation. It’s always fun and I end up with my face and belly literally aching from smiling and laughing. Except for one conversation in particular, when she deconstructed the drunk auntie narrative I had been sold and had actually bought into for all these decades.

Auntie grew up in the projects, in poverty and facing more challenges than opportunity as a Black girl. She grew up near my dad (here I will clarify that my auntie is really my father’s first cousin, but due to age, we have always called her “aunt”), and was a self described ” wild child.” She told me she had a best friend who lived across the street from her. They were the same age and grew up like sisters. If one got in trouble, the other was right there in that same trouble. She loved her with all her heart, she said. They even both fell in love with two guys and became pregnant around the same time. Their babies were born a month apart. They were together for some part of every day, especially after their children were born; my aunt had a girl, her friend, a boy. Every day, they rode the same bus to work together…they didn’t work in the same place, but their jobs were next door to each other.

One day, they went to work together, catching the bus as they always had. When they got to their stop, they hugged and promised to take their regular break together later to eat their lunches. Auntie went into her building and had been working only about 15 minutes when a guy from her friend’s job ran in, in a complete panic.

“Hurry over!” he screamed, “(your friend) has been hurt!” Without thinking, Auntie ran as fast as she could. She expected to find her friend laying in the floor with a broken leg or arm, or having bumped her head on something. “What I walked into was something no one should have to see,” she said. Her voice quivered. I don’t think I was breathing at that point.

She found her friend lying in the floor with the top part of her head and part of her face completely missing. There was blood, brains and bone particles on the counters, floor and walls. She had been shot during a robbery she walked in on when she arrived at work.

“I have never been the same. I can see that scene clearly in my mind as though it happened this morning. The feeling I get when I think about is just like it was on that day.” She started drinking after that day. She was so incapacitated by PTSD (as she would likely be diagnosed with in these times) that she could not care for her daughter. Her mother sent her away. “But I never got any help. Nobody tried to help me!! Why do you think no one helped me? I needed help!” I had no answers. I was too busy trying to cry silently so she didn’t hear me. I regret that. I should have let her hear my crying. I should have joined her as she trusted me and relived that experience on the phone. I hate that I didn’t, and I feel that I, too, failed her in that moment.

We talked for about 90 minutes that afternoon, and everything I thought I knew about this drunk auntie was dismantled. The mystery and clouds that had been around her dissipated, and I saw her not as a drunk or “wino” as the family joked, but as a broken, misunderstood woman who didn’t have access to mental health care due to her economic and social status. “These things happen in the ghetto. You just have to move on and get over it,” she was told time and again. As though people living in the “ghetto” are supposed to always be strong, resilient and not psychologically affected by tragedy and trauma, simply because such types of events are “expected” and “normal” for them…? People around her failed her. I’m not blaming them, because I don’t think they knew of a different way to handle her situation. There were no discussions of PTSD, counseling and therapy being held in her neighborhood or schools. Still…

I’m glad my drunk auntie talked to me. I knew then how much she must love me to let me hold this memory with her. If it’s possible, I love her even more now. And at the next gathering, I will be sitting even closer to her, perhaps with my head leaned on her shoulder. At that meeting, if tears come, I  will let them flow freely.

Ode to “What Women [over a certain age] Should Not Wear” Articles

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First of all, shut the hell up. Second, have a plethora of seats. A stadium of seats. A myriad of seats. ALL the seats.

I’m not sure who is writing these trash articles, but guess who’s not reading them and have no damns to give about the content therein? The women these articles are supposed to “target.” These are women over 30, over 40, over 50 who have, it seems, suddenly become fair game for the heckling and “target practice” of aspiring fashion editors and bloggers. These are women who have survived decades of sexism, discrimination, and likely, a fair share of street harassment. These women are your mothers, grandmothers, aunts and friends, and they deserve to be able to make the simplest of morning choices (“Hmm…what should I wear today?”) without being subjected anyone else’s opinion on whether said selection is “appropriate” or not. Writers of such opinion pieces should get their target practice on issues that are more worthwhile and less invasive into the private lives of women; issues that could actually prove beneficial to society, such as: “Why do I care so much what someone else wears?” or “How can not giving my opinion about what others do make life easier for everyone involved?” because articles judging what’s age appropriate for a demographic that doesn’t give a shit what you think are a colossal waste of words and time.

The hours of fake research and time taken to disseminate unsolicited opinions on what women can and cannot put on their bodies only further demonstrate that society is FAR too comfortable in telling women what to do, how to think, how to act, how to…I could go on, but you get the drift. Women over 30, 40, or 50 are going to glance at the title, suck their teeth, and keep flipping the page or scrolling the mouse. And if by chance we DO peep at a paragraph or two, all we do is giggle and proceed with life as normal. That mini skirt you said I should trash? Actually, this article JUST reminded me that it’s in my closet, and there’s a banging party this weekend! Non matching socks are a no no? Well, come to my house and match socks for me and my entire crew, you judgmental footwear tyrant. There comes a certain point in a woman’s life when she wakes up and has absolutely no cares in this world about what someone else has to say about her fashion choices. Because grown. So, please. Just stop it. I wear what I want, when I want and how I want.

Underarm Deodorant/Antiperspirant Residue Shall Vex Thee No More

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This may be my most random post so far, but I am here to help the people. So here goes:

If there’s ever been a time in your bath/shower career that you’ve wondered how to get rid of pesky deodorant residue, never fear!

I shudder when I think about the amount of water and elbow grease I’ve wasted trying to rid my pits of that sticky residue from a day’s antiperspirant application. I tried everything from shampoo to baking soda to sea and sugar salt scrubs to plain old multiple scrubbings with harsh soaps. Then one day it hit me to try a simple product that lurked in my medicine cabinet…and it worked!!

Are you ready? Hemorrhoid medicated wipes/pads! I use the generic store brand and it’s worked the same as when using the more expensive brand named products. Right before showering, wipe your arm pits with a pad and abracadabra! It’s like magic! After every shower or bath, I feel like I’m starting off fresh rather than as if I’m applying a layer of deodorant/antiperspirant on top of the residual layer from the previous day. What’s good about these pads is that they have so many other uses such as make up removal, cleaning oily build up from your face to fight acne, not to mention their original use…hemorrhoids! Still, the fact that they help my arm pits feel fresh and give my pores a breather until the next antiperspirant application is enough of a reason for me to keep these babies stocked. I would guess that witch hazel and a soft cloth could work just as well (that’s the active ingredient in the pads), but i’m far too lazy to be bothered with the extra work, not to mention the pads are flushable.

I do hope this helps someone! Now back to your regularly scheduled programming!

Untitled, because really, there are no word in English for last week….

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Genocide. There is nowhere to go. We are helpless because those who hold power sit idly by and witness the annihilation of my people. They held us captive, stripped us of basic dignity and humanity and then heckled us when we did not know how to behave as dignified humans. They treated us with disdain and hate and then judged us when disdain and hate were what we knew. They separated us from themselves and then laughed at us when being separate was where we found comfort. I mourn for my people and for this place that is the only home I know. Relegated to exist in a world where I am not wanted, but having no other home, I wander aimlessly without a clue as to where to go from here. My tears can only be dried by things otherworldly, because here, there is no peace to be found for my soul.

P.S. I’m so tired of being told to pray as the SOLE response to violence and wrongs perpetrated against my people. We’ve been praying since before Harriet Tubman. God hasn’t answered to tell us what to do yet?! He has. People have just convinced themselves it wasn’t God speaking or that it “won’t work.” If I don’t mix up batter after adding ingredients..if I don’t place the pans in a hot oven…if the fire isn’t given an opportunity to change the very constitution of the mixture so that it comes together and takes a solid form.. there will be no cake. I want cake.