Vulnerability Isn't A Liability

"Do you think about me?"

The tweet passed my timeline but I just kept coming back to it. I'd always been the person who, while in infatuation, in romantical tangles, in whatever we chose to call those things that make us want to be in love, but aren't love...I'm always the person that seems to want it more. I'm always the person asking that question, because, so often, the answer isn't clear, or worse, isn't what I wanted to hear.

I had a hard day today. I woke up feeling terribly insecure and didn't know where or how to place that feeling. I've been confident in myself and in my world for awhile now so for the feeling to hit me so hard was jolting. What was missing? What was wrong?

And then my someone wonderful comes into the picture. And boy, did I unload all my insecurities on him today. I'm wary of this thing he and I are in because it leaves me feeling like I'm asking too much, or am too jealous, or too nagging or any of the other myriads of things I think that get me down. I'm wary of these feelings, these unprovoked (or mildly, depending on your perception) jealousies and worries; feelings, and people, change constantly, and I, for all intents and purposes, am a rock. I may shift, I may chip, I may be polished, but ultimately I am the same. Today though, I was not a rock. And for that reason, I kinda lost my sh*t.

You see, the way I'm used to it happening is this: I fall, they don't. They lead me on, and I stupidly follow. They drop me, and I bruise. I move on, and they miss me. They ask me do I still think about them, do I miss them? So many of my ex-somethings seem to still have my number. Seem to want to follow me on Twitter. Keep friending me on Facebook. My answer is in the response that they get: none.

I am weary of always being someone's "What if" or someone's "second place." I am weary of putting everything I've got into this love thing and never getting much back. And I'm tired of dudes from friendtationships past hitting me up on some Ne-Yo "Do You?" type sh*t because no, I don't. For a week or two after? Definitely. But someone's got me now who I don't worry about dropping me, as even if he does, I've know doubt he'd help me back up. Someone's got me now who tries to assuage my fears rather than feed them. Someone's got me now who cares about me where all others have failed. And if you didn't bring that to the table to begin with so long ago, I'd be a fool to miss you, much less think about you, now.

As for the me in the present? I won't lie and say I'm a secure girlfriend. At this distance? Insecurity chews me up inside some days. I try to stay cool, calm and collected, not letting it all get to me, and most days, I succeed. But days like today? Everything has me hypercritical, nit-picking, not at him or our situation but at me, and the myriad of things I could be doing better. I could be stronger, and more secure. I could be thinner and wear my hair differently. All these internalized things, because I simply don't know how to ask him "Do you think about me?" without feeling clingy, needy or naggy.

I forget sometimes that my vulnerability isn't a liability but rather the thing that makes me human. Vulnerability makes me nervous. It makes me feel weak and dumb and like I'm making a fool of myself constantly. If I'm vulnerable with you, please, be patient with me. I'll ramble like an idiot. I might cry a little. But if you handle me right, I come back stronger, better and ultimately more comfortable and confident, if not in myself, than in where I stand with you. In such case, you won't have to answer the question, because at that point, I'll no longer be asking it.

Trust Issues: A Family Affair

I have trust issues no Drake. I didn't know they were as deep or as encompassing as I've recently found them to be, but they are truly there and I'm wondering why it took me so long to notice them.

Yesterday at my job was hard; back-to-back calls, brand new rules and even more unnecessary pressure. I spend a majority of my day fighting; I fight my car, I fight my customers, my managers, the last thing I want to do is come home and fight. But sometimes what you want isn't what you get.

It wasn't necessarily a fight, but more of a calling to the carpet, yet again. I don't mind those, they let me know what I need to work on, but when I'm already doing the best I know how to do, and people are constantly telling me I'm not doing good enough when I know and feel that I am? It not only hurts, but it makes me close myself off even further back than I am in myself. And that is where I learned of my trust issues.

I haven't truly trusted my parents in a really long time; the last call to the carpet forced me to come head-on with that realization. I love them both, very dearly, but I don't believe in them the same as I used to. I have this settled feeling in my heart that they have, and will continue to drop me, leave me, or let me down just like they seem to have the settled feeling that life is going to f*ck me up and over, and that I will continue to let it and thus, let them down. 

It's been that way since the divorce. I always thought I'd gotten over that so long ago but as it turns out, it's just solidified in me a distrustful nature of my family. Instead, I pick my family as I go along - W is the sister, Soul Brotha is the brother that I've always needed and wanted. In my mind, I am my own mother, nagging and pushing, but encouraging and hopeful. I am my own father, firm and determined, constantly reminding me of my worth and that I deserve the best. My parents, their amazing qualities, are instilled in me already to make me push myself further; I just wish they knew they hadn't failed, which I feel they sometimes think they have. 

I am not the college student they raised me to be. I am not a doctor, or a lawyer, not yet a teacher not yet even on my own. But I am a great person. I am smart, I am kind, I am stead-fast and hard-headed with my goals. If that isn't enough for them for now, then I suppose it's time I stopped wanting to please them so much. 

Not to say I will stop honoring them, not to say I will stop listening to and learning from them, but my heart is hard against them, defensive, and I don't really know where to start chipping away at it in that respect. I'm not sure if I'm ready to or know how, but I know that my love for them is going to push me, I'm just apprehensive about if it's pushing me closer or further.

StoryTime: I Wasn't Ready...But I'm Still Me

I love my hair. I love it when it's wet and fluffy, retaining water enough to soak two towels. I love it when I'm detangling it in the shower. I love it when it's twisted and kinky, or in a slightly lop-sided afro, and I love it when it's straight; I love it because it makes me proud, because it's mine. What I do not love is the responsibility, the burden, the unwanted and unwarranted advice that comes with being a natural haired girl who will occasionally straighten her hair.

Last weekend I finally went into a salon to get my ends trimmed. I've been natural almost a year now and had done most of my hacking trimming on my own; whenever I got out the shower from shampooing and I saw straight, annoying ends, I cut them and kept it moving. I hadn't done more than pick my hair the three days leading up to it and so I walked in with a cloud of curled, kinky hair six inches tall.

When explaining to the receptionist what I needed her blue eyes widened and went from my face to my hair. The stylist I ended up with knew exactly what I was talking about and lead me right over to the basin. Before washing she delved her hands deep in my mass of waves, an admiring smile on her face. She asked me what I did to it and I told her. Soon a few other stylists came over and touched, petted, fawned, and asked general questions. I felt more proud of my hair than I ever had before; these were professionals and they said I'd done a good job so far with the transition (could they have been lying? Sure, but we all know that look stylists give one another that say "Chile, please." None of that occurred.)

Leaving the salon with bouncing, blowing hair, I felt hot. Like literally, my hair rarely laid flat on my neck when in it's normal texture and now it was surrounding my neck and shoulders; this is Texas, it gets hot. It was longer than I ever remember it being; for a year of growth I'd surpassed my relaxed length by nearly two inches. I was proud. I felt beautiful, just as I had when I walked in. It wasn't a big deal; it was still my hair and I was still me.

It didn't become a big deal until I went into work that next day. I'm not too fond of a lot of attention, but with straight hair, I was suddenly a star, bombarded with "Ooohs" and "Aaahs." Everyone wanted to touch it, sifting it through their fingers like silky gold, eyes wide and admiring. Others wanted me to flip it over my shoulder or shake it out. And suddenly it wasn't just the attention I was weary of.

Comments starting flying in. "Why don't you wear your hair like that all the time?" "Your hair is so beautiful like that!" "I'm glad you finally did something with your hair." One woman even told me that I was much more attractive than when I had my hair in that "Afrocentric mess" I usually kept it in. And I kept silent; everyone has opinions, but damn did these hurt.

You see, I don't get complimented on my natural texture much, if at all. Other natural women will smile when they see me, or ask what I use, and brothas love to tell me "Right on, sista," but otherwise? All's quiet on the western front. But these people who saw me everyday were suddenly lauding and in awe of my beauty as if they'd never seen it before, as if with my hair the way I love it, the way God intended it, I was so much less than beautiful. And it hurt deep in the part of me that craves acceptance and understanding. I was the same girl last week, was I not beautiful then?

I wasn't ready. I love the way my hair is, in any form, don't get me wrong, but I wasn't ready for the backlash. I didn't know it would be such a big deal to so many people what I did with what God gave me. And that's when it clicked; these people don't know me and don't give three damns about me, they're just spouting opinions. If they did know me or care, they'd know how sensitive I am about physical critiques. They'd know I wasn't as hung up on my hair as they were and keep it moving with a simple compliments, not ones that made me feel as if I'd been petted and slapped simultaneously.

I won't be ready next week either, when I wash away the silky straight strands and replace them with coiling, twisting tendrils. I already know the questions are going to come. The looks are going to follow. And no one will be wanting to pet my hair, or run their fingers through it as, indeed, they may lose jewelry in it. Instead they'll shake their heads, "tsk" and go on critiquing someone else.

And you know what? I'll still be me. And that is more beautiful than any head adornment one could ever wear.

Storytime: Being The Black Kid

I remember one day very long ago when I was younger, maybe seven or eight, when I realized I was black. It wasn't a shocking realization as my parents had me reading about our history, and I wasn't blind to the differences in my skin tone and that of other people. But one day the sun was shining beautifully through an open window, and a breeze blew away the curtains. The sunlight hit my skin and I noticed how lovely and brown it was, how warm the undertones of it was. And for a good ten or fifteen minutes I marveled at the range of colors my skin had, from the pale palms of my hands, the dark brown of my elbows, the slight red under my cheeks...such beautiful color. And from that day forward I was proud of my skin...well until puberty, but I digress.

The first time I ever felt ashamed of being black was in high school. Up until then I was acutely aware of being very smart and typically being one of very few black students in Advanced Placement classes. In said classes whenever something about black history or black women was looked at, the room immediately turned to me for the perspective. In middle school I gave them what they wanted; I was sassy and factually funny but as time wore on I became so annoyed with always being looked to. At the time I wasn't really searching for myself, but I grew tired of people telling me who I should be.

In high school it got worse as I tended to be two classes advanced, and the black students dwindled down to three or four from seven or ten. I was quiet, and insecure and tended to stay indescript in all my classes while silently making the cut in them.

But one day in history class during black history month we were going over slavery. I'd long given up on learning anything from school on black history and instead was reading a book of Langston Hughes. Then some girl raised on her daddy's farm with freckles and horns on her F150 said that slavery was "millions of years ago" and that black people should just "get over it already."

Now there were two other black students, a boy and a girl, and they kept their eyes on the round tables and out-dated books below their noses. The rest of the class, consisting of Hispanic and white students either nodded or just looked on. I kept my eyes on the other two black kids, the boy with his sagging jeans and white tees, the girl in a top reading "Baby Girl" in glitter and extremely tight jeans and heels. They weren't going to say anything.

I silently put my book down and turned to the girl. I remember as if it were yesterday what I said: "Our people were put through physical, psychological, emotional, mental and so many other stresses at the hands of people who had kidnapped us, raped us, killed us for plants, for money. We were told we would never be good enough to have respectable jobs, we were spit on and had dogs put on us. Us in this room personally have not been directly effected, but long term, all of us are still struggling with being in a country that never intended to treated us as people but as items and animals."

She retorted that it was years ago and we were not directly effected. To which I said, verbatim mind you, that studies still showed that a white man would get a job over a black man even with identical credentials, studies still showed that black women more than any other were over sexualized, and that inter-fighting and racism between different color black people as a result of leftover slavery mentalities were still very real problems. I ended by inviting her to opt in to hundred of years of being treated as less than a person, less than an animal, as an item. I invited her to be cheated and lied to a la "forty acres and a mule!" I also invited her to kiss my black ass.

My teacher wasn't too pleased with my harsh tone or choice of language. She pulled me aside after class to let me know she should write me up...but she never did. She said that if I hadn't said anything, she certainly would have. She commended me for having my facts straight and told me that she was proud of me on a human to human level not just a teacher to student level.

And the pretty farm girl? Went around for a week playing the victim card, saying I called her a racist for no reason and hemmed and hawed. She shut up about it whenever she saw me though, until she had her friends behind her and I was alone reading. She came up to me about a week later and said she didn't appreciate me calling her a racist, and without looking up from my book I stood, and I told her a hit dog is usually the one that hollers loudest, and that I had never called her a racist - her own guilty conscience had done that and I walked away.

Being the black kid was never difficult for me. I was always aware of it, and always proud of it. Being the black kid did set me up for some unwarranted attention, but once I stood my ground, once I let the world know I was Tes, a black girl, not a black girl named Tes, it was never an issue for me again.

Tes and Gratitude

Sometimes my emotions sneak up on me. I go through my days pretty much thinking and doing, and in the spare moments feeling. For awhile I haven't been really getting in my feelings, just scraping the surface.


So this morning I wake up singing Brian McKnight's "Never Felt This Way." Just woke up humming, then all out singing. And I stopped and sat for a second and really felt what it was my soul was telling me with it's song choice. My heart suddenly felt so full and big, as if was waiting on me to notice it's swelling before growing even bigger. Sitting in silence I felt entirely and with all my soul grateful.


I didn't realize my heart wasn't broken anymore. Isn't that strange? For so long I'd been walking in this life like a broken woman, like anything good coming to me had to have a catch or an underlying method to hurt me. For so long I'd been masking the brokenness behind superficial friendships and meaningless chases with dudes I really wasn't into, trying to bide my time until I could tap my little heart and not feel that throbbing pain of a bruise. I didn't take the time, I suppose, since starting this journey through and to myself to check on the heart of me to find that those stitches have since dissolved; I spent so much time on my mind and it's labyrinth on the way to understanding that the heart of me just got an occasional tap to be sure it was still there, still beating. My heart's healthy and happy, and so full of love for life...it's a strange feeling


And in feeling that I felt gripped with joy and gratitude to a higher power. Because I couldn't have done all this by myself. I'm not religious, but I woke up thanking God. Not only for what I've acquired by myself through what he's given me, but for the people he's put in my life, for the opportunities he's given me and for, above all, the ability to see the gift that each one of those things are. My parents, my friends, Tarzan, and this moment in my life where I feel like I can finally look my happiness in the face and not look behind my shoulder to see if something bad is sneaking up on me are all really big gifts. 


Gratitude is a big thing, and a thing I don't think a lot of us actually feel. I think we feel thankful for a couple things but get so bogged down in the bad things, in the things we wish we could change but can't, the things that still hurt that we forget to be humbled by the really awesome things we do and have. I know I'm guilty of it, and so when gratitude snuck up on me in addition to all these other happy emotions no lie, I cried (Remember when I had said that too many emotions, good or bad and I bawl? Oooh chile, I ain't lie).  


But unlike so many of the tears I've shed in the past couple years, these didn't hurt. These didn't sting and weren't bitter. I felt happy and humbled and just...joyous. I smiled through each and every tear and just felt grateful for every thing that I've got, even for the things I don't have. Family, friends, falling in love...God really snuck up on me with it all today. And even for that I'm grateful. Feel a little like a punk for admitting I cried, but definitely grateful for the feelings that brought it about. 


Be grateful you guys. Every thing you have that enriches you is a gift. Every thing you don't have that weighs others down, is a gift. Everything you are and everything you are not is a gift. 

Tes and That One Word

I wrote a short story about my day on Twitter earlier but it seemed lacking in so much that I had to just come here and put it all in perspective.

I was taught by my father's mother that as a lady I didn't work on cars. I wanted to mind you, but I just never learned because ladies, as set in stone by my Nana, didn't do those sorts of things. So it happens that I'm 21 years old and barely know where the oil goes. Instead, my grandmother taught me that as a lady, a cunning one at that, I could coerce more knowledgeable people to help me and so far she's been right.

Tonight my car's oil light went on. I'm not surprised; Amber (that's the car's name) has a leak in the oil gasket that's getting a lot of blowback to the rest of her under carriage. It'll take approximately seven fifty to fix. I know this about Amber already. But if I have the hood up? Nobody knows that, as my face is a constant state of confusion.

So it happened tonight that a very tall, chocolatey man steps down from his Range Rover to help me and my little hoopty. I explained what I thought was going on and he proceeded to take the oil from my hand and put it in the car while I went to buy another bottle. Once those were figured out he then checked my lights, my under carriage, my brake fluid and let me know I had an oil leak. To which I replied "No? Really? That's such a shame..."

After it was all done I thanked him ever so much and started to get in my car when I saw him writing something down. Slipping his number in my hand, he gave me a giant smile and told me if I needed anything to call him; I smiled and said a polite 'thank you' and let him drive away first. All ten digits; his name was Thomas . And then I remembered something.

The guy I'm into, his name, starts with a T too. And he's taller than this Thomas dude. Probably with worse eyesight, but just thinking about him made me remember that this dude here? Couldn't compare. Sure, Thomas was sweet enough to help me with my car, and that's a lovely thing not a lot of dudes do for women anymore. But...he's not it for me.

Awhile ago, that would've been it. I would've been all over poor Thomas before his lights fully disappeared around the corner. But now? That number felt foreign in my hand, like someone had handed me a Martian monkey wrench and said "Do something." The guy I'm into means something to me to the point where this "potential" somebody? Doesn't measure up to what I feel for him right now. That's odd for me.

I'm scared of what that means for me. Does that mean me and this dude, Tarzan, are exclusive in my mind? And what are the implications of that? When I'm literally throwing ten digits of an attractive ass dude to the wind, where in my past I would've kept them as at least an option what's that really saying about who and where I am now?

I'll tell you. I'm not the same girl who was running after attention from men who I didn't care for. I'm not the same girl who's rushing to be someone to someone else. I'm just a girl who's fallen in love with a guy. Am I still insecure? Very. Am I still working harder to be confident? Definitely. But now that there's this calmness in my spirit from knowing that someone, somewhere thinks something of me to wait on me to get there? Nobody's worth throwing that away for.

The romantic in me is all out and vulnerable. Be gentle, ya'll >.<

Musing: Fear, Love and Chess...?

There was once a time where I was fearless. I would get on a bike, knowing I would be almost magnetically drawn to the one pole/ditch/bench/object in the area, fall and scrap something, and yet I'd do it anyway. There was a time when I was fearless, and wrote a boy in my class a love poem, because he told me he thought it was cool that I read above our grade's reading level by at least 4 grades. I used to be fearless once.

When my Dad left my Mom, I thought I handled it well. My dad was my best friend in the world at the time, and all I knew for sure were the three of us (and my dog Lucky) and suddenly I didn't have that knowledge any more and couldn't be sure of the ground I stood on, much less the people in my life. And now that I think on it, that's when I started to become afraid, not only of doing things away from my two people but of life in general.

So between the ages of twelve and eighteen I was existing in this world; life was happening to me, and I didn't really have any feelings about it. Point of fact, all I was interested in during those years was falling in love, and being somebody's everything and having something, some love, that I felt was lacking. And I looked in all the wrong places for that validation. Once I hit nineteen, for the first time in life I lived exclusively with my Dad. I stayed with him no more than two years all together.

When I was nineteen I fell in love with this guy who could never and would never love me back. I spent the better part of my year or so knowing him trying to force myself to be what he liked, force myself thinner, prettier, funnier, anything so that he would see things the way I did, so that he would see me as a woman who could love him. And then I spent the next two years learning to trust myself again, and forgive my foolish heart for not taking the hints that were given; I spent those years undoing all the damage that he and I caused myself.

Over time I've become fearful. I fear not having things as much as I do having them. I fear making friends, as because of my nomadic past I have a tendency to pull away from people once I feel like I'm no longer needed or that I may be moving. I fear not being near either of my parents, because to me they (and W) are all I've got. I fear falling in love again because the first time was disastrous and took me so long to come back from, and I still feel like I'm missing pieces from it.

But I can't let fear govern my moves anymore. Life is scary. You fall in love and you don't know how or when or why but you do, and for someone not knowing how and not having answers that could be terrifying. You find a new job that you're not sure you're even qualified for, where it seems everyone, including you are expecting you to fail. You make a move that's so out of character for you, you question your own mind and intentions. Life is scary, but not living it would be the real nightmare.

Not taking those leaps when they present themselves is short changing yourself, psyching yourself out into believing that, for whatever reason, you don't deserve or wouldn't know what to do with those things that you crave and that you do, indeed, deserve.

I keep thinking that I confronted my fears on a snowy day in Fayetteville, that the day my heart was broken was the day I came face to face with my worse fears and overcame them. Only now do I realize that fear still hides behind my advice to others, my cautious way of living, my unusually tough walls to get behind. I give the veneer of being shy and reserved, but the fact is I'm amazingly outgoing...once I stop being afraid of you. And I'd never realized it until, once again, I got overwhelmed with feelings of missing home, and remembering that crazy dude who didn't realize that he'd broken me. I got caught up in the 'what if' game of these new things I'm attempting, this new life I'm trying to forge for myself. And I cry when I get overwhelmed which makes me feel really...girly; more than one emotion at a time and I'm pretty much putty that's another blog for another time.

Fear of rejection. Fear of pain. Fear of losing things you hold close to your heart. We've all got them, and we all process them differently. I forget that not dealing with them doesn't make them go away, rather for me they make them all the more tangible. As a woman who's going through this inner change into who I'm meant to be, I neglected working through my fears as I figured you grow out of those, right? You grow out of not being picked first for the teams, and the teasing, and whatever else made you fearful as a kid...right? No, fear is something that'll grow within you if you let it.

So my sage words for today are diminish the fear. Everything you do is going to have risks and consequences, and anything you think you deserve is going to take sweat and tears and work. Not taking those risks to avoid those consequences cheat you out of the rewards. Letting fear rule you makes you a pawn on the chess board of life when you should be the Queen (or King), the piece that makes all the moves, the most valuable piece on the board. That's not to say be hasty and just move your Queen around whilly-nilly, but recognize the good before it's too late. Don't let the fear of losing the Queen piece cost you the entire game.

Tes is A Little high-Strung

Okay, who am I kidding? Very high-strung. I don't remember ever not being high-strung, and even now, with me trying to grow into a better person, that sad fact still hasn't changed.


As I was getting ready to go and do errands on my day off a distinct ringtone stopped me from going out the door. I have Twitter alerts sent to my phone when I'm mentioned or a certain person posts something that could interest me. Turns out it was both; the guy I enjoy...crush... like had posted a blog. I knew I should probably get going, as the places I needed to go closed earlier that day, but I was compelled back to my laptop to read the post he'd written. And I was floored.


You see, I have a hard time believing my own hype. I don't believe I'm someone inherently special and irreplaceable. I think I'm just a normal girl with a slightly off-kilter outlook on life, love and relationships. My philosophy may be different, but in my eyes, I am not different. But to me he is, and he says I am, so what does that mean?


To know someone you're developing feelings for is in the same boat is an overwhelming feeling, especially if it's the first time you've ever encountered such a thing. Most of my life all my crushes have been totally one-sided, with me pouring out my little romantic poems and expounding my feelings in very subtle ways which to me, at the time, were large but were never returned. I'm prone to being a monochromatic person externally, but inside rays of different colored light streak my heart and soul like harp strings, each one different and unique, playing a different note that adds up to the song of my being. And after reading what he said, all those emotions shot out of me.


On the one hand I was heady than a motherf*cker and happy that for once a guy actually understood what I was saying and could articulate it back to me. Then all these fears and doubts started creeping in. What if I get bored? Or what if he does? What if at the end of all these we just end up being nothing to each other? But the one that kept repeating, kept confusing me and making me doubt myself is "Why me?"


Personally, I think this dude is probably the dopest thing since...Pete Rock and C.L Smooth's "T.R.O.Y" and for him to think of me so highly makes me all...high-strung. It warms my little heart something fierce and makes me sing (internally and externally) to think that he digs me. Like legit, I've been singing "Sweet Thing" for days now. Digress. In knowing that a person I think is so cool thinks I'm so cool kind of puts my growth to the test.


I'm still wondering why. Why would he like me? I don't do or say much anything special. I try not to be overly tempting or flirty (which is really hard) or move too fast to the point he has yet to hear my voice. So how could he, why would he, like some nobody from Podunk, Texas? Someone who he's yet to hear in stereo? Someone he's yet to hold hands with (although, if I'm being honest, that would make my year)?


And then I convinced myself to stop wondering, to stop worrying; it doesn't really matter much why or how but just that he does. I mean, he wrote for me. Nobody's ever done that for me. And he's trying to get to know me as a person, where nobody's ever ventured and that's all I've ever wanted anyone to try to do with me.


So who cares why? Who cares if, months from now, he may forget me or I may forget him (though I really doubt I would)? Who can really say what's going to happen tomorrow, or next week? Right now? The good that I feel is enough. More than enough. And us being so similar, I hope he knows all that for himself as well. I hope he knows that if I'm being distant, it's just my way of not trying to crowd. If I'm being shy, it's just that he makes me nervous, not anything necessarily he's done. I hope he knows that he's a reason for me smiling and singing so. And I hope for now, that's enough for him too.

Different Perspective

I don't think I'm extraordinary. I think every word I have ever and will ever write have already been written, and most likely by more skilled authors, poets and lyricists. I think I'm average and un-intimidating, but a conversation with my mother has shifted that train.

For as long as I remember, Mommy has always gotten me Valentines Day gifts. In my early teen years I always neglected them, wishing they came from some know no good boy, but now that I'm older I really appreciate the effort (and the jammies). This year I got her a teddy bear, some of our favorite candy, and Adele's "21" album (because seriously, Adele has to be one of the coolest artists out) and she got me a really good dinner at Red Lobster, which is a treat for me because I eat fast food and "freezer to microwave" meals more than anything.

We talked about how life was going, and I sort of lamented the fact that I don't feel much noticed in the world and my lack of conviction about being different. And my Mommy looked me dead in the eye and said, verbatim, you are somebody, and somebody really dope. She says my hair, my demeanor, the calmness that lies below my surface can intimidate people, especially guys my age, and make me seem unapproachable. My wit and intelligence are easily observed and that, she said, can be scary; how do you approach someone who knows the game and it's pitfalls?

I'd never considered my outward appearance to be daunting. I'm five fee tall. Natural hair. Kinda large in the chest, spreading in the hips, with a bit of a tummy. I don't necessarily think I stand out because I look at myself every morning, but I'd be blind to not notice the sea of weaves and perms, made-up faces and starved stomachs that surround me. I'm not afraid to wear my glasses. Not afraid to buy bigger sizes and accessorize in an understated way. I don't speak too loudly in public, most times I have earbuds in low enough to hear my surroundings and keep focused (I take them out when people are talking) and pretty much keep to myself and keep it moving.

Flipping the script, if I were someone different, and I saw me, I'd think I was really cool looking. My hair isn't the stereotypical natural of afros and braids, rather it's two strand twisted out, kinks and curls, varying in size and standing at odd angles. I walk and read, headphones on, which amazes people as I've learned, because I manage to avoid bumping into anyone and actually turn pages. I would guess, if I were to see myself outside of myself, I wouldn't look twice, but that first look would leave enough of an impression to make me look over my shoulder.

I don't surprise easily. I notice a lot of folks when they meet me try to gauge if I'm prudish or wild, steady or reactionary; they never really figure me out. I like that about myself. I like to help people, open doors for elders and say thank you when someone does something courteous for me. I'm always carrying something in my hands to occupy myself, i.e coloring books, actual books, tarot cards, diaries. Yeah, I'd say I'm a unique person.

I've been told for the last few years of my life that I am the exception and not the rule. Most girls do this, but Tes doesn't - she's the exception and not the rule. That being the case, as much as people say they are Billy Badasses, the rules are rules for reasons, and none too many question them. So more often than not, I'll be the odd woman out. And I'm learning to be completely okay with that; someday, somebody's going to be looking for a short, natural haired, brainy exception, and I'll be in there like swimwear.

I guess I forget that perception is so much of who we are. Because I live in myself I don't see what others see in me. When, through my eyes, it seems as if people don't bother, in their eyes they may just not know where to start. In my eyes, where I see flaws and things that make me less than, someone else's eyes are admiring those imperfections as the perfect make up of me. Perceptions change over time, and of that I'm glad. Maybe it's time I start perceiving myself a little outside of myself, not enough to get a big head mind you, but enough to maybe edge out my own shyness and muster up the courage/strength/chutzpah to continue to be unique, despite a sea of sameness.

So I guess that's the thing to take away from this one today ya'll: Dare to be different. Be that one red-head in a sea of blondes. Be that one natural girl in the sea of weaves. Be the reader in the room of tweeters. Be whoever you are, and realize that doing that makes you more amazing than you realize.

Sweet Sixteen...

I once read that life was like a cycle; as you grow older, you start reverting to the way you were as a baby. Martin Lawrence did a comedy special that featured the idea awhile ago, but I forget how true it is until it's in my face, how true it is.

Early 2000 I bought Destiny's Child's "The Writings on The Wall" album and played it out, and a song I kept playing was "Sweet Sixteen." At ten, I was pretty much as I am now, except a lot less complicated, and I wondered was that what sixteen was really like. Was sixteen the year I'd suddenly feel like I knew everything (even though honestly at ten I already felt that way)? Was there such a notion as moving too fast? I decided at ten, I wasn't going to go through all that crap voiced in the song, it wasn't going to be that hard for me.

I was sixteen five years ago and I don't remember much of it; I felt at the time that I was just existing, I wasn't an actual person. I felt that way pretty much between the ages of 13 and 18, that I wasn't a person, but more like an uncompleted blueprint. But at sixteen I thought I was in love with this guy, Andrew we'll call him, because he was nice to me. That was really all it took back then. And now that I look back on it, it happened just like the song said it would.

I was searching for some love where I felt there was none, searching for someone to see me as more than my potential, as more than my blueprint, and him being nice to me was enough. I wanted to be with him and wanted to be loved and was rushing so much that most of, if not all of, my high school experience was wrapped up in him. I was rushing, but back then? Couldn't tell me a damn thing about me or Andrew. But boy, did I learn.

Five years later, I would tell my sixteen year old self 'Baby, he ain't the one, YOU are.' Back then I thought I needed to be in love to feel valid. I'm working my way out of that feeling to this day. I compared it back then like Noah's Arc; I'm that one hybrid animal with no partner, and Noah's sounded the trumpet. Panicked, anxious, ready for the big picture that was the end of all those Disney movies and romantic comedies I grew up on; we'd roll off into the sunset, kissing, never to be seen again, but everyone assumes we're happy.

Five years. It seems like yesterday, and so far ago at the same time. I've gotten a little jaded since then, but that same sweet hopefulness lies under my fear and anxiety. It makes me tear up, thinking about the time I wasted, the time I am wasting, worried about things I can't control. I remember how helpless I felt back then, just waiting for any bit of attention to be thrown my way so I could come up with excuses to be more to people than I actually was. Now, I shirk away from close relationships, fearing the heartbreak, the 'what if' of it all. Back then? Couldn't tell me nothing.

If I could take anything from back then and instill it in me now, it would be that fearlessness, that carelessness with which I lived and loved. Back then there were no eggshells on which I could live my life; I was all out. Admittedly, I threw myself at the wrong types of dudes in search of that "one," not realizing that most of the girls I saw in high school weren't going to end up with the dude they were dating or were miserable with them but were afraid of being alone - just like me.

I'd give my younger self a dose of my jadedness - not enough to hinder my outlook, but enough to make me realize not everyone was as genuine as I. I'd start coaching myself on how to be comfortable alone, how to find friends with like minds and hearts to depend on, to not search for love. I'd tell myself I was beautiful, because back then I had so much trouble believing it, so much so that to this day I can't look myself in the eyes and say it. I would tell myself that I was loved, if by nobody else than by myself and God.

Five years...has it been that long? Where has the time gone? What have I learned since then? When the song came up on my iPod, it still struck such a cord - I've learned so much, so many vital things, but I realize that if I was told back then, I wouldn't have listened anyway - I was hard-headed. Luckily, it didn't make for a soft behind or a hard heart as I've seen it turn out for others. Sixteen...if I had to do it over again, God knows, I'd never do it; the mistakes I'd made, I'd make them again, wishing for a different outlook.

I'm glad that sweet sixteen was a little bitter for me. I'm glad because it lead me to the now where it seems I'm a little ahead of the curve, finding myself and being kind to myself before I open up to others. I'm finally listening to my own intuition, to my own wants and not so much the pressures of the outside. I finally stopped looking for my damn keys. I'm finally blooming into the sweetness that eluded me back then; here's hoping five years from now I remember 21 just as I remember 16 - with fondness, and a whole lot of wisdom in my back pocket. But here's also hoping there are no regrets, there are no missed opportunities, and that whatever bitterness I face, I turn them to sweets now instead of in the future.

My Keys...

I am that friend. You have one similar, or you might be that friend. The one with the intune advice, the one who doesn't look like they're listening but shock you by repeating what you've said, verbatim, and giving a solution in no time. That's me. And it weirds me out considering I always get asked about love and managing relationships.

I am single, as I'm sure you might've picked up on, but I get tasked with sorting through relationship drama and skirmishes like I'm paid to do so. My idealistic view of love, but my realistic view point of life puts me in this weird place where I don't know what I'm talking about, but I feel what I'm talking about. I don't like to say I know something when I don't (because then if I'm put on the spot and am wrong I get embarrassed) so I'm not going to say to my friends "Who's got two thumbs and is excellent at relationships? This girl!" But that never stops them from asking me how to show someone love, or rather, sort through that love.

I would guess that because they know my methodical approach to life, as well as my genuine want to be a good person, a demonstrative person, they'll ask my advice for things. For instance, I was on the phone with my homeboy about his girlfriend for nearly two hours the other day; they're having miscommunications and misunderstandings left and right - their slight age difference is making him feel shaky. I responded that they should have an open dialouge, a sit-down where no judgement is passed and they just say what they need to say to one another. I also let him know no woman, no person, can make or break him unless he lets them; if they were to break up, his heart will go on.

W puts me in the same place, sometimes admitting to channeling my mannerisms and ways while in her relationships which...weird, right? I feel like my copyrighted self has been infringed upon by that, especially when she gets to reap the benefits of being "me" while being her. I digress. For the most part I don't mind, but there's this fretful little seed in me that's sprouting with my position.

Let me be honest here; I don't really like being the logical one, the one with all the patience and all the time but none of the experience. I feel like it's not my place to give advice as I have no credentials to fall back on. If I had a laundry list of successful relationships and a ring on my finger, sure, ask away. The fact remains, it's just me though; just this small girl with a big heart and without a pair of hands to put it in.

I feel good for helping them, legitly, but at the same time I keep thinking "I would totally have this handled/This wouldn't be an issue with me." It's egotistical, but it makes that small, fretting seed in me feel better until I realize it's not the right kind of "better." I shouldn't say "if it were me" because...well, I don't really know what I'd be like. I can muse and posture on it all day, but the fact remains that I've never had to really do those sorts of things, compromise, talk it out, etc. with another person before.

The romantic in me is listless and waiting for a chance to prove itself. The nurturer in me is still content with just helping others. The me under it all is just tired of being the good angel on people's shoulders. The me under it all is over being everyone's super woman, and still walking away with empty hands and a wrinkled cape.

I asked myself a few days ago why I bother, asked myself 'What are you looking for Tes?' What is keeping this candle lit dispite a very short wick? I got my answer in a dream. In it, I was myself, not my dream self of model proportions, and I was in a place that was beautiful and peaceful. And there was a guy who was digging me for just being me, and we were comfortably together. Violins, cellos, the works ensued, and I felt beautiful with every cell in my little dream body. And I woke up feeling beautiful, and I went to work and had customers yell at me still feeling beautiful, and I still, after waking and walking for hours, feel as beautiful as I did in that dream.

And there is the answer, the thing I didn't know I was looking for but kept frantically searching for in the arms of other people, in the approval of other people. I want to feel beautiful, all the time. I want to be comfortable in my own skin with people, and trust them. I want to find love at my own pace and not feel so put upon to do so by my own zany perceptions of what people my age are doing. I was once told when you stop looking for your keys, you find all the other things you need to find first, and then, your keys.

So yes, I am that friend. The single, pretty one. The one who everyone thinks has all the answers. I'm also the friend who's lost her keys and has finally stopped looking for them. And it's feeling better and better every day.

<3

New Year's Check Up

Every year, about the same time I take stock of my life and how it's coming a long. I guess it's time for another life update... >,<  Sheesh, mmkay.


As of late I've been considering my life in my own terms. What would success be to me? What would love be for me? What could I see myself doing for the rest of my life, and where would I be doing it?


My life, so far, has been a whole lot of ships in the night; I've missed a lot of opportunities because I was fearful of other people's perceptions, not realizing that they'd think of me whatever they wanted, whether I did what they wanted me to or not. I'm now in that phase of taking advice (sporadically) but still doing what it is I want and need to do. 


What I need to do, is get the hello out of Texas. It's a lovely state, a great state, just not the one for me. Me being in Podunk, TX and having so much I want to do that I feel like I can't do here puts me in this odd spot; I want to go, but I'm afraid to start my life without a safety net i.e a fat savings account or my parents. I'm afraid that if I stay, I'll be stuck here forever wondering "What if?" for the rest of my life. So my decision is to go, once I get a comfortable amount in savings. I made a plan - it fell out of place, so now I'm on plan C; fix my new car, save as much as I can, and bounce once MaDukes and I are both stable and comfortable. I give it 8 months.


At first, I planned to move in with W, but I'm changing my mind about that. I think I want to live by myself as I've never lived completely by myself. I used to house-sit for my father and I stay alone sometimes here, but to have my own place, own furniture and own rent? Sounds awesome. I want to move somewhere where I'm free to just do me with no interruptions ... I want to move somewhere where I feel like I can find stuff I like to do like poetry meetings, painting classes, museums and hole-in-the-wall jazz clubs with a dash of city life. I was thinking maybe Raleigh...Richmond... Seattle...maybe even TDot. 


As for my ever-long pursuit of love and happiness...I found happiness, I'm finding happiness, in myself. I'm finding love in myself. Other people can't validate how I feel about myself, and the more time I spend actually exploring my own mind and heart, the more open to other people I feel. I'm not ready yet, to go out and be this explosive person that I am with my words and thoughts, but I feel like the time is coming. A few months ago I had a feeling my life was changing, and I could either indulge in it, or deny it, but it was still changing. Same situation here; I know it's coming to the time where I'll be myself, unafraid and unabashed by criticism...just not yet though. 


Success has changed to mimic what I think happiness is; success is loving more of your life...while accepting the parts that you don't love as much. I think I was born to be some sort of teacher, or to help people. Who needs more help than the nation's youth? No. Body. 


So what does your New Year's check up look like? Do you even do New Year's check ups? 

Lil Wayne: A Critique of a Culture

I'm not a fan. Now that that small fact is out of the way I can say that I do admire the man's hustle and the twinkle in his eye when he's doing what he loves; he's got a way with words that make people feel smarter when they get his metaphors which I think is admirable. Hell, before him, none too many dudes knew what metaphors were, so I definitely respect that. However...something is missing lately in his rhymes.

For that paragraph up there, I often get looked at as "that one girl." You know, that one girl who's always a bit different; she's always reading and using four syllable words. She's always listening to "alternative" music. The snooty black girl. A musical purist/elitist. And yeah...I can kind of see that; but I still have a point.

Take for instance the new leaked single, "She Will" with Drake. Yes, I'm Aubrey biased, but at the same time I can listen objectively ("Marvin's Room" was shallow, sappy and pointless - see? I can be honest.). "She Will" has sick production; it has a throw back 90s West Coast vibe with trilling bells layered under the bass; the bass is going to boom in cars across America at all times of the day and night, I can already feel it. Then the strings add a bit of an eerie feel, bringing the vibe down to make the song feel heavier; they make it feel like the words over the music have weight to them.

And then you listen to the lyrics and it sounds like everything he's ever said in a song before. Disjointed ideas with witty punchlines doesn't make a great song. Interesting, sure, but not so much as engaging as it would be if there were a common thread between each set of 16.

"She Will" is (I'm guessing) about what a girl will do when you've got all the money and influence behind you, but throughout the song the "she" takes a backseat (no pun intended) until Drake's hook (which is debatably about either a stripper, or Nicki Minaj or Nicki Minaj stripping?) which isn't in the least surprising as Drake tends to put a lot of focus on the woman - positively or negatively is debatable as well.

 The "she" is an afterthought, kind of like all the items and imagery sprinkled throughout the song; "she" is just another thing to acquire along the way and forget about in the end. The song is just a front, in my opinion, for Wayne to boast about himself and what women will do for him. And like that, it's just like every hip-pop song I've ever heard by him.

You want a sum of up the song in a few sentences? He's blind to the criticism. He gets b*tches. He's got a preoccupation about his soul going on, hence his preoccupation with hell and heaven imagery and the thin line of "life" between the two. He's the man right now in rap. He gets money. And oh yeah, he gets b*tches.

It's not so much Wayne (really) but what he reps that I have a problem with. An artist being good at what he's good at isn't a crime; it isn't like I want a painter to pick up a mic and spit something awesome. It's not that he himself is a self-absorbed poser (*cough cough*) but his obnoxious followers (fans) typically are. You disagree that Wayne is the greatest rapper alive and you don't know hip-hop. You don't think Young Money is taking over the world, you don't know hip-hop. You don't pop it for a real dude to a YM beat, and you don't represent hip-hop. And there's where I find my problem.

I am hip-hop. I'm jazz, alternative, pop... but more than anything, I'm hip-hop. Hip-hop is innovative and broad; it takes from many cultures and styles to make up an array of interesting and unique mixtures that shouldn't work, but do. I can't say that Wayne is the greatest alive, because I haven't heard every rapper in the world. I can't say YM is taking over the world because I don't think any company has captured the world the way Bad Boy circa 1996 did. And I don't pop my booty (in public or otherwise) to music I think demeans me.

I am my own person. I have my own thoughts. I love hip-hop...but I don't love hip-pop, or it's current leader, Lil Wayne.*


*You know who the exception is; I'm not ashamed to be a girl with a crush :P.