Keys Revisited Revisited:

All this time I was searching (and then not searching) for my keys, I only just recently realized that I was someone else's set.


There's someone out there that, when he writes for me (hell, when he talks to, texts, Tweets, or sends me smoke signals), it melts my heart, and softens it in ways  and in places I didn't know it was calloused and hard. When I'm having a tough go at it, he is that thing that reminds me that it won't always be so tough or so hard. In short, I've found my keys, the thing, the person, that motivates and moves me along on this journey, the person helping me to unlock all these doors that have been standing in my way.


The thing is, once you've found your keys, and you start noticing how doors seem to open easier, that you're able to start your mode of transport and go, you don't want to lose them. And that is a sentiment that Tarzan seems to struggle with. 


I wish I had new words to tell him how "there" I am with him. With anything new, there's fears of the unknown of it, the things you can't predict or plan for. Like, love. I for one wasn't looking to fall in love, at least not anymore. I was content learning and leaning on myself, finding out the things that make me who I am, and how to incorporate that into all aspects of my life. And then here he goes, like that part of a dream you're holding onto in that place between awake and asleep, that thing that makes the whole day glow and feel brighter and better than any other day. 


Yes, I'm in love, and I paint the world in pastel shades as of late, but I'd be a liar if I said I didn't have my fears of love. Such horrible things have been said and done to and by me in the name of "love" or things that masquerade as love. I've seen love turn into discontent and lose it's luster. I've seen people lose all God-given sense and their will to move forward due to love, but those aren't the things I fear.


I fear I won't be enough. I fear I'll be too much. I fear he won't like how I look, or will shut himself off once we start really learning each other. What I do not fear, though, is losing him. I don't fear that so much as I know it's always a possibility; rather I use it to my advantage to remind me to be the best chick I can be for him. I'm of the belief though, that when a heart is given to you and you treat it well, you never lose it. Can things change? Can feelings shift? Yes, but once a person has your heart, they'll always have a piece of it; even if we don't work out (which I sincerely hope we take this as far as we possibly can) I already know he's got a large piece of me.


You can't unlock a person like me, a person with trust issues and insecurities that seem to be taller than she is, and not know how amazing that is. But it seems that he doesn't realize the talent he has in that area. When things are bothering me, he's become the person I think of telling first - not so he can coddle or encourage me, but so that I can genuinely get his input and feel that calm and clarity that his voice and presence brings me.  And for that reason, among many others, is the reason he can't lose me. 


He's got me. There's no two ways about it that, as long as he wants me, I'll be there.  When I read and hear how I've already had a bit of an influence on him, that he uses my slang, or how he feels about me... There's nothing in the world quite like that. And for that very unique reason, he'll never lose this pair...this set rather, of really flattered, humbled and happy keys. 

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.

Musing: Keys Revisited

I remember a few months ago writing about lost keys. How no matter how hard you seemed to look for that one thing that eluded you, as long as you kept searching so doggedly for it, you rarely find it. I promised myself to stop looking, to stop putting myself through the let down of hearing that familiar jingle only to find it was just pocket change or hair pins. I stopped stressing so much about the keys, and lo and behold, they ended up coming to me.

I could tell you about all the times I thought I was in love, only to find it was just infatuation mixed with a bitter, large dose of desperation. I could tell you about all the times my kind heart was taken advantage of in the name of lust masquerading as love. I could tell you about the guy who broke my heart and kick started this whole inner peace journey that I find myself steadfastly and easily walking. Or I could tell you about now, the time where love snuck up on me.

Those guys in the past put me in que to be who and how I am, and so I don't regret them, or what they've taught me. I don't regret the heartache, I don't regret the headache, as they've lead me to now, where I can show and tell how much I appreciate and admire the guy in my life. 

I'll be honest and say that I don't really know what this kind of love is. I love my parents. I love W and Soul Brotha. I love sitting in the sun with my iPod blasting Dwele G and a sketch pad. But this? I've never felt this before. It's a calmness injected with an underlying giddiness. A closeness that doesn't need to smother to be intimate. A playfulness that I've never really let anyone see in me. It's all these little things about me, not him, that have changed that make me think this is the real deal.

The main change I think is that I feel like a woman no Shania. I forget what exactly he'd said but after he said it the thought that made me smile and raise my eyebrow was "Oh, he's gonna be the man..." Not to say I've never felt like a woman before but I've always felt like a woman among dudes, guys, and boys, never a woman to a man. I've never been evenly yoked with the guys who were interested in me, or vice versa. There never seemed to be this even flowing of energy where, my energy so easily complimented theirs. I was always the one putting in work, always the one being there for them, always on a grown woman stance while they could never really be the man I needed. 

The feeling that I'm in now is shaking me to my core. I've always hoped but never really thought I would find a person who saw me as I am and not who I pretended to be, not who they wanted me to be. He knows about my insecurities and hang-ups, he knows some of the annoying things I tend to do or say, and here he goes, coming to see me and sh*t. I guess the truth is nobody ever proved to me I was worth that much; I was worth weak game, a trip to the dollar theater (that I had to pay for), but never worth getting to know really. And whereas I'm the one who emotes and expresses more with my words what and how I feel, he tends to want to show more than tell, and man is he showing me.

I suppose the reason I'm so shook is a mixture of not knowing really what being in love with a person is like as most of my tentative relationships with guys, dudes and boys tended to be one-sided. I'm shook because he's proving that he wants ME, not me in a couple months, not me in a couple years, but me right now, as I am. I'm shook because falling has never felt so right before. I'm shook because I'm entirely into this person and would really rather not mess everything up with being so high-strung. 

I can't really explain how I know this man is the one who's worth it. I can't really explain how I fell in love so quickly and easily after guarding my heart with such vicious seriousness. And the truth is, I don't have or want to explain it. I don't want to rationalize and suck the fun out of finding out if, indeed, it goes as deep as I think it does. I've found my keys, and no doubt I have a destination in mind, but who's to say it can't be fun getting there? 

Musing: Breaks

There have been few times in my life where I have taken a break; most of those "breaks" were mental as I would function just enough to live and get by before coming back into the tangled labyrinth that had become my thoughts and emotions. I remember it happening two or three times, and the breaks were never pleasant. They always hurt in the way that a healing burn hurts. The sting of past inadequacies and tribulations, short-comings and hang-ups keeping me locked in this glass jail cell, letting me see the life I wanted to live, but keeping me from doing it. I always found my way back, and always went through it and found my way out of it alone.

I've taken breaks from work and felt rejuvenated by just three days away, three days to color, draw, write and read, three days to be myself, with and by myself. I've never really let people into the part of me that goes on these breaks, the tough and the easy ones. No one has seen me that sad, and no one has seen me that happy. I'm always in the middle once I return back from "vacation," always leveled out and mellow.

But this isn't about me...Not really. Tarzan (you guys, if you follow me on Twitter know all about him) has booked his tickets for June . And I'm stoked, nervous but above all, I'm curious. You see, I'm very open about the fact I don't believe my own hype; I don't know what makes me special, I just know somewhere deep and true that I am. And so I asked him, why now, why with me, does he chose to do this seemingly out of character, impetuous thing?

I think I annoy him; my constant need to understand why and why me can get a little tiresome. I knew it was a matter of time before he'd develop a pet peeve (and it kind of makes me laugh a bit)...Digress; his answer was that he needed a break. And given my above mentioned history with breaks, I can kind of understand, but it doesn't answer the question below the question, why with me?

Is it a need to see me, live and in color to be sure I am who I say I am? Is it a feeling of trust or understanding that goes so deep without saying? Is it the need for some exotic, Southern "strange?" In my analytic mind it all seems possible, while my caught up heart is just nervous and excited, finally allowing itself to believe that this, he and I, is a real thing.

Do I understand a break? Definitely. Do I understand the need for a break now, with me? No. Maybe I'm an excuse, a diversion from the real need to get away. Maybe I'm just some girl who's in love with some guy and willing to meet half-way (kinda...). Maybe all of these things and none of them are true at the same time.

All I know is that he's coming. And I'm excited, and can't wait to take a break with him, let him see that free, wild and silly thing that I hide from most other people. I can't wait to test our dynamic of yin and yang, see how far that goes, if it cycles and morphs as we do. I can't wait to play chess with him, hold his hand while we roller skate. I can't wait to learn him. The motive may be cloudy, but the main thing, the great thing, is that even in an interlude, even in a break, we learn who we are. We grow, we find new things out, we work through the things that need our undivided attention. And the fact he's willing to share that with me? That's enough...for now.

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.

Different & Special

"You're still on that?!" she asked all incredulous. "If you don't stop wondering what makes you so special, other people are going to start to wonder what makes you so special."

And from that conversation, you've got the following blog post.

I have never thought I was the sh*t consistently. There are days when my hair is just right, and the jeans are wicked tight and I look super bad, no lie. Never though have I woke up every morning thinking I was someone inherently special, even though given my life and small talents I've been told so repeatedly. At thirteen I was the youngest poet at a weekly poetry meet in another Podunk, Texas city (and not the 'roses are red, violets are blue' type poet but a..."my hands seek to outline your frame so I can mimic God when he created you" type poet"). I was in advanced classes, as previously blogged, throughout most of my secondary education. I kick ass at Mortal Kombat and word games. I rock.

The "however" in that is that I rarely, if ever think any of the things I do are extraordinary even with these myriad of people telling me they are. It's what I'm supposed to do. For example, at my job there is Bingo day where, if people make sales, numbers go on the board and the first person with Bingo wins a prize. I never play. When asked by my supervisor why, I simply told her I come to work to work, not play games; my paycheck is prize enough. The managers love me, my stats are incredible and when we do musical chairs/team switches, they cross their fingers that they get me. But I look at my stats, well below the average (which is a good thing) and feel deep inside that I could do better.

And that is where my insecurities, fears and hang-ups come from: the idea that I could always do and be better than I currently am. The past two years of my life have been spent combating this deep-seated doubt in myself, nestled tight behind my heart and hidden by my analytical mind under the cloak of being "real." It's good to have a healthy dose of humility, and for that I'm grateful, but more than that I'm still learning to accept and love myself as I am in this moment.

The times where I remember distinctly loving myself and where I was in my life are the days I went on walks with my iPod in flimsy flip flops along a Texas highway, days where it rains and I get to watch as the world refreshes itself, days where I lay in pools of sunlight and just feel good. I love myself the most when I'm alone to appreciate my own depth, my own simplicity, and those small, natural things that bring me joy. Finding joy outside of myself? A lot harder.

I tend to be quietly outspoken, simple, in complex ways and shy away from being too 'in your face.' That and I find it hard to trust people when I first meet them, leading to my type cast role as the "shy girl." I'm not shy, but I am watching, waiting for a person to show me who they really are, and what they are about before I come into and share myself with them. For a lot of people, that's not how it's done; people seem to be more open with their true selves right off the bat, whereas I think I value that part of me too highly to just give to everyone. Glimpses of that part of me are seen all the time, but quickly masked by smart-assy comments, jokes or silence.

It's a conundrum; I value myself highly, but don't think highly of my talents and gifts or much of my personality. What I've learned, or rather am learning, is that it's the combination of all those things that make me someone special. Everyone is made up of the same things, just in unequal measures and some with little known or little used spices thrown in. I happen to be one of those people with that extra "umph" I think, something exotic to the average palette; I don't get much praise or even much critique as so few people have actually tried me to know and be able to judge, and those who have, have had small tastes, never the full course meal.

As of late, I haven't had to convince myself I'm special; lately I've just been feeling it. I think the realization had been planted deep, like a seed for a tall, strong tree, and it's just been waiting on water. I think I just needed someone to actually treat me like I was special before I could come to accept that known fact for myself. And I'm glad I know, because now? I'm never going back to being that bland burger, the sun in denial of it's glow and power. I'm not going back to the place where "different" and "special" were just words. Instead I'm travelling to that place where those words will no longer need to be said, they will just be facts.

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.