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.

What Am I Waiting On...

I was perusing Youtube last night and came across this sensual, smooth and sexy video from Marlon Palmer and a very gorgeous Amber Rose looking woman. It got me to wondering, what it was I am really waiting on with this whole sex thing?

I'm a virgin. I'm not sure if you've picked up on that or not, but yep. I think the misconception about me is that I either represent all virgins (not the case) or I fall into the stereotype of the "virgin friend" (certainly not the case). I find myself the recipient of a lot of late night calls from friends asking for advice on love, life, and yep, sex. I know a lot. I haven't done anything, but I tend to know little things that make the big moment a great experience for others. Small things like candle light (some girls are too self-conscious for full light but love the thrill of being seen), a playlist of long jazz tracks (so not only are there no lyrics to get tangled up in, the risk of "Can't Nobody Love You Like Jesus" popping up is very slim), or even simple things like massages with warm oil (Sweet almond <3) are suggestions I've made to my girls (and yes, even my boys).

One of the boys broached the subject of the type of lover I go for as he's never heard me make mention of my own sex life. I had to break it to him gently that A) I don't have a sex life and B) I hadn't really given much thought to it as I'm waiting on a certain someone or something.

But that video up there? It sums up everything I'm waiting on. There's a slow sensuality to it. A playful seriousness. A little spice/excitement/voyeurism with the camera. There's respect (he's not rushing it), and there's equal admiration as both of them just take their time to enjoy each other. Not to say it doesn't get hot, but whereas I feel most people think a bomb is what needs to go down, I think a smoldering fire is the way to get things done. Plus that song? Geez... it's perfect. It has a classic R&B/Soul feel, it's not overly sexual a la "You Remind Me Of My Jeep" (nor as crass and unintentionally hilarious). It kind of promotes the same smoldering sexy that I go for.

So to answer the question, what I'm waiting on is someone who understands the nuances of my sensuality. Someone who'll appreciate my slowness and not mistake it for stalling but understand it as a fascination or admiration of their form. Someone patient and knowledgeable, one who doesn't mind teaching and being taught. I'm waiting on a kind heart, someone who doesn't rush and wants to get to know me as a person first. Someone smart enough to know the traditional game of seduction, but still throw in new age game in there. I'm waiting for a counterpart, someone worth my effort who'll put in equal work. Someone serious, but not enough to not have some fun with.

I'm waiting on me, too. Waiting to become comfortable enough with my scars, physical and otherwise, to truly let someone in enough to trust them with my body. I have kind of a teenage boy's fear of getting naked and someone either pointing and laughing or becoming completely disgusted. I know the likelihood of that happening is slim, but because I'm not yet fully comfortable I can't really rule that out. I'm waiting on a relationship with someone, not just a casual "nice shoes...wanna have sex?" sort of fling; I'm waiting on hand holding, cuddling, and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. I'm waiting on a person willing to know me, not just know my body.

In short, I'm waiting on the right person and the right time. At 21 apparently that's refreshing. Not sure if it'll be the same if I reach 45 this way, but... Whereas before I didn't think there was hope for me, in that way, I'm not convinced that I'm up to the challenge. It's just about finding that guy who's right up to it with me and willing to put in the work.

My First Classic Movie (And What My Succession of Classic Movies Taught Me)

It all started with "My Fair Lady," when Eliza Doolittle walked down the grand staircase in that breath-taking, glittering gown, her hair piled high, her back straight and her eyes clear and determined. The music swelled behind her and the photography, though grainy and dull on the tv screen was still vibrant, the colors nearly palpable. I'd never seen a woman look so regal and so in command of a screen before. It was then that I discovered my love for classic movies.

When talking movies with people I often feel left in the cold. On the one hand you have the movie dictators; these are the people who are the self-described experts on all things film who tell you what to watch, why to watch it and why not watching it makes you less intellectual than they are. You have the "you're not black if you don't watch/you're not a woman if you don't enjoy," movie people who think that because I'm black I must know every "Friday," "Menace II Society" and "Set It Off" reference, or I must feel some kind of way about Bella and Edward in "Twilight," or know the depths of love felt in "The Notebook" and cry during the final scene in "Titanic." No, I don't watch movies because the cast and I share a race, and no, I'm not a romantic/drama movie sort of girl (plus Titanic was overly long. Seriously, it took the ship how long to sink? Not the three hours I had to sit through the movie, I'll tell you that...).

I've come to realize and accept that some people's perception of "classic" and my own will never ever match up. And I'm completely okay with that...we're just not going to be seeing movies together that often.

Over the years, I've been asked what movies I love, which are my favorites. "My Fair Lady," "The Sound of Music," and Lord knows, "Gone With The Wind," are at the very top because those are the ones I saw early on in life, but I still love others like "All About Eve," "Imitation of Life," and "The King and I." It's not just the attention to detail placed in every frame, every line of script and swell of strings, but the depictions of women as capable, smart, witty and different, and the fact that despite all that, some wonderful, albeit flawed man loves them anyway. The idea that these women were different for their times, Eliza Doolittle, the street urchin turned lady, Maria Von Trapp, the mischievous ex-nun turned wife, mother and singer, or Scarlett, an oddly attractive, bratty, abrasive woman who made the South bend to her will, but still were able to find love, in themselves as well as with others, was astounding to me.

As I got older my collection has expanded. I recently watched "Gigi" starring Leslie Caron for the first time and got the same breathless, exciting feeling as the first time I watched "The King and I," or even "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Gigi, a young girl being taught the ways of a courtesan falls in love with a childhood friend a few years her senior and a few social rungs up the ladder. Instead of becoming his mistress however, by speaking her mind and being herself, clumsy, crass and sassy as she was, she became his wife. The message with this one, as with the rest, remains true: being yourself is a beautiful treasure that you should love and appreciate.

I think that's why I have more movies made prior to the 1960s than any other type. Maybe that's why I watch them on days when I feel down. Maybe, these beautiful, timeless movies remind me of those same characteristics in myself that I feel aren't diluted with time and aren't easily or readily acceptable or accessible. Maybe I love them because they remind me to persevere, always as myself.

I Always Forget Something...

It's funny how rides on planes always make me feel like I've forgotten something.

As clouds rolled by like trees on a roadtrip, I wondered why things always seemed so much harder on the ground. What about being above it all made me feel so...above it all? And why did I always feel as if I was leaving something behind, be it an attitude, an item, a person?

I flew into my home state for my dad's wedding; it was beautiful actually. Maybe living in Texas has that effect where seeing green grass and trees excites a person, but the air felt truly clean down there; I found myself taking deep breaths and reveling in breezes more often than I do at home.


I felt more relaxed. Sure, it was a stressful time as I played bride assistant and cheerleader (for both bride and groom) and a new role of "big sis" (which is taking time to get used to), but at the same time I just felt...better. I wasn't tired, I wasn't anxious, I was just fine.

A small dinner party the day before the wedding introduced me to a plethora of new people, one of whom caught my attention in roughly 4 minutes. He's a lanky type of dude, taller than me by at least six inches. Very quiet nature about him, with squinty, wise brown eyes. Conversing led me to believe that he was older than he was, which made me feel like such a cougar for even vibing him like I was, but maybe it was my new attitude that made me just not give a damn.

The wedding came; it went as perfectly as weddings usually go. It was calla lily themed and classy. I wore a wine dress with matching shoes and a hair weave that nearly split my head open (nother post, nother time). The bride was beautiful and the groom composed and handsome (and I'm not just saying that because I'm related to them either, they're seriously super cute). My dress fit perfectly (the shoes were gorgeous, so of course they hurt) my natural hair (gelled within an inch of it's life) had held throughout the wedding and exorbitant amounts of dance tracks (although under my gelled "swoop" bang I held a tissue to stop the brown goo from weeping- so not sexy).

I had my first slow dance ever, albeit a little off beat, with the young heart throb who, at the end of the night, told me how good I looked (even though he later said I looked prettier with my hair the way I usually wear it which was a "yay" moment). My family of instigators literally ran with that, let me tell you, and started wanting to all of a sudden ask me how I was doing, if I was seeing someone, yada yada. What can you do?

What did I do? I rolled with it; usually I'd get all high strung about it but I realized that they've never seen me, not the real me anyway. They see the little girl in the big dresses and shiny Mary Janes. They see the awkward preteen with braces and really terrible acne. They've never seen the me that's real, the me under all that, and the young'n brought out the best of the real me; I heard 'em say I was blushing glowing, and it's true that when I hear the right things a glow does happen. And when the young'n speaks and looks so earnest and intent...well, yeah, I was glowing. I was energized and dancing, socializing, hugging, speaking briskly but eloquently to all the guests who wandered by.

It was such a nice night. It was such a nice trip. And as soon as I landed back in Texas it all felt like a dream; I got tense and was thinking ahead a mile a minute. And then I looked in my phone and saw messages from the young'n, reached into my purse and felt the necklace that I wore to match the shoes, and remembered while inhaling the sweet smell of tree-grass-and-dirt that centered my anxious spirit.

I always leave things behind I suppose, but it's the things that I can take with me that make more difference.

Storytime: Tes' First Day

The room is small; most of the rooms are small. There are old, rolling office chairs and small cubicles with enough room for a computer, a phone and a keyboard. And I'll be showing up there eight hours a day, five days a week for as long as they possibly let me. I've got a job.

I'm a representative for a cell phone company, the "first layer of defense" as they say, for the company. I've been training and training for the past three weeks, absorbing and asking as many questions as I can, enjoying the down time as much as I can, because I know, as a customer, how call center calls usually go and yet...

I have such a hard time with nerves. No matter how prepared I think I am, I always get that antsy feeling in my stomach (or maybe, in today's case, it was the potluck food). Today was no different; even after hearing my partner for the day go through her calls (which were really tough by the way. She was super hard on herself, but she was awesome.) I still felt queasy, extremely so.

I took my time setting up, making sure everything was perfect. I made my station look like I actually worked there, placing around knick-knacks that I carry in my purse in the spaces left between the imposing equipment. I tested my headset, and tested it again. I cleaned off the mouth piece and made sure I was signed into everything I needed to be.

And then there was a beep.

And after that, I rocked it. I was punctual with my responses, precise with my assessments, and polite throughout the entire call. I held proper procedure; I ran down the situation, summed up what I'd done, made sure my customer felt secure and closed out the call with a smile. I may have been shaking in my chair, but my voice never wavered; I was confident and in charge.

And then the shift ended.

I amazed myself today. I had so much anxiety built up around this idea, this fear of failing, and for it to end up not happening just blew my mind. It's like planning to get mugged, and then receiving a half a million dollar windfall. Am I confident that every day will be that way? Of course not. But I do know that with every call there's a chance to be the person who changes another person's day for the better. And with every call you get another shot at being greater than I was before.

I've got a job, and I think I'm going to do amazingly at it every chance I get.

Storytime: Tes and Jewish Men

My aunt used to love to take me shopping in Germany. Admittedly I loved the culture, the people, the candy food; it was all like something out of a fairy tale. The buildings weren't over three levels tall, the streets were cobblestoned, and people could take carriages throughout the district. It was beautiful and it drew me in something serious, even as a kid. Coincidentally that was the around the time I first saw a Hassidic Jewish man praying in public.

While my aunt was heckling with a vendor buying things from a vendor, I had time to observe and listen closely. He was speaking in a language I couldn't understand but that was melodious and calm, though with lots of hard consonants. He was wearing a wide brimmed black hat and loose fitting black clothing. He had a long beard and two long curls of hair on either side of his face. And as he prostrated before his G-d, I decided in my no-more-than-eight-year-old mind that I liked this guy.

And its been like that ever since.

Over time I began to look into Judaism and found that I felt more drawn to it than any other religion I had been flirting with. Christianity scared me when I was younger; in my mind it looked like God was just coming down and touching people making them pass out and holler. Later in my teens I flirted with the idea of Islam and although I felt better there than with Christianity it still wasn't an easy fit.

A year or so ago I met a man at a Borders bookstore. We were both looking in the poetry section and he asked me if I knew much about the book I had picked up and suggested another one instead. ("Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair" by Pablo Neruda in case you were wondering.) I could tell he was older, how much so I wouldn't know until our third time meeting where we met for coffee (tea, actually) and discussed the book.

He was an odd looking guy; he, much like the man from my childhood, wore all black and a wide brimmed black hat. He had long peyes (uncut sideburns) and vibrant green eyes and an amazing smile. And we dated for roughly 8 months. I think we were a crazy sight; him in all his glory and I, a full foot shorter in sneakers and t-shirts and big hoop earrings. Visually we didn't fit, but in most other aspects we did. In the end though, it wasn't the right fit or the right time.

I felt real with him. I know it's odd to say that before I felt like a piece of something, a figment of my own imagination. He brought out what was real with me; my anxiety, my jealousy, my short-sightedness...All the bad things were called to the carpet, but immediately after we would talk about the good in me, my willingness to try, my intelligence, my compassion. It was a give and take relationship that made me a better person and gave me a great respect for his perspective and the perspective his religion gave him.

I think in that fairytale setting so long ago I saw something real. I saw something that could withstand time, language, race and whatever other qualifiers a person can come up with. And I saw it in a man, unashamed of who he was, where he came from or who (and what) he represented to the world. And there started my appreciation, respect and admiration of Jewish men.