I’ve been half-heartedly counting my MACROS and listening to Teddy Pendergrass on repeat. My mama’s music has always soothed me — brought me back to a place where I’ve felt safe and content, not more alive than I am right now but somehow less bumped, bruised and weighed down by my 28 years of life. If I close my eyes real tight, I can still see her now, driving her Mercury Sable —either the old car from my early years or the indigo blue one she got in 2000 that I drove after her death. Teddy’s soulful voice would flow through the car's stereo system as my mama sang along —off-key, of course, exclaiming “TEDDY!!!” at the top of her lungs every few minutes or so. It would be years before I truly understood who Teddy Pendergrass was a man or a musician. My life has been shaken and swirled around since those days —ever since August when I wrote my last personal post here.
At the end of summer, I was feeling unsteady and uncertain-- as if some unwelcome storm was on the horizon ready to blow its way into my life. I was right. Luckily (or unluckily) storms aren’t exactly uncommon in my life, and I’ve learned to buckle up and strap in --letting life whip me about at its whim. This latest wind brought the ending of my long-term relationship and career frustration— but it also brought a sense of clarity and calm.
Being alone again— or at least single, not having to concern yourself with the opinions and feelings of another heart or soul provides a lot of time to reflect. I've been examining my life, where I am and where I want to be. Though I've never been one to be complacent, I’ve certainly allowed myself to get comfortable, to seep into the familiarity of a man and a job. There’s certainly nothing inherently wrong with that but, it’s halted my growth and allowed me a cocoon of false contentment.
So here I am, just two months into the new year and I’m standing at a crossroads. It’s a familiar one in may ways—”Come Go With Me” is still blaring in the background— but it’s also different. Mama is gone, for nearly ten years at this point and so is my safety net —the man who handled my heart with such love and care until he walked out one day, handing it back to me as his Timberland-clad tapped down the hallway of my apartment building. But I’m still here —and in many ways, I’m more recognizable to myself then I’ve ever been. I’ve spent a ton of time alone in these past four months not out of loneliness but about of reflection, getting to know myself once again. And it’s time to make decisions—those life altering, world shattering choices that make the vomit rise in your throat and scare you shitless.
xoxo Chocolate Girl In the City xoxoxo
My dad has been gone exactly four years now, buried in the hard earth on a bitterly cold day in February, I nearly fell to my knees as I watched that plain pine box getting lowered into the ground.
As a little kid, I wore my cotton textured hair in braids with beads. Every month or so, a 20-something girl would come to my house and I would sit between her legs as she parted and plaited my hair. The large Tupperware container containing my dozens of colored beads resting at my feet. The ends of my hair were always wrapped in foil, the old school method to prevent the beads from tumbling off my interlaced ends. In first grade, for one reason or another, I went to school with two Afro puffs atop my head; for once, my hair was free and flowing; and I remember hating it. That day during art class, I took my scissors and bit by bit, hacked away at one of the puffs until there was nothing but a nub left. It was the first time I can recall hating something about myself. Twenty years have passed, but that memory sticks out to me vividly, as if I was watching it on my smart TV. My mother's look of horror and anguish as she came in my classroom to get me at the end of the day. Her own locs long and flowing past her shoulders. I wouldn't like the way my natural hair looked again until I could legally drink. Over the years it would consume me, the hair on my head. I cried on my way to picture day in seventh grade. The previous evening I'd sat in a stifling hot salon as an Egyptian man nearly scalded me to straighten out my kinks; the results outweighed the pain. But of course, my hair looked like a rat's nest by the time my alarm shocked me awake the next morning. Middle school was already brutal for me in more ways than one. I don't remember ninety-percent of it, but I remember that morning, weeping on that bus. My best guy friend quietly trying to reassure me as my 12-year old heart broke. I wish you knew how I suffered for another decade with wraps that never turned out right, and weave that was way too shiny until I'd finally had enough and decide to let it all go.
When I was small, my father insisted that I use jumbo pink erasers to clear the errors off the pages of my homework. In his opinion, the erasers on the back on the number two pencils that I gripped tightly in my small hands didn't do an adequate enough job. In fact, instead of giving my assignments a more pristine look, they often left harsh dark smudges or worst yet, ripped holes in my notebook paper if I pressed down too roughly. Only the flaky pink residue of those ridiculous looking erasers were good enough for him, and though it infuriated me at the time, soon they were the only things I reached for. Though I stumbled often and still continue to stumble, that quest for perfection, to erase the mistakes, and to wipe my soul, spirit and heart clean has stuck with me into adulthood. In college, I once argued with a professor over an A- that I'd received in her class. Before dates, I would spend hours preparing showering, scrubbing and moisturizing my skin, painstakingly getting my makeup just right. Even now, I agonize over my articles, searching desperately for any errors that I may have missed (and inevitably there's always something ), only to have some commentator under my work either harshly or politely gather me for a misspelled word, or incorrect date or misused term. No matter how small, it rips me open, and I commence with agonizing over what I could have or should have done. Lately, I've been working overtime to try and squash that, to embrace my imperfections and my humanity. To be OK with my errors and my size, my mistakes and my faults. More often than not, I've been excelling. I awake looking forward to my day, I'm mostly sure at work where I've taken on considerable responsibilities. I look in the mirror daily and though I'm far from perfect I mostly like what I see. I embrace my breakouts and my scars, my cellulite and the bags that have suddenly appeared until my mid-twenty something eyes. There is no pink fluffy jumbo eraser for life, no magic solution to make everything clean again. Instead, the scars my life have born are embedded in my soul and my pain lives in my bones. It's only a dull aching at times, but it's always present. And despite all of this I've learned to love, and to thrive and to press forward and preserve. I've become human.
I've been waking up early lately, an hour or so before my alarm normally soothes me awake. I'm a very light sleeper, I only need a gentle nudging to lift me out of my forgotten dreams. Some days I'm inspired to hit the pavement and run, more often than not, I roll on my side burrowing further into the mattress that a boy once called too soft. There are mornings when I curl up in the silence, content with my thoughts, or other days when I grab my Kindle which is always nearby eager to pick up where I left off the night before. Grabbing my glasses, I begin racing against time, trying to take in as much of the story as I can before I absolutely have to arise. I've always enjoyed mornings, (mostly for that for that first sip of coffee), my feet eager to hit my cool hardwood floors, warming quickly as I step under the scalding shower. I like my routines ,and the solace that I find in my new normal. It's amazing how different life can be in 365 days.