My shoes, out of use since the funeral...they were what we waltzed in, what we made memories in. What a redemptive turnaround for the pair.
Thank you, Lord, for turning my mourning into dancing.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
dirt on my shoes
That was all i needed this time to remember. I thought I wore those heels since then?
"How are you doing?" My mom asks me. I remember that I like it when she asks me that.
I was drawn to the phone today out of duty, but that fog cleared quickly. I am the daughter, aren't I?
I pass by the receptive hills of green, freckled in marble and iron, and I recall that this earth is grasping something that belongs to me.
I don't know how willing I am to reclaim what I am debted. To at least work out joint custody.
I knew I was forgetting to process something!
Why do people visit cemeteries?
I think I should find out.
And soon.
"How are you doing?" My mom asks me. I remember that I like it when she asks me that.
I was drawn to the phone today out of duty, but that fog cleared quickly. I am the daughter, aren't I?
I pass by the receptive hills of green, freckled in marble and iron, and I recall that this earth is grasping something that belongs to me.
I don't know how willing I am to reclaim what I am debted. To at least work out joint custody.
I knew I was forgetting to process something!
Why do people visit cemeteries?
I think I should find out.
And soon.
Monday, 1 February 2010
up to here
I am an angry black woman.
It has been a series of completely unrelated events that has brought me to this point. Little comments made on the side, glances here or there, the way that I have felt (dis)respected over a recent span of time. It has also been interesting posts that have sparked up conversations, both out loud and in my heart. And I think it is just where I am in life, an almost-college graduate who has to learn how to market herself in a way that won't turn people off, but won't have people agree to contract with someone that is a diluted version of me....and Senior Seminar. All of these things have caused me to come to the conclusion:
I am an angry black woman. I can't help it.
And I don't want to.
I hear you when you make off-the-cuff jokes....also, I understand them. I see you when you avert your eyes because the conversation does not concern my ethnicity...never mind that I would not mind hearing about it, anyway. I know what you mean when you say place AB is "dangerous" or "sketchy"...I have been places with mostly blacks, and I know what that does to people and their sense of security. I know that you know my name because I am the only black woman in your class. I know that I have won your respect and trust because I "talk properly", and I have a firm grasp on subject-verb agreement. I am acutely aware of this tenuous bond, and I am aware of how easily it can be broken. I see your surprised looks when I provide insight in class....didn't I just get here to fulfill a minority quota, anyway? Who would have thought I could contribute something to an institution that is only giving me affirmative handouts? I know why you change the subject whenever dissent about Obama is spoken....surely I laud him as the second coming of the Christ, so any opposition is firmly dismissed. I always, always, always make a note of the hesitance you give when trying to classify my race or ethnicity....black? African-American? I guess you figure it's less offensive to guess than to just ask me what I and other blacks (that's right, blacks) prefer. Why don't you stand on the other side of this communication gap and speculate about the people on the other side...please ignore the bridge that time and circumstance has laid down for us, putting us together in the same school, same bus, same church, same life....just stay over there, figuring out the best way to deal with me.
I'll be over here, watching, listening with the same five senses that you have been equipped with. I'll stay over here and revel in my new status as an angry black woman.
It has been a series of completely unrelated events that has brought me to this point. Little comments made on the side, glances here or there, the way that I have felt (dis)respected over a recent span of time. It has also been interesting posts that have sparked up conversations, both out loud and in my heart. And I think it is just where I am in life, an almost-college graduate who has to learn how to market herself in a way that won't turn people off, but won't have people agree to contract with someone that is a diluted version of me....and Senior Seminar. All of these things have caused me to come to the conclusion:
I am an angry black woman. I can't help it.
And I don't want to.
I hear you when you make off-the-cuff jokes....also, I understand them. I see you when you avert your eyes because the conversation does not concern my ethnicity...never mind that I would not mind hearing about it, anyway. I know what you mean when you say place AB is "dangerous" or "sketchy"...I have been places with mostly blacks, and I know what that does to people and their sense of security. I know that you know my name because I am the only black woman in your class. I know that I have won your respect and trust because I "talk properly", and I have a firm grasp on subject-verb agreement. I am acutely aware of this tenuous bond, and I am aware of how easily it can be broken. I see your surprised looks when I provide insight in class....didn't I just get here to fulfill a minority quota, anyway? Who would have thought I could contribute something to an institution that is only giving me affirmative handouts? I know why you change the subject whenever dissent about Obama is spoken....surely I laud him as the second coming of the Christ, so any opposition is firmly dismissed. I always, always, always make a note of the hesitance you give when trying to classify my race or ethnicity....black? African-American? I guess you figure it's less offensive to guess than to just ask me what I and other blacks (that's right, blacks) prefer. Why don't you stand on the other side of this communication gap and speculate about the people on the other side...please ignore the bridge that time and circumstance has laid down for us, putting us together in the same school, same bus, same church, same life....just stay over there, figuring out the best way to deal with me.
I'll be over here, watching, listening with the same five senses that you have been equipped with. I'll stay over here and revel in my new status as an angry black woman.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Monday, 14 December 2009
embarassing
"Well, you have to come in and renew your permit...you can't take the road test without it." ~DMV Robot
Maybe the universe does not want me to drive, ever. That is what I am beginning to ascertain from 4 years of failure.
Maybe the universe does not want me to drive, ever. That is what I am beginning to ascertain from 4 years of failure.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
pages
I kind of cringe when I look back at the posts from my old blog. It is about the same feeling that I get when I look over old notes that I wrote, whether to myself or to someone else. It boggles my mind how things change. I feel embarrassed about the thought processes that consumed that moment, that consumed my entire life at the time.
Something that one of my close friend's mom said once was that she was happy that God blessed her with a bad memory. I read those old entries and all I have been able to glean from those oh-so-important moments (besides a lot of whining) was God smacking me in the head every time with some sort of mind-blowing revelation at the end, one that I could never have thought of, let alone know how to enter into my own list of objectives.
I am in a similar predicament right now, sitting here at the end of the semester with very little sleep in my body and too much sugar in my veins. I made it. It is over. This chapter of my life seemed too cumbersome, the pages too heavy to even begin to turn. And yet, at the end, in the very last sentence, I feel as sure of my strength to read on as I did at the first word.
I approached this semester with not much guidance other than knowing that there would be a beginning, a middle, and an end--not necessarily in that order. So away to coloring-by-number I went, trying to associate a specific emotion or action with any similar situation that I came across. It was when life kept getting more messy that I stepped back and realized that the reason why I could not stay inside of the lines was because there were no lines to speak of. This was my life, my tabula rasa. By letting each day leave its own personal fingerprint on my heart I have figured out that there is a pattern that only my heart's keeper can see, and me trusting His ultimate design is half the battle.
I feel stripped bare. Of words. I want to convey my awe of this recurring theme, the wonder of how I feel about having peace in the uncertainty, not deluded but assured. But alas...I don't quite remember how.
Something that one of my close friend's mom said once was that she was happy that God blessed her with a bad memory. I read those old entries and all I have been able to glean from those oh-so-important moments (besides a lot of whining) was God smacking me in the head every time with some sort of mind-blowing revelation at the end, one that I could never have thought of, let alone know how to enter into my own list of objectives.
I am in a similar predicament right now, sitting here at the end of the semester with very little sleep in my body and too much sugar in my veins. I made it. It is over. This chapter of my life seemed too cumbersome, the pages too heavy to even begin to turn. And yet, at the end, in the very last sentence, I feel as sure of my strength to read on as I did at the first word.
I approached this semester with not much guidance other than knowing that there would be a beginning, a middle, and an end--not necessarily in that order. So away to coloring-by-number I went, trying to associate a specific emotion or action with any similar situation that I came across. It was when life kept getting more messy that I stepped back and realized that the reason why I could not stay inside of the lines was because there were no lines to speak of. This was my life, my tabula rasa. By letting each day leave its own personal fingerprint on my heart I have figured out that there is a pattern that only my heart's keeper can see, and me trusting His ultimate design is half the battle.
I feel stripped bare. Of words. I want to convey my awe of this recurring theme, the wonder of how I feel about having peace in the uncertainty, not deluded but assured. But alas...I don't quite remember how.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
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