Finally.

So, in case you missed it. I'm 25 now (have been for almost a month lol). 

My current, constant mood is peaceful. I've never stressed LESS before in my whole life. Yes, I was a fearful, worrisome child. But I'm starting to snuggle up next to my own psyche and finding contentment with who I am...even though I'm still in the process of painting that picture. The brush isn't in my hands anyway, so I might as well have some sense of joy. 

...yeah, I guess that's it. I have joy.

I am imperfect, but I'm accepted and affirmed. Just as I am.

This Unconditional Love actually drives me to grow.

Fear and pressure never does anyone any good. Let people be who they are,

and they may become more than you expect.

God bless reader. There's more to come...don't worry. :)

Style :)

 I've been attempting to transition into another style for about 2 years. I've succeeded for the most part. The journey I've gone through with my style says as much about my growth as a person as any other facet of my life. Mind you, I'm no "Devil Wears Prada" drone. Vogue is not my bible. But, fashion, like any other "art" form, makes a statement. 

Fall 2008

Fresh from summer camp, I had gotten used to rocking headbands and ponytails. I remember reading my first blog on the "Natural Hair" movement and I was appalled at the rituals of African American hair care. So, I began to transition. I consciously decided to go natural in August 2008. Granted, I was afraid to chop it all off. So, I embraced the ponytail for as long as I could. With the pony, came the tomboyish look that I embraced in my young teens. Bermuda shorts and Converses in tow, I settled into the lowest level of maintenance that I could. Plus, as a first year RA, and a senior in college, there wasn't much time for long bouts in front of the mirror.

Winter 2008/Spring 2009

A close friend of mine introduced me to the Flat Iron; which I embraced whole-heartedly. I stopped being afraid to let my hair down. However, I noticed that my hair was completely broken off in many places due to all of the ponytail action. My hair was extremely short in the middle of my head, embarrassingly enough. But, my friend took caution with my hair, and I decided to make my style more comfortable than low-maintenance. I started wearing corduroy vests and sweaters, and began experimenting with colors. I resurrected the "fake spectacles" to add a hint of "serious student" to my style.

Summer 2009

 No camp for me this summer. Around this time, I'd started flat ironing my hair myself. This is all that I figured being "natural" was all about. I still used all the same hair products, but at least my hair was starting to grow back. I started focusing on my semi-formal look; experimenting on different accessories. Here, I took a vintage dress of mine, and spruced it up with my favorite cream scarf. I already loved funky jewelry, so I gave it a permanent place in my fashion regiment. I was starting to get bolder....slowly, but surely.

Fall 2009/Winter 2009

I'd completely settled into my "chic bohemian" style at this point. I was struggling with my hair, because I'd been natural for over a year, and its thickness made it hard to manage. I came really close a number of times to putting a relaxer in it...but I never caved. I continued to flat iron it as much as possible, and work with the products that I still had. Basically, I was at a stand still with my hair care, and was searching for something drastically different. I began wearing small bits of make-up more often; settling into my womanhood around my 24th birthday.

Spring 2010

 I remember there was a huge snowstorm at my college, and my roommate and I decided to have a photo shoot once it stopped snowing. So, a few of us trekked out into the snow and had a day that I won't soon forget. I remember coming in my room from the shower and taking the towel off of my freshly washed hair. I teased it with my comb, jokingly at first, and looked up into the mirror. Making a few adjustments and parting it in the front, I remember being astonished at how pleased I was with my hair. I smiled at the few ringlets of curls on my ends. I looked down at the blow dryer in my hand, and after a moment, I put it back on my bed. Afraid to death, I went outside and did our photo shoot. For the first time, I was truly natural. I had to go back to my natural state before I could progress any further in developing my style.

Present (Summer 2010)/Future

I threw away over $150 worth of hair care products. I haven't blow-dryed/flat ironed my hair in over 5 months. Out of the 6 products I regularly use, the first (greatest) of them is water. I plan on continuing many of the trends that I love, but my style is currently under transition again. 

And here's a sneak preview: eShakti

They Call Me Southern Belle. (An Essay)

I was born in a small hospital in Newberry, South Carolina. My mother tells me that she was able to walk up the street to give birth to me. I was raised on grits, cornbread [sweet like pound cake], collard greens garnished with pork, and tea sweet enough to make your teeth hurt. My form of public transportation growing up was the back half of my cousin's bicycle seat, and I felt the grip of death if I didn't make it indoors before my street lights came on. We had water hoses, not fire hydrants to use for instant water parks in our backyards. I knew the first name of my Ice Cream Truck Man, because he was usually one of the neighbors. I played My Car, Your Car on my front porch, spent at least 1 1/2 hours on the yellow bus to school every morning. I didn't speak when grown-ups were talking, and I said "ma'am/sir" as the periods to my sentences. I smile when I smell ribs and fried catfish in the air during the summer (At Cookouts...not Barbecues) and see the school cancellations on the news due to signs of frost. Slamming the screen door is a sign of disrespect, and so is not bringing a dish with you when visiting someone's home. Fried chicken is considered a food group, and I've seen my family members prepare, cook, and eat every part of a pig's body.I grew up wearing frilly dresses to church and pink foam rollers to bed. Adults are automatically given respect and the elderly are given your seat. We had porches, not stoops. Soda, not pop. I spoke stretching my vowels and smiling at strangers. Church was not optional and I said grace as soon as I could learn to speak full sentences. My first instrument was the tambourine, and my cousin and I fought usually over my mom's church fan. Family did everything together & it was my older brother's duty to hold my hand in public when we were small. I learned to fear Whites more than I was taught to hate them. I started going to the shop (not salon) when I was 10 years old. I learned that community is as much as your family as your own kin. And I never received a single time-out in my entire life....unless you mean the time it took to go get my own switch.

Laid back & friendly. Generous & charming. True Southern women are more than their portrayed scantly clothed bodies & round, rotund behinds. We are more than "ya'lls" and huge church hats. Crazy hairstyles & kool-aid. The women who raised me taught me in the Southern tradition: family, dignity, and grace. I am deeply southern-bred, and it is one of the facts about myself that I am the proudest.

Timing.

I am a dichotomy of sorts. At times my ideals conflict with my actions. One of those being that of timing. I have an awful sense of timing; despite having a strong reverence for the value of time itself. Losing my brother at an early age opened this door to my mental; showing me that time is precious. No words should be left unsaid. Actions are meant to be intentional, meaningful, but sure. We're only given one life, and a numbered set of chances. Surprisingly, even to myself, I've had my brave moments.

I am not, by far, one of those people who go from spontaneous moment to the next. Maybe because I feel peace when something I put work and effort into, actually meets success. Some things are meant to have the accompaniment of planning. Even important, lofty things like dreams cannot become reality without your own two hands' determined grasp. Regardless, unplanned or thought out, each transition from one season to another is birthed through a single moment. Where you make a decision to move or act. Granted, it's only 1/18 of a second in light of a lifetime, but these moments are the vehicles of our lives.

The moment where I decided to pick up that pencil and paper and write my first poem.
...Where I filled out that college application.
...Where I stood in front of a microphone at my first open mic.
...Where I kissed him back and peeked open my heart.
...Where I prayed that prayer with my pastor.

I've had my brave moments. But I wasn't alone.
Something was always present; beckoning me on. Calling me higher.
Encouraging me not to live life afraid; hiding from the bad moments.

Which is why I don't see life as a rollercoaster meant to only be enjoyed and endured until the ride is over. Each turn, rise, and fall is meaningful. The destination is sure to come, but that doesn't make the journey any less beautiful.

Look up from your grind and notice the handwriting in between each minute on the clock. Pay attention to the hidden pull of Love, and its urgency to call you higher from where you've settled.

Timing speaks and it says that there's more.

Interlude: Re-Introducing.

Brittney S.

Age 24

In pursuit of a more intimate walk with my Lord.

Explicitly Black.

Graciously Woman.

I write. everything.

Presently being equipped to go back & save our children.

Heart of gold that beats outside of my chest.
Lives for the stage but deaf to applause.
Secretly building "my castle made for two"...


Hello.

My Heart Benches About 350...

I'm known to be a slow gravitator towards retaliation. Even as a teenager, I can count on my hands the number of times that I actively sought revenge. Not that I've never wanted to hurt someone who hurt me...but I think that I have always feared what it would be like to hold vengance in my heart for too long. Long enough where it would change me...

This has not kept me from getting hurt, mind you. Sometimes I feel that my pain is more severe than others. The blow of disappointment and betrayal sharper because I choose not to deflect it by blaming others or focusing on revenge.

I've been told that I am too sensitive.

And that my heart is too big for my own good.

That I take to heart things that the average person would shrug off easily.

All are correct....

But, in doing much soul searching, I've come to realize that I actually....like...this part of me.

Though it curses me to exist with a wide open heart; increasingly susceptible to hurt...I have been given a Strength that girds my heart with armor. The unpentrable nature shows on the inside rather than permeates the outside...like most hearts seem to be.

I'm not of the weak, naive, or ignorant.

I look at pictures of old loves with new loves and can smile.

Shake the hands of those who used them once to do me harm.

And strive to live peaceably with all men.

Each time I extend an embrace. Take notice, but Forgive a personal grievance.

Consider my own short-comings before estimating another's character.

And plead with a fair-weather friend for restoration.

I feel my heart getting stronger.

Bigger....but stronger.

The Damsel Rescued Herself.

I remember vividly what it was like...
...waiting on someone to realize that I am worth more than the treatment I settled for. Anxious for the day to come when he'd look me in eyes and realize that I could do so much better than he. I deserved more.

To be awakened to the fact that Love is more than being an ornament on his arm. More than the cost of dinner, movies, and a new dress. More than the physical spasms and shivers that he felt was crucial to a shared happiness with me.

I slowly felt less and less beautiful, and he didn't seem to notice. I knew because he began to interrupt me more during conversations. I guess he really didn't care what I had to say. I was no longer the mysterious and beautiful young woman who he knew very little about. Now that we'd covered the important issues: religion, family, music, and politics...there was no need to pursue my mind. And now that he could count on me to greet him happily at the door, there was no need for him to linger when he held me.

So I waited.
Stood next to him and dug deeper into his heart.
Always finding something different and something more to love.
...yet he waded in the shallow ends of my soul, content...and possibly, bored.

Soon. The lazy, lukewarm feeling of his touch pushed me away.
And, in the end, his infidelity didn't seem to break my heart, really...

I had freed it some time before.

Be.Still. (Part Five -- Disappointment)

I'd never been on a real date before.

The Senior Prom doesn't count, because EVERYONE has a date for the Prom. If I'd gone with my older cousin, I wouldn't count that as a date, right?

It was the summer after high school. I'd just gotten back from Mexico, where I'd done street ministry to some of the poorest children in the small town of Morelia. My friend of 12 years had become my boyfriend by the time we took our final exams. I had gone out of the country for the first time in my life...so I figured I was ready to go on a date.

At the time, I was enrolled in this year-long church program for post high-school grads. I'd moved out of my parents' home, and into a host house with the pastor's older, single daughter. I was under rules and regulations, but dating was not one of them. I was very, very excited to be able to hang out with my guy alone. He'd come to church events, and my parents knew him, for the most part.

I remember that Sunday very well. I invited him to a church event that was held at a school in my hometown. There was entertainment put on by some of the members, and PLENTY of food. The plan was, that he and I were going to go to the movies after the event was over. I'd cleared it with the pastor and his wife two weeks before.

Coming out of the bathroom at the school (I'd changed into jeans and a tshirt), my guy stood near the front doors waiting for me. I suddenly remembered to go say bye to my parents before I left for my date. They replied that I couldn't go on the date, because no one knew about it before hand. I said that my pastor and his wife knew. Clearly upset, my parents confronted them.

And much to my surprise, they replied (with me standing there) that they knew nothing about me going out on a date...at any time...and especially not that day. My head started to spin. With all eyes on me, I simply stood there; speechless. I didn't know what I was more disappointed in: my parents' anger or my church leaders' dishonesty. I turned to look back at the guy...and signaled for him to go on without me.

My mind swam with confusion and hurt. After proving to be an responsible, well-rounded young adult, I was still unafforded the basic pleasure of hanging out with a friend. And I was a 17 year old high school graduate.

This disappointment swelled in the pit of my gut. And it only grew.

This occurance flooded into an array of conversations and lectures. My parents were furious at me for my lack of sound judgement. My pastors declared that I was being drawn down the wrong path, and that I was too carnal for wanting to go out on my very first date.
Finally, a conference was scheduled between my pastors, my parents, and I...

...where I was strongly advised to stop dating this boy. And there was a unified voice in that room, and it spoke that I was going down the wrong path. What I felt was wrong.

There is a vivid memory that continues to haunt my dreams.

And it happened as soon as the meeting was over...

I remember going into the empty bathroom of my church and crying my eyes out. I held my hands tightly across my mouth and weeped sour, broken tears into the floor. I asked God for clarity. I wanted to know why this was happening to me, and why I did not see it coming. I could physically feel a battle going on inside of me. It wasn't that I felt I could not live without this guy. That wasn't it at all. It was that I had absolutely no clue what is truly righteous and good. Somehow, I'd lacked the spiritual fortitude to see the darkness (or the light, for that matter) inside of my own soul. I wanted to possess my own faith. Have it to be MINE.

But it didn't belong to me, it belonged to those who felt they knew better than I did.

And that belief was lorded over me. Making me dizzy with disappointment.

I was in an unsound place. A place where a hope was dangled in front of my eyes, but then snatched away...where I am then told that this hope wasn't really mine to begin with.

The notion of hope deferred still tends to trip me up. My mind immediately goes back to a picture of me: confused and decieved. But I shake that lie out of my mind...remembering that I contain the potential to grasp growth, beauty, wisdom, and true grace, as well as the evidence that points towards my own personal relationship with God. I should only be still and tap into it...

So, disappointment teaches me this:
Fear no man, only God. Because He is the only one who can change the direction of the wind. Trust Him.

Conservative.

I had a dream that conservatives
were hanging blacks and beating up homosexuals.
Well-to-do Christians committing atrocities
In the name of their Lord and Savior.
Advocates of the Moral Majority
in crisp suits and cold hands.
Establishing organizations to ensure
The freedom of "private citizens" above
The goodwill of "all mankind".

I saw them disappear into corporate buildings,
but never darkening the gateways of ghettos, prisons,
and homeless shelters.
I dared to look into the eyes of my brothers and sisters
And I saw them look back at me with eyes of disdain.
I represent a potential enemy.
A liability unless I move to the right neighborhood.

One of them opened his palm to me.
Showed me a bar of gold and said,
"See here? This is America. Land Where God dwells."
My eyes sparkled and saw opportunity.
"We could use one of you" he said, eying me carefully.
I smiled and felt the chains tangled around my ankle loosen...
...but stay put.

I walked with him.
And he showed me
the amber waves of grain,
and purple mountain majesties.
He took me to observe the beauty of
America's land.
He waved his hand dramatically;
a tear formed and fell from his eyes.
I wanted to see it. I did.
But all I saw was soil drenched with
the color red.
Vivid to my eyes,
So the pride that swelled in his chest
confused me.
Yet, the more I dwell on these thoughts
I could see the color on his face growing more pale...
and the chain on my ankle grow tighter.
So, I dare not speak.

I bravely continued to walk at his side.
As we trekked across the landscape...
He proceeded to share his gospel with me,
While I clenched the tarnished cross that my
great-grandmother gave me in my quivering black fist....

Be.Still. (Part Four -- Weariness)

Worse than a lazy man, is a weary one who has lost motivation.
Many times I have confused the two...
I've looked at a homeless man sitting on the side of the road and jumped to the conclusion that this must be a man who would rather someone else do his work for him. But that may not be the case...
...what if, in fact, this is a broken man? Who at one point ran the race with endurance, but then somehow got weary and gave up?

Now, I look into the eyes of that homeless man and I'm suddenly struck with empathy.
How close am I to matching his demeanor/mindset?

I am tired.
Well-rested, nourished, and active,
but weary. Running full speed on a full stomach and an empty tank.
I have not lost heart....because it has been trained though years of experiencing trials, but my MIND is revolting against me.

There is SO MUCH to think about, consider, worry over, plan, configure, and engage into.

...with 24 days until graduation, four months until graduate school, and a million other deadlines in between, I hear these words echoing inside my head:

"I don't know how much more I can take".

If I'm not engrossed in academic pursuits, then I am mulling over summer plans and money woes. Or the billion details concerning being an RA again next year. Or thinking about my mother's health/recovery. Or people that I need to meet and talk to. Or the state of my friendships. Etc. I try to pray over the clamor, but they all rush back into place once I utter "Amen". Why? Because no one else should carry my load but me. Right?

My arms and legs, though ripped from bearing my responsibilities, are fatigued and failing me.
I feel pieces of my academics slipping out from their neatly-arranged places; falling to the ground. Bit by bit, my well-guarded thought life drifts out of its alignment; no longer a safe haven.
Hope, piece by piece, slips away and shatters to the ground.

Just as I am about to completely give way, I drop to my knees and lay each burden. Every responsibility. All of my concerns, worries, and obligations. And lay them at the feet of Jesus.
I do not move, save the quivering of my shoulders as I weep from exhaustion.
Without one word spoken, I am swept up into the arms of my Savior. Closer to Him than I've been in a while. Close enough to see the scars on His hands and the stripes on His upper back and shoulders. The empathy in His eyes.

Weariness taught me something:
....when I am weak, He is strong. Christ bore it all. All of it. So He's strong enough. He really is enough.

Be.Still. (Part Three -- Grief)

I had just seen him no more than 6 hours prior.
Playfully hugged him and
tugged at one of his locks while he sat on our couch talking to my mother.

And now.
He was gone.

That night still haunts my dreams...
...there were too many people in my room at once:
some gazing back and forth from my mother to me,
while others simply lowered their eyes to the floor.
My mother was struggling to explain something to me, but all I heard was:
"Mike"..."gone"..."he's gone".

I cannot put into words my initial feeling, but I do remember being confused.
It was if all of the logic and reasoning that I had was no help to me...
All sensibility and understanding that a 14 year old usually possesses did not come through for me in that moment.
All I know, is that I felt alone. Abandoned. And wherever my brother was...I wanted to join him.
I could not bear the thought of being left alone here.
Left to contend with the process of loss and mourning.
And having to watch those closest to me endure insurmountable pain.
I knew it the moment my mother's words escaped her lips that pain was promised.
So, in my head...I ran.
Full speed...away from the pain that pursued my soul.

The following year of my life...I lived in a personal hell where the flames could not reach me.
They scorched my family clean. Especially my mother.
I helplessly watched her cry and scream. Her grief hit her in spasms; at unexpected moments. In such sporadic succession that I walked on eggshells in my home.

I did not smile.
I did not speak.
...and I dared not cry.

I had to keep running.
Until...

February 28, 2000.
372 days after my brother died.

I sat on my bed, distracted with something that I was drawing.
I happened to gaze over at the picture of him on my nightstand.
I quickly looked away, but felt a throbbing in my chest.
I opened my mouth, and said to my empty room:
"I miss you Mike."

Tears followed the release of my words.
Many...so many tears.
I cannot remember how long I sat mourning on my bed.
Quiet sobs turned into loud, angry wailing.

When I could cry no more...I wiped my face and saw my pencil and notepad lying on my bed.
The silence in my room was peaceful, and the words in my head gathered and aligned.
I picked up both the pencil and notepad. Wrote my very first poem.

About him.
About my brother.

So grief taught me a very personal lesson:
Running from death preoccupies you from living.

Be.Still. (Part Two -- Anger)

I hated him for what he did to me.
To my mother.

I remember nights as a small girl,
gazing at his kind, black eyes with my bed's sheer pink canopy
outlining the safety in his expression. "Good night, my baby", he would say.
And I believed him...
...after all, he was the only father I'd ever known as a girl.
He let me prop my tiny feet on his and dance across the living room to the Temptations.
He bought me beautiful, Black barbie dolls for Christmas
and
made heartfelt, awful attempts at braiding my hair while my mom worked double shifts.

But soon after I had to learn how to master the side ponytail on my own.
And my mother's role became unisex.

He left.

And I'd never known hatred until that afternoon
when I saw him raise that strong hand above my brother's head.
That same hand that I usually felt open-palmed to swat my behind after misbehaving...
...now clenched to form a fist.
My mother's shrill cry preceded
I sat at the end of the hallway feeling a lump form in my chest.
I hated him.
My world started to speed up; progressing in a spinning motion.
Circling past moments where I was content and safe...
...ending up right back where I sat at the end of my hallway.

I danced with anger.
A slow, simple grind
entrancing.
Switching back and forth from waltz to tango.
...and my world moved with us.

It wasn't until I saw him 13 years later that
my world stopped spinning.
His father had died and my mother wanted to pay respects to his family.
I wasn't expecting to see him that day, but the moment I looked up
and saw him: older, shorter, and more docile...
I froze. Swallowed. and felt no lump there.

Stillness taught me another lesson:
Forgiveness is the gate that leads to the path of Freedom.

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Your Life. Our Stage. Sponsored by La Jolla Playhouse

Be.Still. (Part One--Love)

He and I.

We are both seniors in college.
Steps away from cap -n- gowns, and a summer's length from graduate school.
So.
we are both (individually) doing this...dance.
Like a running back does as he is yards away from the endzone.
We take stance on tiptoes, avoiding and desperately dodging the things that
doesn't want he or I to achieve the goal.
(i.e. "Senioritis")
In the midst of all this...we go nowhere.
Friends...and nothing more.
Not regrettably, I mean. I do not say this with the slightest hint of remorse.
Because of one tremendous fact: we are still.

I've thought so many times about running away (metaphorically) with him.
Snatching the potential with swift hands and taking off directly for the future.
Towards the center of my heart wherein lies the desire to be with him.

Yet,
there are blessed moments where I am sitting near him...and no words are spoken.
It could be because one or both of us are tackling academics. Or cleaning.
Contentedly writing/ or nodding along to Mos Def or Little Brother.
Then.
I feel the world halt.
The chaos of life, the bright colors of the finish line's ribbon, and the encouragement of the crowd
All in an instant configure themselves,
And get in line according to priority.

And it suddenly makes sense.
Stillness gently reminds me:

God has me exactly where I need to be.

Lonely In the Crowd

I have come to a decision.

I really need a Best Friend. Almost all of the people that I know in my life are there for a purpose, and a God-given purpose at that, but no one is here to offer me unconditional empathy and understanding. I am there to hold them in a strong embrace and listen to their problems and issues…stay up with them into the wee hours of the morning and pray with them…but no one is taking one second to be there for me. I am the loyal listener. The weeping heart for the pain of men. God’s given me the gift of mercy and affirmation, but my cistern remains dry most of the time.

And I’m not talking about advice. No…I get plenty of that. Everyone has a say-so in my situation on an intellectual and at times, a prophetic level. But mouths grow silent when I am not the one being strong. People are shocked when I am stand-offish and quiet; lacking the right words or the encouraging statement. I see turned backs and upturned noses when I am irrational and cruel.

And I cannot do this anymore. I can’t keep giving with no one willing to listen to me.

I get the patronizing “Are you okay?” but no one really wants to hear the answer. No one will grab me and hold me until each and every tear has left my eyes.

I recently texted a friend of mine to pray for me because of a issue I was going through with my recent dispersed relationship….she told me later that she would rather have not been in the middle… said a quick “Lord, help them” for me…and then went back to sleep.

I don’t have the time or the luxury to be weak in my life. I go to RA meetings and accountabilities in public places with people who ask me questions so that I can open my life up wide…but because there are schedules to keep and logistics to tackle…I keep a lid on what I say. It isn’t that I do not trust these people…I am longing for a Friend to completely trust and lay down my burdens to.

The reality is that I am surrounded by needy, broken people. And that I am myself.

In reading my Word, I noticed that every time Jesus attempted to get alone with the Father…or even with His closest companions…he was interrupted by the cries of the crowd. I understand that God is my life-force. He is my Best Friend. He is the only person that I can truly confide in…

…but who is my Beloved Disciple? Who are my best friends? Where are they? Why am I all alone in this?

Why am I facing the certainty of the Cross in solitude?

But didn’t Jesus? He had the disciples, yes. But they all fled. In His moment of intense need, they all abandoned Him. And there He was….enduring the sins of the world on that rugged tree….alone. And He cried out,

“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani”

Even in that moment…Our Lord and Savior felt abandoned by God. His Father. He felt that God had turned His holy face away from the pain that His Only Son was enduring.

But He was there. Right there.

Regardless of His Father’s silence…Jesus paid it all.

For me.
For you.
For every lonely heart pushing through this crowded, overpopulated world.

That we would never again have to feel that coldness that Adam & his wife Eve felt as they stood looking through the outside gates of their lost paradise…

Fly.To.Tha.Tee. (Smile)

This goes out to all you fashionistas...I actually wanted to be a designer in middle school. If you ever find yourselves in SC...look me up. Maybe we could look at some of my sketches over a nice pot of earl grey.

...kidding.

But, I do hate fashion conformity. Or apathy. I want to punch a baby (thanks Dane Cook) whenever I pass by a girl who looks like she got dressed in the dark. Call me materialistic. Or shallow. But, I'm one of the rare people who see fashion as an opportunity to make art. Walking art.

...bet you didn't know THAT about Spoken.Word, huh? Hey. It's almost 2009.

Thanks to Miss Stefanie for guiding me towards this cool website. Here's a pallet that I created myself...enjoy!


A Day in Paris by iamspokenword

His Size 12's in My Shoes...

I wish men could be women for...one. day.

The only way that they can truly understand our compassionate, complicated, sometimes tragic existance is to BE us. Not just experience the prejudiced system built around us, but also the firey battles that occur inside of us. I get that Men have a whole slew of warfare to face as well....so, I am inclined to look at the opposite sex with understanding.

However, I am frustrated at how often I am reminded that they lack understanding. Let me simply state that I seek to be a woman after God's heart. I want to remembered for my heart after Him. My kindness towards others. I want to leave an imprint on the people that knew me. These are the things MOST important to me...

..but I want a man to understand that my physical body is worth more than an occasional nod. I want him to appreciate and honor the temple God placed me in. He could have choosen for me to be any other race, or height, or build...with different eyes and a different mouth.

But He didn't. I look like me.
And I while I feel like beauty is in the eye of the beholder most of the time...I want my man to indulge in the beauty God invested in me. I don't want him to "tolerate" my looks just because he enjoys my mind/heart.

I'm not fishing for a compliment. Self-image has been an issue that I have battled with for most of my life, and I finally feel like I am gaining an advantage. So, those closest to me should not enable me in my weakness. I want to be (as the title of the book states) Captivating.

Men: do not tolerate our existance. Every hair on our head was destined.
Women are the climax of creation. God made sure that everything was in place before he made us. And the best part about that is that God wanted to take us out of the very BEST of His creation: Man. Meaning...we are a part of you. So don't treat us like we are from Venus. We were both created in His image...Cherish me like you would your own body.

Walk a little while in my shoes, and realize that beauty takes precedence over comfort most of the time.

A Stranger in My Parent's House

“I am my mother’s daughter.”

This is the statement that I would most likely use when asked to describe myself. I took joy in always being referred collectively with my family. In being known by my last, and not my first, name. I naturally adopted my family’s principles and their characteristics. Their mannerisms are slowly starting to show on my face. But instead of smiling slightly while connecting the dots…I frown. It isn’t that my family is extraordinarily dysfunctional or that I would openly deny my blood-laced ties to them….but…

…I am not a little girl anymore. Looking into the mirror I see my mother’s high cheeks and nose; my father’s full lips and chin…and the eyes of a pleasant stranger... Who is this woman?

Currently, I am growing fonder of the idea of a life out on my own. Establishing a peace of mind that is significantly unique. Distinct and God-given directly to me. My parents throw themselves at me when I am home from school during vacation, but are rarely interested in the evolving young woman who meets them at the door.

“I know you too well, girl.” My mother says. Our constant arguments should only reveal to her how limited her knowledge of me is…She knows me. She made me. She loves me. But…she does not know me.

Granted, there are ways about me that are central, and will not change drastically. But, everyday that I spend with myself is a day that I learn something new. I have interests and pursuits that have recently been awakened that she doesn’t understand.

My love for jazz & my desire to travel. It was only a few years ago that I only loved R&B and was a homebody. Quite the contrast, right?

My mother has my past. And will, forever and always…

But my present is building and my future is vast and wide-open. Above/around me is a God who alone is omniscient (all-knowing). My parents are responsible for the person that I am today. They were entrusted with the great task of teaching me foundational truths. Truth concerning God. Truth concerning Love. Truth concerning right and wrong. How to treat people. Manners. Keeping your word. Putting others first…and above all…God. Standing up for what is noble and pure. Speaking up AND holding your tongue (having the wisdom to know when each is appropriate).

They have taught me these things. Therefore, I owe them so much. According to God, I owe them my honor. How? Through how I live my life. Will I continue in the things that they have taught me? I intend to…with all my might.

But that is simply the foundation. What is built on top of that is of God’s (my) choosing. And I must have faith in God and courage within myself to build. And this house…will look unlike anything that my family has seen in their lifetimes combined. Or I.

It has to be different….There has to be more….

Only.Me.For Him.

Periodically I look at a picture of myself (like the one above, for example) and I ask the question: Who is this girl....really?

Question of the decade. Haha.
There were times where it drew blank stares. Grimaces. And sarcastic laughs.
If I were to ask those closest to me...they would give only a resume of my talents.
Others: a long list of likes, dislikes, and moods.
I dare no one would come closer to the truth than my mother...
...but even SHE would miss the essence by a mile.
No one spends more time with me...than me...so how is it that I've spent most of my lifetime stumped by this question?

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. "~Oscar Wilde, De Profundis, 1905

I haven't been living a lie. More so I have been chasing one.
Absorbing the light of others and ignoring the steady flicker placed inside of my own soul.
Believing that if I impacted enough lives and spoke the right words that God would give me the acceptance that He has already offered. And promised.

Somewhere in the shuffle of the crowd I let go of His hand. So I tugged on endless shirttails asking, "Have you seen my Daddy?" Surely these nice people could help me find Him. But, the sounds of their directions/questions drowned out the voice of my Father calling for me. In losing Him, I lost me. But, it is thrilling how crystal clear my [true and redeemed] heart is when it has the light of His Glory shining on it...

1. I sing at the top of my lungs; getting lost in the melody and emotion. Carefree and joyous. A true lover of music.
2. I write from the depths of my soul. In whatever form it happens to flow into. Not for acclaim. And never for approval. Content takes precedence over grammar.
3. I am two opposites joined. Yin and Yang within myself. A more envious form of Bipolar. A healthier version of a Manic-Depressive. I am noisy and I am silence. I am serious and I am humorous. I am introverted and I am bold. I am cautious and I am fearless. Tender and Intense. I am high-top converse's and I am high heels. I am pink ribbons and black nail polish.
4. I believe in Truth. And Beauty. And Love. And I will guard them ferociously.
5. I am the Apple of My Father God's eye. He gave His life for me, and I owe Him my everything. His sacrifice tells me that I am special to Him.
6.. I am still learning. The color on my wings growing more vivacious, the smile on my face increasing in mystery. Look into my eyes and see that I've got a secret.

Now...look at that picture again...

Giving.Up.

At some point last night...I snapped.

I don't want to do it anymore.
Even after a recent 2 1/2 day break from classes...I, for the first time this semester,
want to give up. I am just plain tired.
Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
Tired of staring eyes. Tired of haughty, hard-headed, disrespectful Freshman.
Tired of a million things on my daily to-do list.
Tired of seeing my roommate go to bed after 2 am because she has no choice.
[I am tired for her.]

Tired of always having to be all things to all men.
Advocate.
Counselor.
Friend.
Disciplinarian.
Coach.
Shepherd.
Student.
Girlfriend.
Daughter.
Adult.
Woman.
Black.

Tired of always being expected to rise above it all.
Being the bigger person.
Turning the other cheek.

Tired of seeing my love struggle...
...watching him hang on to a small strand of hope.
Sometimes I don't know how he manages to hang on.
[Today, he threw down his pencil in disgust and said, "I give up."
I'm tired of acting like that doesn't hurt me in some strange way.]

Tired of seeing young, educated black students
act like they are untouchable.
As if they aren't one second away from poverty, or illegitimacy.

I am tired of shallow Faith and being forced into unfulfilling worship.
Sick of being patient for revival.

I'm tired of loud cliques and lonely faces.
Tired of gossip and slander.
Tired of fake smiles and those who act like they respect you.

I am tired of praying for strength...I just simply want to Be.
I wish to just spend my days in gratitude...but these weak hands and feeble knees distract me.

::Sigh::

I give up.
Completely, this time.
God? Do you hear me??!!

...I give up.
Now please...do it through me.

Psalm 127:1

Unless the Lord builds the house,
they labor in vain who build it;
Unless the Lord guards the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.

"Still. [Spoken.Word.]" (For Those Who Have Forgotten).

the way the wind blows
acclaim follows suite.
i would rather stretch my frame
underneath the persistent sky.
though it varies in hues
it will never change its shape
still as infinite as before.
steady in its faithfulness
and ignored still.
so i will pay attention
and allow the sky to teach me
how
to be great without
being applauded,
how
to run from popularity with a clause,
and how
to use misunderstanding
to confirm my identity.
i lay. and i am still.
because the way the wind blows
acclaim follows suite.