If I date you…

If I date you…  I want to know you.  I don’t mean your favorite color, food, and your miif i date you 2ddle name.  I want to know those too, but I mean, tell me about your day. More than what you did, but how did you do that, and reaction of others around you to you.  Tell me about the time you broke your arm learning to ride a bike, hit your head falling out of the big tree in your yard.  Tell me.  Tell me the nightmares you with me your challenges and opportunities.

Share with me your favorite holiday, your favorite toy as a child, the name of your first superhero.  Share with me about your Mom and Dad, good or bad, I want to know.  Tell me your vision, your vision for you, your vision for me, your vision for us.  Tell me if there’s a voice in you head that tells you “you’re not good enough”, “you will never amount to anything” or that “She’s not the one for me because”.  I want to know you.

Tell me your secrets, your deepest thoughts, tell me the one thing you don’t want me to know.   Tell me about your childhood, how did you get that scar on your knee, your thigh, your back your heart.   Did you suck your thumb?  Tell me about your first love and heartbreak.  Did you think you would ever recover Tell me how you want it, how you like it, and what you would never ever do. Share with me, why me?  Tell me how I make you feel. What do you like about me.   I want to know everything, and I won’t settle for less.

And then, I want you to ask me about me.  Ask me how did I get to be this version of me?  Let me tell you about when I fell off of my bike and scraped my knew.  I want to share with you the time I had to be an angle at church instead of going to the Homecoming game.  I want you know that I never attended a prom and how I felt because no one asked me and I was too afraid to ask someone.

I need to tell you about how he was not the nicest person to married, but that he is also gone, but at times still lingers and when that happens I want to share with you what will bring me from off of that cliff I have been on too many times in my life.  I want to tell you about Snoopy and Basil, dogs that came to me at such different times in my life.

You need to know what I like, how I like it and those silent signals that tell you when I want it.  I want to tell you that I don’t like milk, I love popcorn, and there are times when I am not confident about my looks and especially my body, but mostly I am the fiercest,  most confident, all of that and a bag of chips Black Magic Sister that can handle all that you bring.

Because if I date you, I want it to last.  If I date you, I am dating you for a reason…for me to know you and me to know you.  Who knows where it will lead to, but at least we can become friends in the process.

I’ve Changed…

 

change 2I’ve already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be – J. Didion

The person I am today is not the person I was yesterday.  I have changed.  I am not the same.  I know things today that were not even in existence yesterday.  They have yet to be created in the minds of those yet to be.

The woman you met last weekend does not appear to look the same this week.  A new pair of shoes matched with an old pair of jeans gives her a completely different look today.  I wonder how she will look tomorrow.

There was a time when I thought I knew who I was, who I am or who I will be. It came to me, however, that I am a constantly evolving being; I am ever changing, ever recreating and always reimagining who I am.

I have changed from the time we said hello to the time we say goodbye.  Goodbye.

For those of you expecting the same little girl who will act and think the way she was when you last saw her back then, I apologize. She is gone.  She is no longer in existence. She has changed.  Morphed into a queen, a ruler of people, a leader for those who choose to follow her into themselves.

“Who is she”, they whisper as I walk into any room.  Those who know me say “Don’t you know?” and leave it at that because they know I am safe, dangerous, angry, in pain, sick, health, loving, kind and I have been known to be all of them at the same time.

Who I used to be is not who I am.

I can fuck you one moment and not acknowledge your very existence the next.  Because you are now in a space in which I no longer exist.  I have changed and moved on.

Those who love me accept that I float in and out of their lives in love and sacred joy.  They know that I am still changing, seeking, searching for what I am not sure, but I know that sitting on my wide beautiful black ass will not get me any closer to whatever it is.

So I keep changing and moving and sorting things out

Because while you have been reading this, I have changed again.

Can you?

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I wanted him to be absolutely sure of what he was agreeing to, so I asked him…

Can you please me? Can you make me scream out with such passion and fervor it will sound like a new language that has yet to be heard of or even interpreted.

Can you take me to new heights? Can you take me even higher than Mt. Everest, than the eagle dare soar, far into space, out beyond of the gravitational pull of the sun, where we are floating in the universe of you and me of you and me of you…and me.

How low can you take me. Can you take me to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, deeper than the darkest crevasses in the vast ocean or to hell in that proverbial hand basket? Yes, that hell in that hand basket.

Can you lick my lips while kissing me? Can you gently tug my bottom lip with sweet suction of your mouth while biting them gently? Little nibbles baby. Yes, that’s it. Can you suck on my breasts until my nipples get hard and then I want you to suck them even harder. Make them tingle and taunt with firmness as you work your magic. You do have magic don’t you?

Can you?

Can you touch me in a way that my soul quivers when it hears you call my name? Wendy.

Can you take me in your arms and hold me until my past does not taunt me, does not haunt me about who and what I used to be and do. Can you hold me until I feel safe in the knowledge that I am safe.

Can you hold my hand and lead me as we walk? Where we walk really doesn’t matter as long as you lead. Will you rub my feet at the end of the day just because….just because.

Can you allow me to be me with all of my flaws and all my dramatics with all of my needs and all of my dreams, even my nightmares, and still let me be me?

Can you?

Can you sing me a song that no one has ever heard? Written just for me, just about us, so that we can dance until the sunrises and then sets again. Can you write me a poem that succinctly sums up how two lost souls, in the vastness of humanity found each other for just this one moment? This one moment. Only this moment.

Can you give me all of you? Your essence, your being, your mind and soul, can you do that? Can you give them all to me without hesitation, freely, willingly, openly handing them over to me just because I asked you in the knowledge that I won’t hurt because you are.

I want you know that I need you to know that you clearly know that tonight absolutely all about me. But you should already know that when it is positively all about me, it is also all about you.

Can you tell me that you love me, even if it is a lie – cause that is what I want to hear, what I need to hear, right here, and right now at this moment, even if it is not the truth. Sometimes a lie can just make things alright.

Can you do these simple things?

If not, then leave me the fuck alone.

I thought about him and smiled

th7Y0NMDNCI thought about my dead ex-husband and I actually smiled this time.  And it wasn’t because he was dead..

I will admit that ours was not the happiest of marriages.  There were many things that were wrong.  And while neither one of us were the perfect spouse, at least for each other, it was what it was.  Most of my memories are not pleasant ones, but recently I thought about him and I smiled.

Our marriage was not great.  We probably should not have even gotten married, but we did.  We should have separated sooner, but we did not.  Why we stayed together those long seven years, I will never quite know, but we did.  And it was painful, for both of us.  Yet, I thought about my dead ex-husband the other day, and I smiled.

I have carried a lot of anger towards him, my dead ex-husband. The lies he told, the money he stole, the way he treated me.  Answering the phone calls of the other women as if I were his secretary and not his wife.  Discovering the video tapes he made of himself and the multitude of women he cheated on me with.  I was living the Hip Hop song “It wasn’t me” each freakin day.  The women he screwed in our home, on our couch, in our bed.  Hell, he even told his family that I left him for another woman.  I get pissed with him all over again each time I think of him.

Reality is I get pissed at me.  The behavior that I allowed to happen during our marriage just enrages me.  The fact that I allowed fear and embarrassment to keep me in a marriage that should not have even happened.  I get mad at myself when I think about the years wasted and lost that I will never ever get back.  I get mad about the children I didn’t have, the celebrations I missed, the friends I never made and the ones I lost contact with while I was with him.  Yet I thought about him the other day, and I smiled.

Early in our marriage we decided we would have one date night a week.  A day or evening that would be just for us.  The same night each week, Monday.  We were not in the greatest place financially, but we always managed to have enough to grab some rib tips, chicken wings, fries and white bread from a hole in the wall near 76th and Cottage Grove.  Then we would go back to our home, watch TV or a movie and laugh. We would just be with each other.

Those Mondays were the best part of our marriage.  Mondays were days to look forward to.  The end of a long work day was met by an evening of just us.  Impromptu singing and fashion shows, rides around the city like we were tourists, or watching the rain fall were enough. The best part of our life together happened on these Monday nights.  It was a time when everything was going to be OK, if only for that day.  Those Mondays were special.  Those Mondays made me smile.

When we got away from those Mondays, we got away from us.  Things went downhill from there.  One Monday missed, and then a month of Mondays missed.  We were missed.  The anger lies, and resentment invaded our marriage when we got too busy for Monday.  There was never enough of us when we lost Monday night.  We lost us when we lost Monday nights.

So it surprised me when the other Monday, I thought about James and I smiled.  Or maybe it was that I finally found some good chicken wings.

Anyway, it was a smile.

The Peanut Experience

th8ZTBSM74There was a twenty year difference in our ages.

Twenty years.  What can you do with someone who is twenty years younger than you?  Apparently there is plenty!

When men date women much younger than themselves, their envious friends give them a slap on the back, receive the approving eye, and are applauded by old geezers everywhere as still having “it”.  These men are seen as role-models for the male species.  They are seen as pillars of virility and honored for grabbing a most worthy prize.  The assumption is made that not only will they bed this young filly but that she will also appreciate it and all is right with the world.  They will “get that” and a mighty celebration of ginormous proportions will be held with high fives for everyone.

Women who date much younger men, however, are looked upon in a totally different light.  When an older woman walks into a room with a much younger man, it is first assumed that this is a familial relationship of the mother/son or nephew/aunt type.  How sweet, they are going to lunch, the movies, the museum…a bar?  It never crosses anyone’s mind that this could be something different.  They never think that this grown ass woman has what it takes to give this strapping young man the joy ride of his young life.  Maybe this woman wants to be with this young man, and more importantly, he wants to be with her.   It is not until someone notices that he has his hand on the small of her back, he is holding her hand a bit too long or he whispers in her ear and her responsive laugh is not the laugh of an auntie, but one far more intimate in nature.  The glances are not one of joy and celebration, but more of “What the Hell is going on here?”  “She should be ashamed of herself.”

I am not sure what “Peanut’s” pick up line was, (Yes, I call him Peanut), but it was straight forward.  He told me that he found me fascinating and attractive.  He wanted to know more about me.  He caught my eye with his style of dress and we just happened to be at the same place at the same time.  (How fortunate for me.) He pulled up a seat and sat next to me at the bar.  I looked at him and immediately knew he was old enough to be my son.  Not having a poker face, he saw that thought run screaming across my mind and said, “I know I am-too young, but can we just talk?”  It was just a conversation, I thought, what could it hurt.  So we talked.  (After I asked him for his ID…he was 26.)

He was a grad student studying religion.  I know, right?  How ironic is that? We talked about his misguided theology that was book based and not quite yet developed by life experiences.   He told me of his disappointment with organized main line denominations, I told him to just find who he was and the rest would come.   I spoke of old school music like the Isley Brothers and the deeper meaning of “Fight the Power” as he explained to me about a group named Floetry and all I had to do was say yes.  I laughed.  He laughed.  We laughed

Peanut made me laugh

I introduced him to the kitchen and taught him how to make a real meal for when a “real” girl came into his life he would know how to cook at least one thing to impress her.  He taught me about rap and hip hop.  Introducing me to a guy named Kanye and a Tribe called Quest.  I listened.  He listened. We listened.

Peanut listened to me.

Sex with Peanut was OK.  Yes, just OK.  There is something to be said about being the one with the most experience and being able to say what and how you want what you want with someone who wanted to learn and give it to you.  I did not have to call him “Big Daddy”.  I did not have to stroke him, nor stroke his ego to keep it up.  Peanut did not require that.  He was on the up side, not needing the assistance of a little blue pill.  Note to self:  These young guys and their stamina are not for old ladies.  We get tired.

In this area of our “relationship”, he let me be the lead.  And while I did not teach him how to do it, I was able to show him things that if he listened would give his future wife a great sexual experience.

I showed him how to hold a woman so that she felt safe after she has been at her most vulnerable with him.  How to appreciate that vulnerability and if he could not understand the gift he was given, he needed to leave it and her alone until he could.

I shared with him how to whisper in her ear words that make her know that she is most important to him.  To gently let her know that she has nothing to worry about because he would protect her and if he did not mean those words he should not say them.

Peanut was taught that if she gets hers first, he will always get his – always. (Most men seem to forget this, but that is a whole different blog)

Candles- scented earthy tones are good for men to have.  Wine – have one that you love and find out what she likes.  Good sexy music – Old school music, especially 80’s, is some good “Let’s get it on” music.  I shared some good knowledge with Peanut.

Lest you think this was all on sided, Peanut taught me as well.  He taught me that when a real man rubs and feels your folds and curves, it is not a judgement, but an adoration and exploration.  I learned about the world of video games and how some of the features on my cell phone I had no idea about.  I learned to open my mind about the people that I am willing to date.  Peanut taught me that it is appropriate to laugh during sex because it can be funny.

From the day I met Peanut, I knew it was not something that would be permanent, and that was perfectly fine.  We knew that it was an experience for experience sake.  It was a wonderful time, a brief moment in time, and a memorable time.  Why memorable?  Because I dared to date someone that I would have written off just for being “too young”.  I enjoyed myself, and I hope he did too.   Peanut is married now.  He is a husband, father and a very successful man.  Every now and then he will call and see how this old lady is doing.  That makes me smile.  He tells me about Jay-Z and I explain to him the Dr. Spock is a pediatrician not on Star Trek.

My Peanut experience…damn it was good.

To be broken is to be beautiful

To be human is to be broken and brokenness is its own kind of beautiful – R.M. Drake

thTTCMHMKFWhen I was a little girl my favorite toy was a stuffed dog named floppy.  I loved that dog and while I never carried him around with me all the time, there was a sense of security in knowing he was there.  He was tan in color, and had no “bones” in him, therefore he just flopped.  He never sat up, he just flopped.  I must have gotten Floppy when we were living in South Carolina.  He was just a constant in my life until one day, my sister pulled one of Floppy’s ears off, and I never saw him the same again.  My mother stitched him up, but I could always see the little scare around his ears.  He wasn’t my Floppy anymore.  He was broken and damaged.  I did not play with him anymore.  I miss him to this day.

Some of us are broken and we think we are damaged beyond repair.  We think that no one will want someone who is not in perfect and pristine condition.  The everyday wear and tear of life has left us a little less than when we were new out the box.  Like Floppy, we have been dragged on the ground, pulled, tossed, and thrown away in boxes and toy chests, put in the washing machine and hung out to dry.

Or maybe we were a delicate tea cup made of porcelain or of the finest bone china.  Through the years we have discovered nicks and chips, cracks or stains, but we are still functional. Many times, however, a person we trusted to come and drink from us or pour into us, drops and shatter us.  Sometimes by accident but many times we are dropped on purpose, smashed to the ground because they wanted to.

We are broken. We don’t work like we used to.  We have lost pieces and parts of ourselves.

Our brokenness reminds us of the failure in failing instead of the success in trying and taking the risk.

Our brokenness reminds us of times in our lives things did not go the way we intended them to go.  Be the way we want it to be.  Or even look the way we wanted it to look.

When we were shattered into those many pieces, some were never found again.  No matter how hard we look for them, those pieces are gone.  How will we get back to ourselves without those missing pieces?  How will we ever be able to hold the tea in our cup again?  If we are not a tea cup, then what is our purpose?

In our brokenness we lose sight of healing that can take place, piece by piece or stitch by stitch.

Sometimes we are blessed to have replacement parts given to us.  These replacement parts take the place of what was defective and missing, weak or worn out to make us stronger.  The replacement parts can make us that delicate tea cup again, ready to hold and contain the hot beverage we were first placed on earth to be.  But what if that is not what we were meant to be?

What if we thought we were tea cups because that is all that we saw around us, soft, dainty tea cups.  What if we were supposed to hold dirt?  We are to be the vessel that would hold dirt and in that dirt would be a seed, which would grow into a plant that can feed the world.  Would we even know that was an option for us if we were not broken?

There are times in our lives when we must take just the broken pieces that we have and create something new. There are days when we don’t want to gather those pieces.  Sometimes those pieces become shards so small that we can’t see them, but we can feel them when we walk over them with our bare feet.  We may have to use tape, glue, cement, to reconstruct our form.  We may have to let it set for a moment so that the adhesives can set and dry.  What is made may be close to what to how we originally looked, but we may also be changed into a different vessel.

Our brokenness can be used to make us into a new creation.  To change us into the person we are supposed to be.  In order for us to be who we are, we  at times have to be broken of who we once were.  Being broken doesn’t not put a stain on your character or a blemish to your reputation it is life avowing and soul affirming.

To be broken is to be restored

To be broken is to discover what is really inside

To be broken is to be refreshed

To be broken is to be renewed

To be broken is to be recreated

To be broken is to be human.

To be broken is to be beautiful.

Carrington Scott Whitehead

baby carringtonEighteen years ago, after 22 weeks of a healthy pregnancy, my water unexpectedly  broke, and that was the beginning of an end that still hurts me to this day.

The only thing I think I have ever wanted to be was, and still is to some extent, is a mother.  To have someone to call me Mommy, Mom or Momma has been a desire since I first took care of my baby doll.  I was born to be this.  My first job was babysitting.  I became a teacher in large part to have the summer off with my 2.5 kids, dog, and husband.  I had names selected, planned and envisioned their lives and my role as their mother.   President of the PTA, bake sales, sports mom, choir rehearsals all were on the calendar of life.  I could not wait to purchase the first little green and white outfit so that a YPD’er would be in the house.

We actually got pregnant celebrating our first wedding anniversary.  I was ecstatic, beyond joy.  I bought books and had emails that explained and showed me what my little one looked like in my belly.  I joined AOL chat rooms, didn’t everyone back then.  You entered the room with your location and due date.  I craved Taco Bell tacos and cinnamon twists, scrambled eggs and canned pears were for breakfast every day.  My morning sickness lasted into midday and on to the evening.  I lost more than 25 pounds because I couldn’t keep anything down. This child was a very picky eater.

I remember visiting my Dad in Indianapolis and got my usual all day sickness.  The rest of the visit, he followed me around with a little bucket, just in case I got sick again.  And I did.

Then I woke up one Friday morning, 22 weeks pregnant, and my water broke.

I didn’t know what was happening until I was at the hospital and they said to the medical students surrounding my bed “An ultrasound has three things.  What is missing here?”  (Note to self, never ever go to a teaching hospital when you are looking for a bit of bed side manner and you become the lesson for the day.)  What was missing was the amniotic fluid that was supposed to protect my little one.  That was supposed to keep my baby from harm and support his journey into this world.    It was missing.  Gone.

My mind raced a million miles a second.  Can they put fluid in me?  Can I be on bed rest? Can I make more fluid?  What can we do to save the one thing I have always wanted in this world?  There is something that we can do to save my precious one?  Right, there is something?  But there was nothing that could be done.

Tears flowed, and my chest became tight.  I could not breathe.  I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.  Not a sound came out of my mouth.  I did manage to cuss out a Nurse’s Assistant when she entered the room and asked me about a car seat. I also later apologized to her because it was not her fault; I was in Labor and Delivery. Nothing came out of my mouth when they told me that I would have to deliver my little one.  Nothing came out of my mouth when they induced my labor.  Nothing came out of my mouth when they gave me medication to ease the pain.  But the pain could not be eased.  It never has been eased.  It still hurts.

I delivered a baby boy we had named Carrington Scott Whitehead.  I did not want people to judge and make assumptions about his name when he was older and especially on his resume.  If she were a girl, she would have been Carrington Maurice, same reason.  I can’t remember where I got that name from.  But I loved it, I still do.

I was able to hold Carrington.  This precious little one I desired with all my heart and soul.  This little guy that I wanted to love and to be his Mother with all my strength, hopes and dreams.  They wrapped my little Carrington in a blanket as he was very still and quiet  in my arms as I cried silently.  Just tears, no sound.  The chaplain came and prayed with us, but I could not see Jesus that day.  I did not see God.

There is a scream that has been bottled up in me since that day.  I internally measure all pain I have ever had by the pain of that day.  Nothing since that day has even come close for me to scream about.  Not the loss of my Father, the anger of the end of my marriage, the loss of friends and loved ones, nothing.  The physical pain of illness, the anger of caused from situations, people, myself or any of my problems has not driven a scream from my mouth.  Nothing I have ever been through, or experienced in the 18 years since, measures to the pain of that day.   I have had no pain that can even begin to compare to the pain of that day, February 26, 1999.

I have had great days and moments of joy since then.  I have accomplished much.  I have laughed and cried tears of happiness and celebration.  I have seen life begin, seen it end, and discovered love to maintain me through trials and tribulation.  I have witnessed strength and power and have on occasion summoned those gifts personally to get me through times of desperation.

I have forgiven God.  I did not see it as fair, but I know that it was for the good.

I still have a twinge in my heart each time I see a new born, or I think of what Carrington would be doing now.  He would be getting ready to graduate from High School, and headed off to college with an athletic and academic scholarship.  Attending a Historically Black College or University for undergrad and Ivy league for graduate school.

I would not be truthful or transparent if I did not acknowledge the pain that still sprouts up when Mother’s Day and other holidays come around.  I am sometimes amazed at the things I can write about, sex, money, relationships, politics, and other things that are not important, but this has been the hardest piece that I have ever written.

Maybe this is my scream.