A day of gratitude

This year is the first year, possibly since I've been a blogger, that I didn't write a Mother's Day post.  I had every intention of doing one.  I woke up, wrote two different drafts.  My friend Mo sent me Read more

Diversification of Bonds

The year is 1981.  My four year-old self had just watched Superman kick Zod's entire ass and it was glorious.  In 1981, Superman was THE superhero movie to see.  It had action, conflict and even romance.  The Christopher Reeve Read more

Ooh, Child...

Yall. I cried for Alfre Woodard dyin. I cried for Delroy Lindo as a single dad. I cried for little black girls who have to grow up too fast. - @MeLaMachinko Crooklyn was a movie that I loved from the first time Read more

Action Mel

Today is one of those days that I don't feel like being the life of the party or having a clever quip.  I don't want to be the unstoppable force of nature that I am 95% of the time. Read more

There comes a time in every man's life

"I think I want to live with my dad." I always knew that the day would come where he would need more than I could give him as a mother and a mentor.  I'm glad it happened before he was Read more

legend of b

Soñar

I am naked.  I am in water.  It’s warm, and I can hear that there are people all around me.  I crouch down, because I don’t want anyone to notice me.  I turn around and notice that not only are the people around me, but they’re waiting for me.  They’re all different ages; some of the faces i know, some I don’t.  An old Indian lady with a kind face motions for me to come toward her.  I don’t want anyone to see me in my state, and I tell her so.  She says, “No one will mind.  They all understand.”  If I don’t come to her, not only will she get wet, but so will the clothes that she has waiting for me.

The walk toward the bank is not painful.  Everyone is looking at me, but they are looking at my eyes.  After I dry off, and dust off sand, the indian lady clothes me in a beautiful sari of red, purple, orange and gold.  She embraces me and says, “You should have come to India sooner.  She’s been waiting for you.”  She turns me around.  A golden woman in a white shift has her back to me.  She has no hair, she’s wearing plenty of bangles, rings and earrings.  She has a small, yet familiar scar just above her left ankle.  She turns and I see my face; older, but still, my face.

She holds up her left hand to show me that it is bare.  She says, “If you spend too long thinking about that, you’ve missed the entire point.”  Children run up to my golden self.  She says, “Your grandchildren are adventurers too.”

I can’t remember how much more happens during this dream.  I’m not even really sure what this dream means, but it does have me thinking, “India.  Why not?”

Posted on by Beauty Jackson in Jewels 4 Comments

“Mighty Healthy”

“For, you see, he had found his center, his own center, inside him:  and it showed.  He wasn’t anybody’s nigger.  And that’s a crime, in this fucking free country.  You’re suppose to be somebody’s nigger.  And if you’re nobody’s nigger, you’re a bad nigger…”

- If Beale Street could Talk by James Baldwin

I’ve sat here for a long time, trying to think of the right way to word this.  I thought, because I don’t want to offend.  I don’t want to hurt feelings.  I didn’t want to sound angry.  I didn’t want to sound like I’m placing blame.  Because at the end of the day, I’m not an angry chick.  I’m not a chick that passes the buck.  But I do have some shit to get off my chest, so bear with me.

When you’re a woman, it is incumbent upon you to belong.  You’re supposed to find your role, and fill it to the best of your ability.  That’s it.  Know your role and play it.  Your worth is all but immaterial. Not outside of its very cliche usage in that you know enough of your worth to perform your role properly and nothing more.  Then, on some unfortunate day, you realize that the deck is stacked and the dice are loaded.  Regardless of your “role,” if you want anything in this world as a woman, you have to make yourself somebody’s bitch.  And if you’re not content being somebody’s bitch, then you’re a bad bitch.

I’ve always struggled with belonging somewhere.  When the day came that I found my center, I realized that I don’t have to belong.  I saw the consequences that came with refusing to be somebody’s bitch, by any definition, and it didn’t scare me.  I’m true to ALL of my personalities (*giggle*), and I keep it pure.  I don’t fuck with people’s heads, and I don’t allow people to fuck with mine.  Sometimes I apologize for being emotional, or vocal, or even demanding of the loyalty that I offer, but at the end of things, that’s who I am.  No regrets.

I remember every ugly thing people told me when I wouldn’t be pigeonholed into the box of belonging.  It’s amazing how quickly seemingly intelligent people resort to the pedestrian “dumb” and “ugly.”  But even for those who were more exotic and imaginative with their jabs, when I looked in the mirror, I never saw what they saw.  I always know that who I was, and the way I appealed to people went so much deeper than simple aesthetics.  I always saw a diamond.  I’m going through a hard time now, and even still, I see that light in my eyes that lets me know that whether or not I’m down matters not.  I’m not OUT.

Now, does thinking like that make me a bad bitch?

You muthafuckin’ right.

Posted on by Beauty Jackson in Jewels 5 Comments

Jitters

I stood in line, chattering with my friend, my stomach nervously fluttering for what I was about to do.

When it was my turn, I barely squeaked out, “I’d like a money order for $20.00 please.”

I returned to my desk, and filled out the money order, as well as the certified mail receipt.  My hand trembled the entire time.  I wanted to make sure that I’d written everything down perfectly.  I did.  I sealed the envelope, and along with it, the path to my destiny.

I have officially entered my first writing contest.

Of course, I can’t say that I will win, but in my heart, this contest is mine.  Even if I don’t win (a possibility that I consider, but only dismissively), this is my step to putting myself out there in the view of all and sundry.  In a way, it’s not even about the win.  It’s about the guts to go for what I want and make it known that I want it.

Before I knew I was pretty, before I knew I would be a mother, before I knew that I would eventually be motherless, before I knew pretty much anything about myself – I knew I would be a writer.  It’s my activity for all occasions – be they happy, sad, or anything in between.  If I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, I write until I do.  There have been times that I have dozed off writing or typing.

I know it probably doesn’t seem like a big thing to some, but for me, it’s a monumental step.  I’m very excited about this guys.

Posted on by Beauty Jackson in Hustlin, Initiation 2 Comments

Celebration of My Soup Coolers

Can I just say that my lips are pretty much, what we may refer to colloquially as, “the bomb.”  I remember being 13 (for some reason, this was my year as a teenage hottie), and one of my classmates opined exactly what my lips were meant for.  I was as uncomfortable with that as i was with the rest of my body (I did my best to hide my adolescent C cups until senior year).  I had somehow convinced myself that everything about me was vulgar, so I hid as much of myself as possible.  I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until I was 16, and even then, if I wasn’t with my parents, I wore very pale shades.  It was as though i feared the power of my own (yet untapped) sexuality.

Then one day, I decided to get my face done at the makeup counter for shits and giggles.  When she went for the bold lipstick, I stopped her. I asked for something paler, softer.  “More, natural.”

“Well, honey, what kind of makeup artist would I be if I didn’t play up your best feature?”  I acquiesced and allowed her to apply the faintly scented creme to my lips, and looked in the mirror.  My lips looked like satin bed sheets, only twice as bold and inviting.  A few guys entered the mall as she applied the finishing touches, and one walked directly into a pole.  I stepped, nay floated, off the chair with an extra strut in my step, my head held high, fierce as hell.

it was no coincidence that i floated out of the mall that day with my first push-up bra and pair of daisy dukes.

The moral of this story?

Fuck what ya heard.  I’m the shit.

Posted on by Beauty Jackson in Afro-dite 1 Comment

The keeper of shit and other stuff

I’m up eeeeeaaaaarrrrrlllllyyyyy on a Sunday morning after consuming good food and Coronas (Coronae?) – good times, good times. I’m taking a break from finishing this story.  It has to be postmarked by October 1st, and I do NOT want to leave anything to chance, So the goal is to have it in the mail tomorrow.

Finge got his mohawk yesterday.  He looks SOOOOOOO cute.  I’ve said that like 19 times, and I’ve been told that your mom gushing over your mohawk takes away from the cool factor.  Being a woman in the barber shop is always such a funny feeling.  I can’t explain it.  Everybody there is really nice, he’s geen going there for a while, so they know me.  I just feel as though I’m trespassing into “Man World.”

Birthdays are on the horizing.  Finge turns ten (jeez) and I turn 32 (wtf?).  I’ve got a lot of good qualities; cute and clever party planning is not exactly my forte.  I’ve pretty much settled on a venue for myself.  However, WHYYYYYYYYYYY will Finge’s party cost damn near the same as mine.

I also need to find a personal trainer, because I plan on dropping 15 pounds by my birthday and, ahem, a more by my reunion.  it’s one thing for classmates to see me, uh, plush, on the streets; reunion is different.  I’m already down four (if I didn’t undo my hard work)  Plus, I’m doing the breast cancer walk in a few weeks, and though I don’t expect to hear “Eye of the Tiger” playing whle I’m walking (not a run), but I don’t want to be four steps from death when I’m finished.

Yesterday was so comedic, from beginning to end, I’m convinced that my life is an elaborate practical joke, and there’s a cash prize at the end.  Honestly, if the cash prize is big enough, I can’t say I would be mad.  People around me are still sort of losing their shit, meaning that I can’t lose mine.  It’s actually gotten to the point that losing my shit doesn’t interest me, because it’s not at all profitable.  Nothing comes from me turning into an emotional pile of mush.  All the things that I thought I would never stop crying over (or thought I would begin to cry over) I really don’t have any tears left for any of that. There’s something serene about knowing that, come hell or high water, you are going to reach your goal.

2009, Imma be published bitches.

Posted on by Beauty Jackson in Jewels 1 Comment

Because every good superhero needs her own theme song…

…and hence the name.

Just B

Posted on by Beauty Jackson in Uncategorized 1 Comment
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