One in A Million

Today is 10/14/2019. This date is important because less than two weeks ago a white female officer walked into a black man's apartment mistaking it for her own. And killed him. She walked into someone else's home and killed him. She was charged with murder, but only received 10 years in prison. I say "only" because this was my trigger. From what I gather (media only shows us what they want) I felt sorry for the officer. I honestly believed she fucked up and made the mistake of her life. Oh, wait, I forgot to introduce myself. I am a black woman in Texas. Not only a black woman, but the hue of black you would see when you look into a delicious snickers bar. So yeah, there is absolutely no mistaking me for anything other than black (unless you consider my wavy natural hair- *whateves*). Real story, for another post. I digress.

 I set that stage because imagine me, a dark chocolate, fully black woman having sympathy for this white police officer. The backlash I received from my own was.... gag worthy. But as I once stated, I see through an entirely different lens than other black folks. Yes, the system is broken. Yes, I do believe there is racism. But in some instances the black vs white the media likes to play, just doesn't fit. I hate to be the one to say this, but Amber Guyger would have gotten a "pass" if she had killed a black man while on duty. *shrugs* Had she honestly wanted to kill a black man--shit, 10 black men, she could have done it with her "get outta jail free card" police officer-white -woman badge. Why the fuck would she go to her place of residence and do it?! In my brain??? Because it was a horrible accident! But black people can never, and will never see it that way. And honestly, that's okay. But what is not okay, is when they crucify someone like me. Someone who is black who doesn't agree with their narrative. I see what you see. However, I don't believe what you believe. Why is that not okay?!

Fast forward less than two weeks after the aforementioned fiasco, and yet we are faced with another white officer that kills an unarmed black woman. The entirely of this story saddens me to my core. Yet, I am saddened not only for the victim, but for the officer as well. Does this make me a bad black person? I can't help that these situations evoke sadness instead of anger. I am sad for all involved.

But please don't get it twisted. I understand when black people say "if you are concerned about me, don't call the police". I get it. I feel it. I AM black. But I also am very analytical. Some things make sense to *me* and others things don't. I believe police are trained to kill and ask later. Black, white, or brown. That is how they are trained. Is there a problem in America? Sure. Does it solely rest with the police? No. I don't have the answer. But I have my answer. 

I am going to be me. Like it or not. It is who I am. I am black by ethnicity. Chocolate as candy. Experience has allowed me to spend 15 years around white people. The people whom blacks would consider their enemy, Yet, these same people accept me better than my own. Some might say I am brain washed or "whitewashed", however, I would say I have been exposed. Exposed to those who are thought to be the enemy.

To me....you both are the enemy, it just depends on the day. 

Broken records

This broken record continues to play. I don't know how it plays, but it does. Nothing broken should sound so lovely. The softness of the music continues to arouse me. The words. The rhythm. The beat. It is all so lovely. Yet it's broken. How could something broken play such a lovely sound. The sound that calls for me. I can't help but to be enticed by the sound. All the while being perplexed at how a record could play when it is broken. Its not that I don't know the record is broken, yet I continue to listen. I expect the brokenness to do that which defies the odds and play music. And for some time it does. The music plays with no skips. And then just as the depth of the music begins to reveal itself, the record stalls. The same word. Over and over again. Instead of stopping the record, I let it continue. I listen as if the sound that continues to ring in my ear, will be different. As if no action at all is somehow going to produce something different. It can't, the record is broken. As I wait and hope that this broken record will produce that which it is not capable of producing, I must convince myself that the record has reached its end. As lovely as this record has been. As many memories that the words of this record brings up, the time has come. Not just to put away the record until a better time. But it is time to say goodbye. Say goodbye to the brokenness. Time to say goodbye to the hopes and desires I had for this record. It is no longer good enough to just pack it away until a better time.This time it must be discarded. It is time for a new record. A new song. New memories. New dances to a brand new record. The rhythm will be different. I may not know the beat. The words will take some time to memorize, but it's time. It's time to be out with the old, and find the new. No more broken records. It's time for newness.

Dear Me

Dear Me,

Continue to be you. Be sensitive.  Cry.  Ask questions. Giggle loudly. There are days you tell yourself you must change. That you need to be different.  But as hard as you try,  you can't. You can't change your infectious laugh that causes people to say something. You can't change that you "talk white". This advise is being given on a day where you are questioning yourself. Why and what.  It's always why and what. But this time the why and what is different because it's made you cry. And you thought you were strong enough not to cry. That's really the problem,  you always think you're strong enough. You keep asking yourself what you did and why this keeps happening. As if somehow if you were different,  prettier, lighter, or more black the results would be different. But sadly,  they never are.  There are just a few things in life my heart desires. Not too much,  just a few.

Disillusioned

The happily ever after,  the butterflies in the stomach,  I love you letters. All an illusion. Respect,  love,  trust.  All illusion. Two imperfect people making a choice to choose one another.  That's it.  No sparks. No fairytale ending. Cinderella lied. Sleeping beauty was wrong,  and Snow white...also misinformed. It's all just a story we're told. Books we are read.  But life and fairytale don't marry well. Or at all. From the outside looking in,  fairytales are believable. The smiles, the photos, the beautiful and splendid weddings. But after the curtain is pulled and the pretty dress is taken off. After the cameras stop flashing and life resumes. The illusion no longer remains to exist. You're still left with two imperfect people, who've made a choice. Choosing one another. It's all just a choice, wrapped up in exquisitely breath-taking decorated paper. The outside appears beautiful, while the inside, the inside is just a simple choice.

That "click"

It just happens.  Without permission. Without desire. One day you wake up and that feeling you thought you could never feel again is there. It's not an everyday kinda feeling. It's not something you can manufacturer or even make yourself feel. It just happens.

Chemistry.

It is reminiscent of an object being drawn in by a magnetic force. The force overwhelmingly pulls you in. The object has no choice but to be on beck and call. It becomes the servant to the master. No matter how much I ponder on this fascinating thing,  it remains unexplainable. It's as real as real is. But can't be seen. It can only be felt. This energy can't be lust because physical intimacy isn't involved. It's not infatuation because it's beyond what you even want. What you desire isn't even taken into consideration when this connection happens. It's something that takes over and begins to just exist. It takes up room in your heart without a deposit.

I think I always want it to be this way. I want to *feel* the connection. I want to *feel* chemistry.

While feelings are in no way are indictators of what is right, or what should be. They play the role of a check engine light alerting you that something needs your attention. I like the way this feels. It allows me to know I'm alive. It makes me feel alive. I've been on the other side of this coin. The side where the pain hurt so much I could only stop feeling. Not just pain, but everything. I just existed. For much too long I existed in this state. And while it was safe, it was miserable and unpleasant in every sense of the word. And while where I am now is equally uncomfortable and some days painful-- I want this side. I want to feel whatever emotions I may be experiencing. This allows me to grow. To experience. To learn. To love. To hope. To believe. To desire. To be human. To loosen the reins of control.

There are a lot of things in life that out of our control. Top among those, are feelings and emotions. Yet,  it's these that can often times tell you more about what's going on inside of you, than words themselves. And what I'm being told TODAY is.....in this world of nightmares....it's safe to believe in fairytales, afterall.

Fearing the unknown

I can't get over the fear. That which I desire most,  I fear. Fear holds me captive. I'm a prisoner who holds her own keys. The locked door is so very near, and I hold the key. But the fear of opening the door and seeing all that might be on the other side,  keeps me imprisoned. I want so badly to experience the other side. I want to breath the fresh air,  see the beauty of my surroundings. Engage with the people.  There is freedom that comes with reaching a desire and seeing it come into existence. But I just can't extend my reach far enough to put the key in the lock and let myself out of my own self imposed prison.  The prison I don't want to be in. The prison I daily grieve and wish to be different. But it all lies in my hands.

I just can't. I want to,  but I can't. My dreams,  my desires. I want all those. But they stay locked in this prison with me until I find the courage to come out. I have experienced courage in so many things, and I know the journey isn't over. There is so much more to overcome, says the mighty princess warrior that lives within me. But she's missing what she needs to get to the other side. I can't loosen  myself from these self imposed shackles of fear which keep me bound. But when and how did this all happen?  When did fear become so great it paralyzed me. The answer is obvious. The reality is frightening.

For so long this princess warrior has fought her battles alone. She's broken free of so many things. She's reached so many heights with no one by her side. She's been strong so long. The question must be asked, is it really fear that holds her captive,  or is she merely waiting to be rescued. Somewhere in the distance her knight must be awaiting her. But she'll never know because fear keeps her imprisoned. All that she wants from life is on the other side of the door. Yet between her and the door continues to stand one thing.  Fear.

Perpetual cycle

It's an unending cycle. I'm a hamster in a wheel. I'm also that person who can peer inside the wheel and see the craziness. I'm both. At the same time. But I can't make it stop. The wheel continues to spin around and around, and I don't get off. I want it to stop. But I also don't want it to stop. I love it. And I hate it.

My perpetual cycle.

Within me I agonize over the pain it causes, the damage I know it's doing. But while in agony, a smile finds its way through because I'm also reminded how powerful it makes me feel. How much control I have. I loudly proclaim and embrace with much authority, the deadly weapon I have. The pleasure is beyond words at times. The struggle is alive. The enemy has a tight foothold. The grip is strong.

One day I'll wake up and say enough! But this scene has played out more times than I like to admit and as time passes, with every choice, I'll find myself back on this wheel.

It's endless. It's painful. It's pleasure.