anger

Kick. Push.

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

over the last few weeks i’ve been bathing in disappointment in some form or another; quasi-unrequited love, abandonment issues, re-hashing of and working through extremely  difficult childhood experiences, and three grad school rejections. i feel like shit.  i wanna bust out windows. scream. yell. lay up in my bed with the heat set to  under blankets eating fudge stripes, popcorn, and white castles , watching valley of the dolls. ok so that  was my actual day yesterday. i’m not ashamed. i’d start breaking shit too if i didn’t already know what the inside of the city jail  looked like.

i’m gonna allow myself to fester, too. i’m gonna wail like mahalia. write angry letters i have no intention of sending to the admission offices of each rejecting institution and let them know how bad they done fucked themselves by not accepting me. i’m gonna screech bloody murder to the roof tops at those who chose to bastardize my childhood. i’m gonna throw celie shade on the romantic futures of every man that EVER trifled with my emotions. fuck each and every last one of y’all! and i’m going to do all these things for exactly 4 and 20 hours. anything beyond that, would be embracing misery.

As bad as I want to stay longer, I know I have a choice.  I have infinitely broad base of  people to  reach out to, things to do, and a life to live. I don’t have time to wallow in this. Wallowing never gets me anything but miserable, and most of the time even worse. So I’ll push through. Cycle through my “self-esteem” playlist for the thousandth time. Call my peeps. Cry. Laugh. Be. Then, before I know it, I’ll be sitting pretty on the other side with a brand new set of experiences to lend. All this begins AFTER 2pm tomorrow (exactly 4 and 20 hours after the camel’s back snapped.)

for now, i’m off to count imaginary slashed tires until i lapse into a prostrate coma.

Rosie.

Someone to watch over me.

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Yesterday I spent most of the beautiful 75 degree day in my bedroom tearing it apart in order to reorganize.  I do this mainly when I’m wrestling with emotions and I don’t want my mind to eat itself.   Fast forward to 11pm last night, not much but the destruction part had  been done as I’d left my house at 2pm intending to get food and ended up staying gone for the rest of the day. As I stood looking at the remnants of my space and thought about the monumental task of putting it all back together again, I began to cry.

This wasn’t a regular cry. This was one for the record books. Huge crocodile tears filled my eyes and plopped down to the floor. One of those Viola Davis Doubt*, streams of snot ran down my nose.  My body shook.  I even got those crying kid hiccups, you know the ones they always try to talk through but end up sounding like they have a severe stutter. I was deeply sad, and I let myself be there until I could figure out why. My eyes were  just at swelling, and my gullet jam packed with Mike and Ikes when it occurred to me that in that moment, I wanted someone to take care of me. I wanted a male somebody to come in and make this shit right. I then did the other thing I do when faced with an internal crisis (I mean beside glutting myself with dime store candy), I wrote.

My writing put me in touch with something I didn’t know was there.  I’m tired of being the strong, smart, independent one.  The one that puts things together, or figures things out. Compound that with me not being one of these dainty little women that men tend to want to take care of and on most days I feel like a female Grizzly Adams.  I didn’t have a father, while I love my brothers dearly they are fairly useless in the area of handy-mandom, my romantic relationship … what romantic relationship? Anyway, the bottom line is that the times in my life when I felt protected and cared for by a man were few and far between.

So I stewed for a bit, swallowed the sticky wad of Mike and Ikes and tried to “activate my faith” (phrases like that tickle me ^_^).  I thought about times that I had been loved and supported specifically by men, in ways that were non-sexual. What I discovered is while those times are scattered, they are there. I have been loved and wonderfully cared for by men in my romantic relationships (even the sucky ones) – in my family (my Grand Pa always came through with a happy meal when I needed it most and my brothers  effectively kept me dateless through my teens for my own safety.) –and in my male friendships (these are men who have “dated” me, danced and laughed with me, given me emotional and financial support without  any expectations).

The more I wrote and thought and cried and chewed, the more I realized how skewed my perspective is. There is nothing I can do about my past life experience. Nothing. So there is no need to let it make my current existence  miserable. My history with men is just that, HISTORY.  I can make new choices, shift my perspective,  find new mistakes to make and  new lessons to learn. I can only do these things if I choose not to fall back into old patterns, which is what I was avoiding by destroying my bedroom in the first place. See. Full circle. Don’t you love how life works? I know I do.

Rosie.

*the magic happens at 1:11.

The Show Must Go On … or not.

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This is the first time since 2007 that I do not find myself in the throws of a production during my son’s and my birthdays (February 10 and 15 respectively). It feels wrong, and it’s not like I’m here of my own doing, so I also feel as if I’ve been robbed. I realize this sounds a little selfish/self centered, but it’s the way I feel right now.

Life happened and one of my actors opted out of a show that we’d all been working on since October, the Thursday before it was due to open. I have journeyed through an array of pleasant feelings including but not limited to: shock, rage, hurt, disgust, anger, disillusion, sadness, and lonelines. Each phone call, email, or question about the show  flings me back into a bottomless pit of despair (ain’t I the drama Queen 😉 ). I’m realizing somewhere between setting my script on fire (okay I didn’t but I wanted to) and a phone call about a pile of abandoned sand remaining from our premature strike (damn high concepts!), that I was grieving.

It sucks.  It sucks to have something that you work so hard on just NOT happen. It seems to be a pattern in my life right now as another project I’ve worked on now looks like it may or may not happen.  I’m waiting on grad school responses.  My son and I are fighting for his education. I’m at a stalemate in my romantic life.  Nothing feels certain, and I’d better get used to it, because nothing is certain.

“Life turns on a dime.” “The only thing that is certain is that everything changes.” Slogans I’ve either heard or read along the way that don’t leave me with the warm and fuzzies, but which truths can’t be denied. My discomfort is from my non-acceptance of the cards that are dealt. What has helped is focusing on what’s in front of me like waking up, brushing my teeth, bathing, eating a meal. Every now and then a flash of light or a moment of clarity provides me with things to have gratitude for, like the process.  The work I’ve done on each of my failed/in limbo projects have helped broaden my perspective and grow me as a human being. Then the gratitude ebbs and I’m left with my feelings, except now the likelihood of me picking up that lighter is just a little lower.

I hope this makes sense.  I hope this helps someone.

Rosie.

Beware Ye The Ghetto

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Question, where the hell does the concept of poor innocent white folks wandering into the ghetto only to be raped and otherwise pillaged come from? I, being a ghetto connoisseur having been born and raised in one, am highly confused by this. Mainly because in the 20 years that I did live in the ghetto not once do I remember any innocent white folk wandering into our hood being violated in anyway. Notice I said innocent white folk. Even if some Mary in search of her lamb did end up in my humble hood, at most she may have been heckled or propositioned for the sale of cocaine or marijuana (which was the main reason white folk would show up in our hood.) It … bothers? Me that this myth is perpetuated so often by people who know little or shit about ghetto people outside of what they see on television or in completely biased films.

My mom began work at 16 and at 42 was fortunate enough to be able to retire with pension even!  She was one of the first group of blacks even allowed at that time to work for New Jersey Bell.  My mother is proud, wants the best for her children, and has always—ALWAYS worked her ass off so we could have what we wanted, even when we didn’t deserve it. Yes, my mom was a ghetto mom. The typed often not mentioned when the ghetto is being trashed.

Nikki Giovanni once wrote (and I paraphrase) that she hoped no white person ever had cause to write about her unfortunate upbringing, as she grew up quite happy.  I echo her sentiments. Overall, my childhood in the Pioneer Homes was a happy one. We as a commuity were a family that defied convention while overcoming unbelievable obstacles on a daily basis. We laughed harder, played harder, cried harder, and fought harder than anyone I knew outside that world.

It was definitely not an ideal existence, and not one I would recommend raising children in, but it was mine. I have no shame about where I come from only gratitude for having survived it. I didn’t just survive either, I thrived! There are so many of us that grew up in the projects that I’m from that are living tremendously successful lives. I guess it’s like Tupac’s rose that grew from concrete. To get the best ghetto flowers, you gotta get through a lot of shit.

As to Microsoft’s patent on “Ghetto Avoidance”  software, which was the stimulus for the above on tangent rant, Fuck ‘Em. Perpetuating stereotypes while simultaneous taking advantage of the butt of those stereotypes, is the way of corporate America. Alack. Alack. To those who would seek refuge in such software, I’ll leave  you with this stirring bit of verbage brought to you by Naughty By Nature:

“If you ain’t never been to the ghetto, don’t ever come to the ghetto, cause you wouldn’t understand the ghetto, so stay the fuck out the ghetto.”-Treach “Ghetto Bastard”

Rosie.

The Zion Chronicles: …and we’re back.

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

When I was a kid this time of year always seemed like a new beginning to me. I returned to school, with a fresh mind, a willing heart, and a glimmer in my eye. Often my hopes were dashed by 3rd period, but this did not keep the post holiday after glow from returning each year. I have since transposed this yearly hope shot to my son and my outlook on his education. Each year he’s been in school this time of year has often spelled a new beginning. This year, with things being the way they are, I’m not so sure.

This is the first year that he had work to complete and turn in over the holiday. A science project specifically. A science project that he left all instructions for in parts unknown. This slip in consciousness had me emailing, texting, calling (technology I tell ya!), and hair pulling until we finally came up with a full set of instructions. A tedious 3 days later we look at a project that was complete, but definitely not what I would have him hand in. I decided to let it go because while it wasn’t what I think he was capable of I watched him work. He was definitely putting forward his best effort.

He would stop to ask me to repeat instructions again. He’d work a little more, then stop again, and ask me what I thought…again. I began to realize that he was working to make me happy. To satisfy what I thought was right. When I took a look at the whole process it dawned on me he’d sought my advice down to the medium he chose to use to create the project. It made me incredibly sad to watch this kids scurry around trying to get it just right so I would approve. This was not the parent I wanted to be, but it was the parent I’d become. Somewhere along the line I’d stripped my child of the ability to stand confident in his own decisions.

That’s the shit that sticks with a kid into adulthood. I know because I am/was one of those kids. At 34 I still feel more settled in decisions that I make that my mother agrees with than ones that I make that she doesn’t. What’s crazy is even when I am 100% correct in my decision I still doubt myself. Example, I refused to get Zion a PSP for Christmas because of his lack of effort in school. She disagreed. She felt that since she’s never penalized us for Christmas that I shouldn’t penalize him. I sat for about two weeks in a mud puddle of guilt and frustration, but I didn’t buy the damn game! I also didn’t provide him with a lavish Christmas because it wasn’t warranted, and it would have reinforced some behaviors that for sure didn’t need reinforcement.

Thank the powers that be for growth. To think, if I hadn’t done some growing up and out of this codependent pattern behavior, I might not be writing right now. I might not have chosen theatre as a career option at 30. We are not our parents. Our children are not us. I want nothing but the best for Zion, but there is going to come a point (and I feel it’s coming soon) that what he feels is best for him and what I feel is best for him is going to veer off in different directions. I have to accept it or the next few years are going to be hell on earth. Hence me letting his science project be exactly what he made it. His.

He went to turn the project in today. So many of the kids hadn’t done it that she gave them until Friday to complete it. It figures. He brought it back home and resigned to start over. I gave him total autonomy, but advised that if his second draft failed to be completed the first one would have to do. Maybe I’m letting go too much. I’m not sure how involved I should be. This whole business is like stumbling around in the dark to find a light switch in an unfamiliar space. Hopefully I’ll just stumble along and not bust my ass completely, and pray god, avoid causing any permanent damage to Zion’s tender developing ego.

With a lingering hint of after glow, and hope that this week’s testing turns up some answers to Zion’s educational woes…

Rosie.

The Zion Chronicles: Throw everything at the wall…something will stick.

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

Today finds me in a very reasonable non-desperate place in my parenting situation. I’m truly grateful for this. What we’ve been up to? Well, much of the same. Threatening. Screaming. Yelling. Punishing. Sighing. Crying. Sadness. I got profoundly sad, then depressed over my son and his inability to “get” it. I spent about a week or two in bed feeling sorry for myself and my ineffective parenting skills. I wallowed. Oh how I wallowed. I found no point in going on. I felt worthless. I wanted to die (no bullshitting). I. I…was the most self centered muphucka on the planet for two weeks. The bottom line is, they aren’t my grades. I don’t have to suffer any of the consequences of them. My job as a parent is to guide and to be there when needed. Both of which I always do, even at my most paranoid and overbearing.

We stayed in the fight. Even when we hated each other, because honestly looking back over the last few weeks; I’m not sure if I wouldn’t have run away or gone emo if I had me for a mom. In the midst of our everyday grind something came to me. We hadn’t played, genuinely played, for a very long while. Maybe because somewhere inside me I felt that I wasn’t doing my job if I allowed him to goof off. What I didn’t think about is that I was doing him and our relationship a severe disservice. Play is JUST as important as work. When I took an honest look at my child’s life I saw that it was mainly work with scattered instances of play that I would stifle as quickly as they arose. What an f’n Scrooge I’d become!

So, I as an experiment (we’ll see how this works folks) decided to play a game with him for 15 minutes for every homework assignment he completes. This accomplishes few things: First, It allows him a break. Second, it allows me to play with him and give him the time with me that he clearly wants (as can be seen by his eagerness to complete assignments per they’re requirement so we can play) and I get time with him, which I want :). It’s been pretty cool so far too!

We’ve been playing Table Topics (which I didn’t initially think he’d like, but it was what was here). If you’re not familiar with Table Topics it’s a game that’s basically a stack of questions that the players go around asking each other. Some are about life experience, others about thoughts on topics, dreams, aspirations. It turns out Zion loves this game. He digs finding out things about me and telling me things about him (he actually confessed stealing a power ranger action figure when he was younger!)

Sidebar: I am having him tested for a learning disability. He resents me a little for it, no matter how much I explain it doesn’t make him stupid, but he’s a kid. I get how he feels. No one wants to be different. As a parent though, I MUST be sure all my bases are covered to ensure he’s getting everything he needs from his educators (and hell yes you have to jump in with both feet when you’re dealing with CMS!)

I can’t say what any of this done for his grades yet (with an overall more healthy emotional well being I’m sure they will at least stabilize, I pray!) I’m seriously trying to let that go for now, but it’s worked wonders for our relationship in just a short period. I’m also doing a lot of work on me. So I don’t take his comments, rants, and attitudes personally. So I don’t feel like I have to fight every battle tooth and nail. So I don’t feel like I have to physically assert my dominance when he’s just doing the things kids do. I won’t be disrespected for sure. However I don’t have to disrespect him to gain that respect. Pretty good feeling.

Yes, I’m still here. Still in it, but now working with my son, instead of against him. It’s working. For now.

Rosie.

The Zion Chronicles: The Good The Bad and The Ugly Betty Dude

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

I’m still standing. It’s better some days than others. This past Friday it got pretty damn intense. See whenever Zion is away from home for a little more than 24 hours he some how forgets the rules and regulations of the house. He was gone for 48 hours over the holiday with my brother so I had my work cut out for me. He came in wanting to not do anything but laze around and allowed to do so until late afternoon. Then it was time to get to work.

Let me back track a little. I’d visited his school Tuesday (after some erroneous ass story about his Spanish teacher not allowing him to take an exam for Science…wah?). I was irate and ready to climb the walls. It’s been really difficult to strike a balance between worrying the hell out of his teachers giving and them enough space to do their job. It get’s even hairier when certain teachers won’t contact you when it is clear your child is failing their class (D or less in my home, I don’t know about these shady ass CMS standards). I even had a teacher claim she was about to go to administration on my son because of his excessive talking in her class. Really?! So we don’t even pass go? Don’t even collect $200? We definitely don’t talk to the child’s parent. We just go to administration. Nice. Did I mention said teacher responded to me via email with this sentence of sorts:

“Good afternoon Mrs. Rose, Zion grades are poorly because he didn’t bring his homework and he didn’t finish his classwork, he talk to much in class, he needs to use his time correctly in order to finish his work, already I need to move him to another desk.”

…and she’s teaching my child. *sigh*.

Well back to our story. By all accounts he needs to make some real changes in classroom behavior and organization. Things I already knew, but how do I make it happen?! I can barely get him to do homework (which apparently he’s only pretending to do.) It’s on him right? That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. How do I decide where I should intervene though. When do certain things become a parent’s duty? I have taken everything from him that bleeps or zings and he now has to “pay” to get them back and for basic things (i.e. watching television) with time spent working (school work, house work, etc.) Is this enough? Is it too much. *Sigh* Appointments with the educational team are made. I sigh. I cry. I dig in. Which brings us back to Friday.

My mom gave him the option of going with her to the store to pick up some energy and get him out of the post Turkey day slump, which I totally get, but he refuses to go. I’m laying down for work while all of this is going on so I arise from my mild coma. Then the stand off begins: (cue the theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly)

Me: Zion, you need to go ahead with your Grandmother.

Zion: I don’t wanna go!

Me: You’re going. You’re not gonna lay around in here all day.

Zion: I’m tired! I’ve been gone for two days…

Me: What?! You act like you’ve been to war or some shit! If you don’t get your shit on and get outta here…! (yes I cussed, I’m working on it. Call DSS if you need to.)

Zion grumbles into his room, puts on anything literally and slams himself next to his Grandmother and begins to mumble. This begins to irritate her and she reascends her original invitation. She doesn’t want him along aggravating the hell out of her, and I truly don’t blame her!

Me: Okay Zion, then you can go ahead and get your homework started.

Zion: I’m going with Gram!

Me: Oh no you’re not!

Zion: Yes, I am! I don’t wanna stay here!

Me: It’s fine, you’ll just do do your homework when you get back. Either way. You’re doing your homework.

My mother once again denies his company. He shoves himself against her and begins a round of hostile mumbling. I have exceeded the boiling point. I box his ears like he’s Oliver twist (again call DSS if you need to.) Stunned by the turn of events Zion goes into his Sophia routine: (cue the theme for The Color Purple.)

It took all this just to get him to get to his homework and stay focused. I don’t like having to be this parent. I don’t like that looking at him after all this his face read an intense hatred of me. I found myself growing this tiny fear in the pit of my stomach while getting ready for work. I’d been following the story of Michael Brea (the dude who sliced his mom to bits because she was full of demons). Mind you I don’t think Zion will rule me demonized and slice my head off in the next week or so (I’ve hidden all of our samurai swords just in case though), I just think that hostility toward parents now-a-days has manifested itself in slayings or other family tragedies. Maybe it’s an unfounded concern, but boy did he look consumed with the fires of hatred when I told him he needed to read two chapters instead of one due to the lag time over the holiday.

Where is the line between normal tween/teen aged moodiness, and “Is this lil negro plottin’ my murder?” *SIGH* I dunno. What I can do is try to control my anger a little more, and it has gotten lots better and pick my battles. I try not to be a complete tyrant, which is why I allowed him to leave the house for a few days. He needed it. I needed it. It’s Saturday. We’re back to the grid iron in a little over 24 hours.

Rosie.

The Zion Chronicles: Slap goes the two piece

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To give you an example of just how damn QUICK it gets on and poppin’ between my loving son and I:

Friday afternoon. An easy pick up day as the weekend is upon us and there was no need to deal with homework right away. Wait? I’d already said I wasn’t anyway. So there really shouldn’t be an issue right? Ten minutes into our car ride I remind him I had a show and see if he still wanted to go (as he said he wanted to earlier). He says yes, so we head off to get some subs before I’m called. We get said subs, everything is going great and we strike up a conversation about acting.

I have always said and believe that my son is a stronger actor than me. He just has an ability to shed fear instantly when faced with an audience that I have yet to acquire. He says he didn’t know I felt that way. I once again acknowledge what I’d said. Then I’m not sure if he starts to analyze any of my prior performances in his mind, but a second or so later he tells me that he’d noticed how nervous I’d always seemed on stage. I, having to perform that night am not stomaching this too well (maybe I would have at a different time, but not just then. Alas children have no filter.) I ask him firmly and repeatedly to not use my compliment as a weapon to make me feel bad about myself. He glares at me momentarily, and as I’m asking him to confirm that he won’t he refuses to open his mouth. I told him since he can’t answer me he could stay home because I didn’t need to bring that type of negativity with me to a performance.

(side note: This is a pet peeve of mine. Why the hell do people always want to stir up some unresolved whatever or some new bullshit right when you are about to do something major?! Aarrgh!)

I let it go with little struggle, and even managed to turn on some music for the remainder of the ride home. We get to the house. He rushes out of the car, and speed walks to the door not wanting me to get the opportunity to unlock it. He bangs on it so his Grandmother will answer. She does. He jams through the door. She give me the “What-happened-now” face. I tell her what happened and mean while Zion has descended upon her left over two-piece chicken and biscuit from lunch. Like his Mom he’s an emotional eater. I tell him point blank to put it down and that he doesn’t get to pig out because he’s pissed with me. He chooses to ignore me and attempts to brush past me still snacking so I slap it out of his hand. It felt pretty juvenile, and it was a direct response to how disrespected I felt and how furious I was (I even made him pick it up 😦 ).

That is the kind of stuff that I want to stop doing, and I know if I keep acknowledging the behavior and trying to make changes those changes will assuredly come.

Keep dancing, singing, swimming, praying, and waving your magic sticks for me.

Rosie.