expectations

PE: The Unseen Enema!

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I’m not sure if I ever feel “special” or “wanted”. I have determined the reason for this is an undiscovered birth defect that children in the future will be tested for.  They may even develop a vaccine.  It’d play out something like this:

(A happy couple with their new baby in tow, walks into a pediatrician’s office for baby’s first appointment. The doctor sits behind the desk, shuffles mindlessly through papers. It is apparent that all tests and labs are normal. Then he stumbles upon a piece of paper that causes him to stop and furrow his Andy Rooney like brow.)

Doctor:  Mr. and Mrs. Happy?

The Happies: (anxious) Yes?

Doctor:  I’ve got some difficult news.

Mr. Happy: What is it?

Doctor:  There is something terribly wrong with little Johnny.

Mrs. Happy:  Oh no!  But I did all the right things during my pregnancy! I exercised, ate the right foods, kept my pot smoking to a minimum, and refrained from contact with undesirable societal elements.

(Mrs. Happy dissolves into tears.)

Mr. Happy: (stiff upper lip) Alright doc.  Lay it on us.

Doctor: Little Johnny has PE.

Mrs Happy:  Oh My God No!!! No no no no no no no nonononononono! aaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!

(Mr. Happy slaps the shit out of Mrs. Happy)

Mrs. Happy: (to Mr. Happy) Thanks Honey. (to Doctor) Um, what’s PE?

Doctor: Perpetual Emptiness. No matter how much or how little love and affection you shower that little sonnovabitch with, he’ll still feel like a useless sack of shit, and act accordingly.

Mr. Happy: So, there’s a name for that now?  Thanks modern science!

Doctor: Yes, there is a name, and we are mere decades away from a cure!  Aboriginal children at a camp in a remote area of New Zealand are currently being used to test the vaccine.  When those little bastards stop bouncing off walls and spontaneously combusting we’ll know we’re almost there.

Mrs. Happy:  What do we do in the mean time?

Doctor: (ponders) Well it’s too late too abort.  There’s always abandonment or general disinterest in his life.

Mr. Happy:  Does that work?

Doctor:   I don’t know.  Go ask your father.

(Mr. and Mrs. Happy share a puzzled look.)

Doctor: Go on, get him out of here. There’s nothing else I can do for him.

(Mr. and Mrs. Happy leave with Little Johnny in hand.  Three months later, they divorce.  Six months later, Ms. Happy, under the assumed name of “Thunder Clap”, begins a lucrative career in striptease.  Little Johnny?  I’m not sure, but it is likely that he’s well on his way to becoming the savior or condemnation of modern society.)

The End.

(Cue Cape Fear theme music.)

I may suffer with PE, and we may be saying hello to my son’s great-grandchildren before there’s a cure, but dammit I know you like me! You really like me! (Please say you like me 😦 … and want me :/ .)

Alright I’m done being a jackass.  Happy Valentine’s Day to the all the lonely hearts!

Rosie.

Consider the possibilites.

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“Consider the possibility that we can change the aspects of our lives that we most take for granted.” –– Dr. Angela Davis

I figured I’d take a moment to jot down some of the thoughts that have been jostling around in my head for the last few days. It’s become glaringly apparent to me how small my life use to be and how I very well could have died without achieving much or really even enjoying something as simple as a vacation with my family. It wasn’t until I was an adult that my family and I even went anywhere together outside of the south to visit other family. (I do not count the one horrific trip to Wildwood, NJ I vaguely remember that began and I feel ended with me toileting on the side of the road.)

The point is, it just wasn’t something we thought to do as a unit or if it did come up the obstacles to actually executing it seemed so insurmountable that the effort to make it happen seemed futile.  This mentality infused my thoughts about college: I didn’t even apply when I was in high school because it never occurred to me to apply (and not an adult in my life either apparently). My career choice:  Despite always being a strong writer in school, and even being told by my 11th grade English teacher that I should be a writer.  The idea that I could make a living with my words seemed far beyond me. That was for other people.  Sadly, I come from a culture of folks that continue to think and believe in the same way, and no, I don’t mean black folks.  I mean people who were just not made to feel  that happiness, abundance, achievement,  spiritual and emotional fulfillment could exist on this earthly plane, and if so … not for us.

I’m so grateful that I was “found” and made to believe that in this life I could go after whatever it is I desire. The even greater realization was that the satisfaction dwells in the pursuit, and not the goal. All these themes came up last evening when I attended Dr. Angela Davis’s lecture at Davidson College.  She was amazing, unabashed, and everything that I want to be when I grow into my big-girl self.  She spoke of the freedom fight of Black America  and how it is a galvanizing force in the fight for human rights globally, something I have believed for a very long time.  There was so much said that filled my spirit I  felt sure my heart would burst.

The above quote is what tied all of Dr. Davis’s beautifully simple yet profound words together for me. Although the “wrong” in the world and in our lives seems unconquerable, the hope is  found in latent potential for good/better/the best that lives in us all.  The possibilities  can be unleashed with just the slightest bit of action on our part, like finishing that degree, like making our beds, like spending that extra hour with our family, like spending that extra hour with self. Seems like a load of jive to you? Test the theory, the results may shock you ;).

Rosie.

It ain’t about Django …

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I and apparently thousands of other Americans went to watch Quentin Tarantino‘s Django Unchanged over the Christmas holiday.  This post is not about that film … really.  It is about why the film, like it or not, is an important move forward in the discussion of who tells the stories of blacks in America and at what cost.  Hollywood (film and television) for better or worse is how many people globally are exposed to African Americans and/or African American culture.  If one keeps in mind the images of African Americans that are put out through these vehicles it is no surprise that we are highly misunderstood by the much of  world at large. The fact is the “African American Experience” is as broad and diverse as the people who live it. This is a fact that is often over looked or blatantly disregarded to the detriment of Blacks in America.

Our story is this country’s dirty laundry, shoved aside, hid under humor, rage, and stock characters but never fully exposed or wholly understood.  Whose responsibility is it to tell the story of blacks in America?  The most logical answer would seem to be the people that have walked through it.  The next questions could then be:  “which” people?  Black people, white people, hell the entire country for that matter has some level of interest/perspective in African American history.  There are as many “truths” as there are people, but what I feel cannot and should not be discounted or disrespected in the telling of any  story of Blacks in America is the ugliness of the past and it’s legacy that bleeds into the Black American existence to this day.

Even then the question of what counts as “disrespect” lingers.  It’s all too sordid and was the main reason I left Django Unchained mildly enraged and only vaguely entertained. For me it just leaves the flood gates open for random violation of a history that has already been looted and pillaged beyond recognition. (See shit like this:

DjangoGame… *sigh*)

I wanted lay into their asses something awful, but what would be the point? There is no united front of black folks that are prepared to shut down the Hollywood machine on the strength of disrespect of our culture. (see: Jews vs. Mel Gibson‘s career)

What is there to do if anything about protecting, preserving, and presenting a diverse view of what it is to be Black in America?  Well from where I sit there are a few options:

1.  Tell my own Black story as open and honestly as I can and do my best to ensure  it reaches somebody then somebody else then somebody else …

2.  Stop depending on/expecting Hollywood to tell your, my, our “truth” (see: Awkward Black Girl)  They don’t give a shit bout nothing but a dollar, period.  If they think it’ll put asses in seats … it’ll get made.

3.  Stop feeling like it is our responsibility to make people out side our race and culture understand us. Fuck that.  We have no control over how people are going think or feel about us. If they really want to understand “the black community”* then they better damn well get off their asses and do the research.

Okay, I think I got it all out. At least for now … until the next bit of unintentional bigotry surfaces … which is probably goin’ down right now at some hipster drinking establishment in Williamsburg. (ugggh!)

Rosie.

* this term should be outlawed and those insisting on using it systematically tortured … but that’s another post all together.
 
http://youtu.be/aAthMi5Kz5g

Intentionally Speaking.

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I’m delayed in posting this as my New Year began with me a little under the weather in body and spirit, but I’m back (for the most part) and ready to take on 2013.  Here goes … A wise man, and quite a few yoga instructors hipped me to the concept of setting an intention.  Setting an intention in  yoga practice has more to do with giving me a “focus” for my practice.  That goal may be  something that I’d like to see fulfilled in my life … say … “happiness” … “financial stability” … or “getting laid”.  Ok, so I never really set getting laid as the intention of a yoga practice, but BOY have I been tempted.

Anyway … In life intention, at least for me, is similar but magnified to the level of day-to-day living.  I set a tangible goal(s) and practice my life in that direction.  The trick is,  the goal is not the goal, make sense? No?  Maybe? Well here’s an example from my life:

Last year applying to and attending grad school was on my “Goals for 2012” list.  If you’ve been following me at all over the year you know that I meant business about that shit.  I threw all my energy into applying, getting denied,  continuing to apply, continuing to get denied until I was ultimately accepted (to a school I technically didn’t even apply to I might add) and ultimately ending up at the school I wanted to attend in the first place.

The gift of that experience, while it was quite unexpected and TOTALLY awesome, was not getting what I wanted but all the hard  earned insight and personal growth. The real rewards were:

  • Understanding that I need to pay my damn bills because bad credit isn’t going to simply go away.
  • Growing a thicker skin when it comes to my writing/understanding that I’m not the best, but certainly not the worse writer there ever was.
  • Patience is a virtue … and will mature the hell out of you if you let it.

… and really a whole host of other things if I sat and thought about it.

With all this in mind, I sat down and created my goals/intention list for next year.  It was a very forgiving process as there was definitely room for things I did not accomplish last year.  It was a joyous process as there were quite a few new things that were added to replaced things I did accomplish in 2012.  There is balance, and that is always the goal for me, miss it though I may.

I’ll end with a  prayer of confirmation.  Yes, I said prayer.  Heathens pray too.

G.O.D.*,

I first want to give gratitude to whatever universal forces, ancestors, or beings that guided and protected me into a new year of life. The other night at work while I rushed through unfocused, eager to get off and go about my evening, a patient said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“I count my blessings before I pray for my wants.”

I am abundantly blessed in my life.  I am relatively healthy, as are my son, and family.  I have an amazing network of friends that love me unconditionally as I do them.  I am gainfully employed at a job that I genuinely enjoy. I’m a thriving theatre artist about to embark on an amazing opportunity of a life time at NYU. Now the real miracle:  Despite any circumstances that came down the pipes I did not use drugs or alcohol as a means of getting me through the problem.  I celebrated 3 years clean in 2012!

There are so many other things I could have listed, but this post needs to end at some point (and besides … G.O.D. knows my heart right? 😉  ) Now,  my “wants”.  In 2013 I want to be:  A better mother, a better friend, a better daughter, a better sister, a better lover (of self), a better love (of others).  I want to create healing in the day-to-day practice of my life through art, healthier relationships, and open honest communication.

I want to continue to be able to grow through recovery, face my fears, hell maybe even embrace them.  I want to continue keeping the faith when it feels like nothing is going right.  I want to continue keeping the faith when everything is going right (because for me these are the hardest times to be faithful.) Most of all, if it is in a higher will, I’d like to be here this time next year writing about how I got through it. If not, I will like my life to be a testimony on how it is quite possible for a poor girl from the mean streets of Elizabeth, NJ to get over.

All this I pray in Sweet black baby Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, The Ancestors, and whoever else will listen’s name …

Selah!

Happiest and most prosperous New Year to you and your folk!

Rosie.

*in recovery we sometimes call GOD, Good Orderly Direction.
 

http://youtu.be/l49N8U3d0Bw

 
No one will ever stir my soul quite like Mahalia
 

As the curtain closes.

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“…twilight is that time between day and night … limbo … I call it limbo.”      – Twilight Bey (Organizer, Gang Truce)

Tonight will be the last time I perform with the cast of Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992 and likely the last time I perform in Charlotte, NC for a long while.  In a few months I’ll be relocating to New York in preparation for graduate school at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. It seems so unreal  that my theatre career has brought me here when all it was initially was refuge from the emotional baggage of my divorce.  I’m beyond grateful.

As I mentally prepare to take the stage this evening I can’t help but to think about the process that we as a cast and crew went through to bring us to this night. It has been far from easy.  There have been  things said, done, and not done that has caused friction along the way.  I would like to apologize for anything that I may have said, done, or not done that has contributed to conflict, confusion, or hurt feelings.  The last thing I want any theatrical processes I’m a part of to do is leave a participant hurt and/or disillusioned. I understand that sometimes this is unavoidable. How fitting that the cast and crew of a show about human conflict, anger, and miscommunication have become a self fulfilling prophecy.

This is why I’m a theatre artist.  It’s so healing and therapeutic. It’s an opportunity for me to look at myself within characters and their situations and gain insight on life that I might not have gotten any other way.  The best part is having a gang of people as crazy as I am to do it with!

Twilight folk:  I love you all so much and wish you love and light moving forward. I hope life decides to give us another opportunity to work together. Maybe next time it’ll be in something lighter, like Noises Off or some shit, because honestly … it was fairly unrealistic to believe that we could give birth to a baby as heavy as Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992 and not have to have a few stitches ;). (Okay that was gross.)  Anyway … One more time people! Let’s make Anna Deveare Smith proud ;).

Rosie.

 

fat and insecure: egads i’ve been discovered!

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A few minutes ago I was accosted on my own facebook page by a gentleman that felt he just had to respond to the following post:

photo copy

I believed the photo to be “cute” and by no means did I intend it to be a declaration of war on men who are not into big women. However this gentleman, whose name I won’t withhold because fuck it — he’s bold enough to pop up on my facebook wall talking unsolicited shit he’s good money with getting written about — did:

dumbass

I will address the rest of this post to Mr. Johnson, the kingly sage of his generation:

Mr. Johnson,

I have been alive long enough, and experienced enough to know that men like what they like and for that matter women like what they like.  And honestly, it is down right pathetic that there are still living breathing men with a shred of intelligence that believe that women stake their entire self view on what a man thinks about them.

… wait, there are those women, I just don’t happen to be one. No, Mr. Johnson the things that I say to make me feel better about myself when I find the old self esteem ship is sinking are usually related to:

1. The dopeness of my theatre artistry.

2. My phenomenal skills as a parent.

3. And the fact that I’m an honest to god “decent” human being who doesn’t see the need to maliciously belittle others to feel okay with myself.

I’ll cop to it Mr. Johnson, what you said hurt my feelings. I will not put on a brave face, and hide behind wit.  It was a throw back to play grounds and that shitty year I had in the sixth grade, but I will let your words stay right where they are because they are a reminder that I am bigger than that.

Yes Mr. Johnson, I’m  BIG.  A fat woman, if you will. I’m about two and a half of your girlfriend. I’m also BIG in mind, BIG in spirit, and BIG in aspirations (usually achieving whatever I put my mind to), so indeed there are going to be a lot of men I’m too BIG for in many more ways than just the physical. And I am quite alright with that. I bid you and all 100lbs of your girlfriend, adieu.

Rosie.

Tick. Tock.

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Mortality knocked on my door today, utterly uninvited … that bitch.  I mean how rude. Here she is showing up as I am drifting happily along in the cheap hotel jacuzzi of my denial.  She hides her house warming gift in the middle of the thicket that is my pony tail. A gray hair. SONNOVABITCH.

And now some context …

We gray very slowly my family.  My mom at 64 has very few grays.  My Nana passed away at 78 still salt and pepper.  It was my expectation that my hair would stay brown (or whatever the hell color it is) until I was at least 40. But alas no. “Fuck you lady.” says The Universe.   “You gotta get old too.”

Heartless.  Just heartless.  I was able to get on with my day fairly well, although I could not escape the feeling that I was being chased by something, like … my future.  Visions of crumbly bones, sagging jowls, and Depends had me on the run.  Granted some of these fates are avoidable with dietary changes and an increase in exercise, but the water in this denial jacuzzi is so blasted warm and comfy that I don’t know if I feel like …

It’s not the dying part I’m worried about. It’s the growing old and “losing” the things I do like about myself. Like my taunt, clear skin.  Hell, I just started liking my fat ass and eventually it’s gonna get to looking like an empty trash bag.  It’s another one of those universal lessons on the impermanence of things I s’pose. “The only thing that is certain is uncertainty”, I hear Eckhart Tolle whisper in my head as I sob quietly into my youth rejuvenating tea.

It’s like 50 First Dates.  I have to keep finding ways to fall in love with myself everyday.  It’s a challenge that I’m up for most days, but others … well that’s where my jacuzzi comes in.  Join me.  The water’s nice ;).

Rosie.

So much to aspire to, so little time.

1096: A Testimony.

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I woke up yesterday morning at approximately the same time I did on November 10, 2009.  On November 10, 2012, I knew exactly where I was; at home.  I was in my less than savory bedroom with clothes in need of washing, papers in need of filing.  My first thought, as usual, was “Okay, what do I have to do today?”  November 10, 2009 was worlds different.  I woke up not knowing where I was and only vaguely sure who I was.  Dirty clothing and assorted documents were the least of my worries.  I was sick, in my body, in my mind, and worst of all in my spirit.  That morning I knew, in a way that old women tend to know things, that if I didn’t stop getting high, I was going to end up dead or in a situation where I sorely wished I was.

It’s hard to describe the type of desperation one feels during a bottom.  The closest I could come would be to say it’s like an animal caught by it’s leg in a steel trap.  That would be the obsession element of addiction.  You’re there, stuck, you know something bad is going to happen if you don’t get out.  You’d be willing to chew your leg off to get out, but you can’t. You’re too terrified to think.  So, that’s the cycle of thought:

I want to stop.  I can’t.  I’m afraid.

(repeated so often, in my case that I was ready to drive off a bridge … literally.)

Then, you hear the hunter coming.  It’s the compulsion element and you know once it has a hold of you, your ass is done.  During active addiction, when the hunter shows up, you freeze up.  He gets you, fricassees that ass, and serves you for supper. The wonderful part about a bottom, if you’re realize you’re at one, is you become willing to chew your fucking leg off (or anything else for that matter.)

On November 10, 2009 I chewed my leg off, well I should say, I removed the trap with the help of my family, my friends, a great recovery program, and my higher power.  Yesterday marked the three year anniversary of my escape from the trap, the thing with addiction is, the trap is out their waiting for me at any time.  The minute I forget that and think it’s  safe for me to test the hunter, is the moment of my assured doom.

While I must stay vigilant, being clean for me hasn’t just been about existing in a bubble while being afraid of my own shadow.  It’s been the opposite in fact.  Abstaining is just that, not using while white knuckling it through existence. Recovery has turned my world on it’s  ass challenging everything I ever thought about my life and myself.  It makes me realize just how great things can be. I have lived more boldly, honestly, and beautifully in the last three years than I had in the thirty-three that proceeded them.  Gratitude only scratches the surface of what I feel about my life right now.

Someone told me the other day that my story was an inspiration. I cringed a little, as compliments make me squirm, but it’s true.  Well no, maybe my life a testimony.  That’s it!  It’s a testimony that an overweight black girl raised poor in a housing project can persevere through sex abuse, being raised by and then becoming a single parent, a turbulent marriage, addiction, frequent battles with self hatred and loneliness  and host of other internal cluster fucks. The beauty of it is, my testimony isn’t the only one.

So, on my anniversary I’d like to wish you the best life you can possibly live.  Make it your testimony, your highest truth.

Rosie.

1095 days + today = One day at a time.

The A.B.C.’s of the DNC

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I’ll be the very first to admit that I don’t know much of shit about politics.  I’ll go even further and say that most people who cast their votes don’t either.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all too busy living our lives I suppose.   However, as a writer, I sometimes feel compelled to have a  “voice” or a solid opinion on “key” issues when all I really have is my experience which is the source of most of the material I write.  If it resonates with a group or speaks to  larger “profound” vision.  Cool.  If not, it doesn’t really matter.  It’s still my truth, and I am the only person I can speak for.

Now I find myself in the middle of a political convention as a writer wanting to say something, but not feeling qualified enough.  There are plenty of people up and down the glorious throughway of North Tryon St., on television, on the internet, and on the radio poised to shove their opinion down, through, and in any orifice you have available whether you’d like it or not.  Me, well all I can give you is this whole shindig through my own cultural filter.  With that said …

… this is who I am:  I’m a lower middle class black female, a single mother of one.  I grew up culturally rich but fiscally poor and black in the New Jersey.  These elements are my lens through which I see my life. It is that lens that I will present my muses, random ramblings, and flickers of inspiration for the next few days. It may not be comfortable for all audiences.  I will be non-belligerent, and as honest as my cowardly soul will allow me to be. I vow to keep is simple as Sesame Street when I can.  Come to think of it, that’s what Uptown Charlotte feels like right now … a really warped Sesame Street … only  there are too many guest stars and not enough Muppets to greet them so they just roam endlessly and scream about the things that bother them …  All while Snuffy sits in the infamous “empty chair” and smokes a hooka and giggles. Anyway … Ready kids?  We’re going to the DNC!

Rosie.

 

The green-eyed monsta.

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Today has been good.  I would venture to say, great.  It’s my son’s first day of 8th grade (Yippie!)  I worked out for a recorded breaking 90 minutes! I actually enjoyed every bit of it, finally overcoming the suffer-the-workout mentality that usually plagues me.  I ate a healthy lunch see:

 

 

 

 

 

Then … BAM! just as I’m trynna get my snooze on before work this guy shows up:

the green-eyed monsta

Yep, Envy/Jealousy shook me up out of my light doze with social networking notifications which were just too tempting to resist a peek.  No sooner than I’d gotten a gander I began to wish I hadn’t.  By the time I finished scrolling through my eyes began to well up.  I saw pics of my would be classmates at Tisch Asia enjoying their new adventure in Singapore and beginning their school year.  I saw pics of people’s “honors children” and felt inadequate because I felt I had failed at parenting because I don’t have an “honors” kid.

I could go through and list all the wonderful things about my life, and their are a great many, but I think what matters most in this moment is that I’m comparing my existence with someone else’s to my detriment. This is a pattern with me which often leads to self destructive thoughts, or worse, self  destructive behavior. SO, before that train leaves the station.  I’ll do this:  Pet and love on the green eyed monsta (sort of like those annoying e-pets from the 90s).  I’ll do this by pulling my head out of my ass and sending love and positive energy to others. Ready?  Here we go!

To the NYU Tisch Asia 2012 students

You are a group of incredibly talented individuals whose work I greatly look forward to seeing in the years to come.  Please enjoy this time in your life. Savor it like a good meal. Create boldly and fearlessly.  You are there to tell a story that no one else but you can tell. Instead of envying you, I’ll be hopeful that our paths will cross next year.

To the child that I honor

Zion no thing or no one has enhanced my life more than you.  While I will always ask that you strive for the best, I also understand that you are NOT your grades.  Middle and high school can be such awkward times.  I promise to stay out of your way as much as possible and let you grow. Instead of envying other parents for having honors students, I will wish that every parent has a child as loving, funny, creatively gifted, and charming as the one I have.  I love you.

To my e-friends

It is very difficult for a self-centered, co-dependent, recovering low-self esteemer like me to be in the newsfeed of social networking sites.  Everyone is  a rock star on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram … or at least it seems that way.  Know that first and foremost we are living breathing humans with lives offline that are sometimes wonderfully complex, sometimes sad, and sometimes nothing short of miraculous. I admire you ALL so much, and while I may not speak to all of you each and every day, I do suppress my inferiority complex long enough to peak in every now and then to see if you’re okay.  Sometimes things are great: marriages, babies, new careers. Sometimes things aren’t so great:  death, illnesses, break-ups.  Without our permission life is happening. Let’s let it. (I for one would like to “let it” more offline than on … I’ll work on that) Either way, Instead of envying you,  I’ll wish you the best, fullest life you can possibly obtain!

There.  I think the monsta is full, and it is about time for me to head off to the best job I’ve ever had (and I’m actually not being sarcastic!)  Life is good just where I am. Yep. It is.

Rosie.

…and a little musical for dessert for you Mr. Monsta!