expectations

i want me to want me.

/ StaceyRose / Leave a comment

Phrases like:

“The only way for someone to love you, is for you to love yourself first.”

or

“To thine own self be true!”

OR

“You’re special just the way you are! God don’t make no junk!”

Make me want to strangle the well meaning sages that deliver them unto me with a recently ripped off chain of kitten tails, and  I would two except for two things:

1.  I love kittens.  Oh how I love kittens.

and

2.  I know, as hokey as they may sound, all that bullshit is true.

Where does one start though? Regular mani-pedi’s?  Dinner for one? Movie dates with yourself? Meh … while that stuff helps, my experience has led me to believe that it’s best to start here:

Sarah Baartman a.k.a. The Venus Hottentot.  (It is strongly advised that you click her name to gain a broader … pardon the pun … perspective on the history of black female sexuality and the western world.)  Sarah, which is ironically my grandmother’s name, could be my butt naked body double (or I should say, I hers).

Sarah (B), is definitely where I’m at.

The hardest part of  accepting myself has been getting past my body image.  I have lost tremendous amounts of weight.  Gained part of it back. I have cut, pasted, prayed, and starved in an effort to deny my Sarah Baartman body.  She will not be denied.  I have to accept what most diet/exercise programs don’t tell you … your body type is your body type.  I will never diet away my thunder thighs or the delectable craters found within my ass cheeks.

Now maybe your issues have nothing to do with good ole Sarah, maybe it’s your nose, or your relentless uni-brow. No matter, it’s not about what the thing you dislike about yourself is (at least not for me).  It’s the fact that it exists.  It’s the fact that my feelings about my weight , are a parasite that has drilled itself into my psyche and taken up residence.  It is with me of every moment of everyday whispering gems like:

“He couldn’t possibly want someone that looks like you, don’t even embarrass yourself by saying hello or even looking at him.”

or

“You look terrible in anything you put on,  so what’s the point.”

…and some that are just too unbearable to write here.

The only way that I’ve found to battle back the parasite that works (as alcohol, mani-pedi’s, and self-dates proved to be dismal failures) is facing that sonofabitch head on. There ain’t a quick fix on the market that trumps honest, loving self appraisal.  It’s a journey that I’ve been on for most of my life, but the honesty part just crept in about two years ago. Needless to say, it’s been a rough, albeit rewarding, two years.

More recently, as recent as this past Wednesday, I had another … break through? break down?  Hell, I broke … and had to come to accept that a man that I’d endeared myself to, for far longer than I should have, would likely never be able to give me what I needed or wanted from him.  I had been holding out hope that somehow if I proved how awesome I was to him that he would have some type of miraculous epiphany, look past my misshapen body, and “pick me” giving me a chance at the relationship I’d so desperately wanted.*

*Yes, on an intellectual level I know this is bullshit, I cringe as I write it, but it’s what my inner dialogue had been.

If I’m honest, and again I try to be these days, I’ll have to say that it wasn’t necessarily him, but ALL of the “hims“.  All of the men and the shitty situations that came with them, that I settled for because on a gut level I assumed that no one else would want me. It’s the parasite, the disease, my thinking (call it what you will), that had me believing that one sided situations with emotionally or otherwise unavailable men were all I could hope for. Now?  I’m just too exhausted to give a fuck.

The prospect of being sans a partner for the rest of my life is no longer terrifying.  The prospect of wasting my life lying in wait of what might be, is.  So if being single is what it is for me right now (or longer) I need to continue to do the work of being okay with the person I wake up to everyday.  I have to take care of me which for me includes:

-Taking care of my emotional and spiritual self by continuing do the work of recovery.

-Taking care of the one and only body I will ever be given by eating right and exercising, not toward any magical goal weight, but because it feels good.

-Getting enough rest.

-Setting healthy boundaries in my relationships, which include running in the opposite direction when I see the red flags.

-Taking care of my responsibilities (having bad credit is no longer “cute”).

-And most important, CONTINUING TO WRITE!

Despite all my emotional ups and downs I do feel a shift happening.  With continued hard work and perseverance,  I might just fall in love with myself, Hottentot table top ass and all, at some point before I’m dead ;).

Rosie.

Oh the irony.

Pushing the car.

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

Best Advice
I used to have horrible cars, because I never had money, so I’d always end up broken down on the highway. When I stood there trying to flag someone down, nobody stopped. But when I pushed my own car, other drivers would get out and push with me. If you want help, help yourself—people like to see that. –  Chris Rock

 

I read the above article around the time I suspected my Singaporean goose was cooked.  What got me at the core was the bit about the car.  Was I doing enough on my own behalf?  I can honestly say, I wasn’t.  That’s even hard to write, but it’s true.  I could have worked more hours, I could have dedicated more time to fleshing out more feasible better planned fundraisers.

Would these things have made the financial difference that landed me in school this year vs. next year? Probably not, and since I’m drinking from the fountain of self honesty, on my gut level I knew this.  My credit rating, an F.  My current student loans, while not in default, are a reflection of my youthful (and not so youthful) wastefulness. Add what I owe in taxes, and my day to day bills, and making it over without a wealthy sugar daddy or a co-signer (which would have been an incredibly irrational direction) was going to be highly unlikely.  Even with all this reality lying in wait I prayed that somehow my effort (albeit half-hearted) would part the heavens and allow for some Dickenesque Christmas Carol resolution that would allow for my passage into all that I’d wished and hoped for.  But, a wise man did once suggest that I wish in one hand, shit in the other and see which one fills first.

I could see this experience as one of the most humiliating in my life (and it probably is), go hide, and give up on the idea of grad school in general, let alone on the other side of the world, but that would make me a quitter. Quitters suck (unless it’s self defeating behavior then by all means quit dammit!). No, I shan’t quit, and while I appreciate all the support I’ve been given, the reality is that I have to push my own car.   I have to take this year to get my shit together financially, physically, and emotionally … basically shit I need to do anyway. I have to go back to working night shift (bleh), pick up extra hours (bleh!), and many other things savory and unsavory … all legal I assure you. In short,  I gotta know on my inside space that I gave this shit everything I got before I’m willing to give up.

So here we go world. With the help of a HP with a fairly wicked sense of humor,  I’ve got 365 days to make this thing happen. Help is still appreciated, but it’s time for me to get out and P.U.S.H.

Watch me work.

Rosie.

 

Uncle 2.0 (A kinder gentler surrender.)

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When I began the graduate school application process I tried to maintain the belief that no matter the outcome, “good” or “bad”, that it had nothing to do with my ability to write or my value as a writer. I probably should have taken it to the next level and said that it had nothing to do with my value as a human being, because ultimately it doesn’t.

Grad school was to me was about what I valued.  I value education.  I enjoy becoming educated. Academia is my home girl.  However, I do realize that there are non-conventional ways of receiving the education I desire, and if it ends up that those are the avenues I have to stroll down that it is okay.  The sting of my experience comes from valuing the means of getting my education more than I do the education itself.

There is a balance I seek to find between my desire to achieve and the realization that my achievements do no supersede my humanity. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me wanting to succeed, but that success should not come at the expense of what really matters, my life and happiness. Looking back over the last few months I can see that I have been highly driven, but not exactly enjoying my life, even during times that were intended to be enjoyable.

I’m entering an easier phase of surrender as I continue to raise my white flag and wave it at Tisch Asia (the game is not entirely over, but it appears to be a blow out). At this point, I’m not too clear on “what’s next”.  I’m still feeling some residual yuckiness, but I know it is dangerous for me to live here.  I want to hide because I am embarrassed and ashamed, but I won’t.  Instead I’ll volunteer to be the fool that is brave enough to fail fantastically and be willing to tell the tale.

Rosie.

Uncle: (an angry rageful prayer of surrender not intended for the faint of heart.)

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

I am utterly defeated. I have nothing else to give to the cause of me attending Tisch Asia.  I have hustled, planned, acted as if (I quit my fucking job! Great!), prayed, meditated, and burned incense. I am tired. I have a $20,000 per semester gap in funding.  I do not qualify for the Grad Plus loan.  This morning one of my final doors/windows of opportunity closed. My white flag is waving.  I don’t have anymore to give this cause emotionally, spiritually, or mentally. Right now, I don’t give a shit what the lesson is.  It hurts too fuckin’ much for me to care. I know it won’t always, but today it does.

Being hopeful about this situation has only intensified the shitiness of my feelings and fueled my desperate actions to force this thing to happen.  These are the times I don’t want to be in recovery.  I want a license to be completely reckless and unconcerned about the damage I leave behind, but fucking recovery. Fucking spiritual principles won’t even allow me to indulge. Because underneath this raging heap of fuck the world I have going on I know that the shiny happy recovery Stacey would suffer in the long run along with those she loves.

If you have donated to my noble cause, know that your funding will now be re-purposed to cover my ass as I eat crow and I slither back into my life as a Respiratory Therapist. Universe … I turn it over to you, because I have not shit else.

Rosie.

Black Mom’s Burden.

/ StaceyRose / 1 Comment

I am the mother of an intelligent, articulate, talented rambunctious 13-year-old boy.  As a mother my natural expectation, barring any unexpected illness or accidents, is that I will see him grow, get his heart broken, break hearts, learn to drive, graduate high school, go to college, start a career, get married, raise a family, raise children … in short my son should bury me; not vice versa.  An inconvenient truth in these great United States is that as a black mother of a black son there are other things I have to factor in like:

1. Getting him through a public school system that does not instill in him any cultural sense of self and within which I have to do battle to ensure he receives the basic knowledge he needs to survive adulthood.

2. Teaching him the realities of institutionalized racism.

3.  Keeping him out of the back of a cop car.

4. Preparing him  for the reality that he may end up in one any way because he “fit the description.”

5. Keeping him ALIVE in a society where black boys like Trayvon Martin can be murdered simply because he fit the fear based convoluted description in someone’s head.

… and this is the short list.  I have to fight this fight within a society that refuses to acknowledge any of it or either chooses to lay the blame at the feet of the “black community” and its “leaders”, whoever the hell that homogenous group of folks might be; this society that views the election of a black president as a “game over” for racism, all the while ignoring the rise of neo-racism in the form of “ultra conservatism” that has resulted from that election.

One foot in front of the other, one day at a time; I’m am raising a self sufficient, independently thinking black male that can not only be a productive member of society, but who can also be a vital asset to any community he chooses to be a part of. I pull from as many resources as I can to make sure he gets what he needs. I do everything in my power to instill in him a base sense of morality. Damn it, I am doing my part. It is so fucked up and utterly frustrating that I cannot rely on the society within which I live to do its.

No matter how  hard we as black moms of black sons try it seems we’re still behind the eight-ball. It’s the reality of our situation, but it is by no means a reason to sit in victimhood.  We have to continue, along side our men and any others who would chose to be a part of the solution, to engage and empower our boys. We can only hope and pray that one day society will catch on.

During our ride to school chat yesterday I asked my son how he felt about it all. Unfortunately this type of racism did not shock him. What did bother him, and me for that matter, is the rising level of “anger” and threatened violence surrounding the situation.  To use his words, “What is fighting gonna do? If they wanna get angry and do something there are plenty of other things they could do besides fight somebody.” So true.  I cannot begin to fathom life without my son. Today, Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin have to.  They have my deepest sympathies.

Rosie.

 

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.

Of Duty.

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After hearing of the recent death of reporter Marie Colvin, the extent of who’s noble work I’d only heard of upon her death, I became overwhelmed with a sense of duty to carry out whatever I have been placed here to do.  At the foundation I believe it to be writing. I may find it’s something else later, but I’ll focus my intention and let life take care of the rest.  The truth (at least in my mind) is that all people are instilled with a particular “duty”; that certain something that they are put here to do in only the way they are meant to do it. That thing may be just to live  simply and well; a calling that sometimes I wish I had.

Being a woman of duty can be particularly sticky. For me that stickiness presents its self in the conflicting need to be engaged in the romance of a life-time while at the same time saving the world with my pen. Blame it on the excessive number of Hollywood Golden Age films I watched as a kid, my sometimes diminished self worth, but no matter the source I wish like hell it would go away. I get stuck in these hopeless “relationship” cycles with essentially the same guy in different skin. Never asking for what I really want or need afraid that he’ll “go away”.  In the end, he always does. That’s when I look up and months or even years have passed, and my life is a mess. Never mind any overall duty, the BASICS aren’t even done.

A dear, and I dare to say clairvoyant friend of mine sent me this note of inspiration that arrived as most inspiring things in my life do – just when I needed it.

“It’s not a matter of whether or not you have enough time. It is more a matter of timing. That anxious feeling you have may cause you to want to rush or force the process. Please don’t. You are so deeply and richly gifted that we cannot afford to have any part of what you are diluted.

Keep your vision as sharp as possible. Resist the urge to return to any vice that clouds your judgement and KNOW this like you know your own name: YOU WILL COMPLETE YOUR DESTINY. Remember, timing is more important than time.”

Oh, how I love you dear Stacey. I love your candor and your energy and that you fight tooth and nail for humanity. That’s who you are. You bring the future here by not letting the rest of us forget the past, all while living in the present. Not an easy assignment my Dear. However, you are not among the faint of heart. You are equipped for your calling.

I was amazed and honored by what she shared with me. They are things that I instinctively know but often forget. I forget that it’s not all about me and my desires. It’s how to serve others by being the best person  I can using the abilities and talents I was given. Corny, but true. I strive believe that my needs and some of my wants will get met, if only I do the next right thing for the right reasons.

Living a principled and meaningful life isn’t easy. I have and  will again stumble, but I will never fail to keep trying because the world is relying on me ;).

Rosie.

Related articles

The Show Must Go On … or not.

/ StaceyRose / Leave a comment

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.

Prayed and Kanyed up.

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Warning: This post is not for the religiously or spiritually closed minded. Any attempt to debate me on the validity of the content of this blog will be promptly met with a Kanye Shrug ( :/ ) and utter indifference.

I have struggled with the concept of God for most if not all of my life.  Most people do. Even the “faithful”.  No judgement though. Like pimpin’, faith ain’t easy. It’s reliance on the fact that no matter what, everything is as it should be and will be done in some type of divine order of which no one quite knows the essence of. Scary shit no matter how you slice it. It’s no wonder that people who claim to “have it” right down to the whos and whats, and how comes will fight you to the death over whether their version of the divine truth as the right one. Because if there is anything that loosens a string on the cardigan of their faith, then the whole damn thing unravels. That’s no way to believe in my opinion. It’s risky to put all your eggs of hope in one basket.

Why can’t faith be dynamic? The answer: It can. It is. It always was. We’re just the ones that try to capture it in a bottle, store it away as our own until the light dies out like summer time fire flies. If we are really honest with ourselves  we know the things we believe in, the things we have faith in, change dramatically over the course of our lives. From the tooth fairy, to Santa Claus, to our parents. Yes, even our parents. It’s been devastating for me to find out that so many of my mother’s parenting techniques were deeply flawed. I was quite a mess when that cardigan unraveled, let me tell you.

The things that get us through, per what I believe, are sent to us when we need them. My belief in God/Higher Power whatever you choose to call He, She or It is this:  It is a collective force made up of people, places, things, experiences, art, and just about whatever else you can name, that are placed before you to guide, protect, or motivate you forward in your life’s journey. (Process that anyway you need to. The shrug awaits your judgmental gaze … :/ ) I’ve come to this conclusion over time and an ass load of experience.

Today my HP appears in so many random manifestations I just choose to call it life. My life lately has been inundated with grad school apps and fear of rejection to said grad schools.  My stomach knotted. My mind froze for words when attempting to write letters of intent with 750 max  words.  A writer, applying to a writing program, couldn’t conjure 750 words to explain why I wanted in to said program. I once again (as I often do) began to doubt if writing is for me.  I stopped blogging (obviously). I obsessed. I compulsed.  Both of which I’m highly skilled at. Then Life sent me an answer. In a word…well two: Kanye West.

I’d always shied away from Kanye because frankly, he got on my damn nerves. All that ego.  All that mouth.  All that audacity.  All that over the top…shit, that I really needed a piece of, just a tiny piece of, to grow the balls I needed to just get the damn apps done and move on.  I had not prior to November of this year owned any Kanye West music due to reasons listed above.  A dear friend of mine would debate me on the necessity of Kanye in my life every time he had to sit through another of my sensitive artist bitch and whine sessions. “What if they don’t like me?” “What if I’m not good enough? It is Brown University?”  What a sad sack I’d been.

This friend suggested that I get on a “Kanye Self-Esteem Work Out Plan”. He gave me every Kanye CD in his car and sent me off to listen, to mainly Kanye for the duration of my grad school app process. The results?  Well the long term effects remain to be seen, but I tell you what; because I stayed open minded, because I followed simple directions even while skeptical … the app process got easier. In fact, the College Dropout  album allowed me to take the power I was giving to these institutions to dictate my validity as an artist, back.

Was it all Kanye? Nah. Of course not. As I’ve said faith is complicated, uncertain, and dynamic. However, in that window of time Kanye’s ego, human frailty, and unapologetic hypocrisy was a higher power’s way of letting me know that it is okay to be exactly who I am with or without the validation of anyone or anything. He’s still working for me (Kanye that is.) I’m sure the day will come when he doesn’t, and I’m fully accepting of that. I will simply stay open to what life has next for me. In the meantime I will finish my apps (last one due 1/15!), and “throw my hands up high”, knowing that “ghetto people” of which I am one. “got this.” Life … got this. We just need to keep the faith.

Rosie.

Now go work it out…

…and remember “most of all, we’re at war with ourselves”