Look up...

I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed and turned. I got up and drank a cup of tea. I put my Ipod on repeat and tried to mellow myself out. Nothing seemed to help. I was restless, worried, hurt...I listened to my inner thoughts speak. Conversations of loneliness and giving up. Conversations of regret and depression. I found myself sitting straight up staring at the wall. I looked at the clock it read 5:00 am. I went over to the window. Looked up at the sky. It was turquoise. Turquoise. A blue-ish green masterpiece painted in the sky. Everything was silent. Nothing moved. No clouds. No birds.

That's God! He was waiting for me to talk to Him.

I was so caught up in trying to figure out the thoughts in my head and the heavy burden in my heart...I forgot to look up. I forgot to "look to the hills from whence cometh my help."

When you are lonely...look up

When you are sad...look up

When things aren't going as planned...look up

When you feel like you can't go on...look up

We get so caught up in our problems we forget to look up.

Never forget to look up and listen to God speak. He will stop everything and everyone to listen and speak to you. "While we are trying to figure it out God has already worked it out."

With an open heart just...look up.

The V-Card: A Requiem for Myself

I have been pretty quiet up until now about sex. I grew up in a household where it really wasn't discussed. I remember my first conversation with my mother about it. I was laying in the bed with her and she said "If you have sex you can get pregnant" and that was pretty much the extent of it.

Growing up I developed a phobia. I never wanted to talk about sex or even my period for that matter. I was ashamed and embarrassed that blood was coming out of me for no apparent reason. When I came on my period the first thing I said to my mother was "please don't tell my Dad or my brother." I thought they would make fun of me or perhaps even disown me. I had extreme thoughts. Now that I think about it I was a very worried and private child. I was teased (as most children are) but I think the teasing effected me deeply. I wasn't one of those children that could brush it off. I can also remember other things happening to me that to this day I keep private.

As I grew up I wasn't like my peers. I didn't feel confident about my body. I didn't pursue boys or relationships because of the fear of being pressured to have sex.

So today I'm 26 years old and I still hold my virginity, my v-card.

There it is out in the open. Before today I usually kept this information to myself. I would engage in sexual conversations with my peers pretending I knew what they were talking about just so I wouldn't be ridiculed. Quite frankly, I was ashamed. It's not popular to be a virgin in today's society. Especially when you enter into a relationship with a person whose entire basis for a successful relationship is sex.

For awhile now I have been committed to a person whom I genuinely thought I would be spending the rest of my life with. Conversations about sex would arise, many of which I definitely would initiate. I wanted to talk about it and assure my partner that I in fact wasn't an alien and did desire sex. I was just simply scared. I even knew in my heart that I would eventually lose my v-card to them.

One evening my partner expressed their feelings of not being appreciated for waiting for me to have sex. They said I never said "thank you for waiting". They went on to say I had no idea how it made them feel to not be having sex when they are used to having it whenever they want. The conversation climaxed with the following statement: "I could have dumped you and went and fucked another girl, but I didn't because I loved you."

That statement sent an unexplainable numbness through my body. I felt enraged, hurt, and disrespected. My response was, "Well, if you feel that way then you should go and do you."

After the conversation ended I sent a blanket text message to half my contacts in my phone. I didn't add opinion or feeling I just wanted their honest thoughts. It read: If your partner said to you "I could have dumped you and went and fucked another girl, but I didn't because I loved you." how would you feel? 20 out of 20 males and females all said that they would have felt disrespected or hurt. I even went back to my mothers bed and asked her...she said, "What you chose to do with your body is your choice because it's your body. If this person loved you they would have never said that. To be with a virgin is a gift. A woman no one has ever touched is a sacred rare gift and she deserves to be treated as such. God doesn't bless people with virgins everyday. Tell them to go on with those other girls because after they use you all up that's what they are going to do anyway. Then what are you left with? Nothing."

I went back to my mother's bed. No judgement for the woman I am. Supportive of the woman I will become. I breathe through the tears because they don't define me. They are just reactionary thoughts of life's many lessons. I bow my head in humility to have one thing left in a world that takes everything away from you. I have one thing left that I can offer to God as praise for the favor he has had over my life thus far. I turn my back on self doubt. I am who I am because it's what I'm called to be. I'm no longer ashamed or embarrassed. I carry my V-card with me and when the day comes that I share it's mystery it will be magically surrounded and protected with an agape love.

Until then...

What will your legacy be?

"People were wrapped around the building, just to get a glimpse, to pay their respect to the "Godmother" of the Civil Rights Era Dr. Dorothy Irene Height."

Today, I listened to Past National Presidents of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. talk about Dr. Height at her Omega Omega Ceremony in Burr Gymnasium on Howard University's campus. They defined Dr. Height as the "quiet glue" that held Delta Sigma Theta, the YWCA, and National Council of Negro Women together. I looked around the gymnasium at the multitude of Black women, Delta women, all gathered together to honor the life of Dr. Height. This sight brought tears to my eyes.

As I reflected on Dr. Height's life and the changes she made throughout the world, I am left questioning my life and the legacy I will leave behind.

What am I doing with that hyphen between life and death to make a difference in this world? What legacy will you leave behind?

Our days on earth are numbered, and we tend to take our time fulfilling our purpose by foolishly assuming that tomorrow is promised. Tomorrow is not promised.

What will people say about you when you die?

She had an attitude, been with all the guys in the neighborhood, lied, stole, gossiped, selfish, drug addict, alcoholic, and didn't know who her children's father was. She had a PhD. in Haterology, couldn't keep a job, mean spirited, foul mouthed, and abrasive. Or are you so quiet and null in void in your life that people don't even know who you are? Are you just existing and not living?

We all have our strengths and our weaknesses. We all fall short and we all sin. But as imperfect as the human flesh may be we are all designed in God's image. Whether you choose to believe it or not man did not create man.

We each have a purpose. We each have a calling.

The time is now, as women, to live out our purpose.

We have to go back to school, take risks, PRAY, devote ourselves to community service, start our own businesses, dare to dream, and dare to speak out against injustice. We need to take positions of leadership in the courtroom, the boardroom, the pulpit, on Capitol Hill and most importantly in the classroom.

We need to stop passing judgement on the teenage girl who is pregnant or the woman addicted to heroin. We have to stop turning our noses up in self righteous proclivity against one another. Get rid of the fake, false fronting demeanor and open ourselves up to humility and public service. The power is in numbers. How dare we break our strength by tearing one another down?

How do you want to be remembered in death?

What do you want your legacy to be?

Is the life you're living now even worth the air you breathe?

To whom much is given, much is required. We have a purpose. We must fulfill it!

Thank you Dr. Dorothy Irene Height. Your living was not in vain. I will carry your legacy with me as I create my own.

Love vs. Saturdays

26.

Never been in a real relationship.

Virgin.

I accepted the fact that I might very well be spending the rest of my life with my mother and paying cash dollars for a couple of In Vitro Fertilization "Design-a-baby" sessions.

I had it all planned out. I was going to get rich, buy a big home in South Africa or on some island somewhere, move my mother in with me, spend my days raising my BLAsian (Black and Asian) "Design-a-Baby" kids (a boy and a girl), and write until my days on this planet came to an end. No husband. No companion (except for a Yorkie of course).

Then I fell in love with you. You have altered my plans. I am now opening up my already closed book of life and writing your name in ink. Not pencil.

That's right yall I got it bad.

I'm sick when I can't see you, lonely if I can't talk to you, and when I can't be around you...cardiac arrest.

And then there is Love vs. Saturday...

Saturdays are supposed to be the climax of the weekend. You wake up late and nurse Friday night's hangover. No work. Just relaxing and enjoying your freedom.

Not for me.

On Saturdays I have to put on all my armor and enter the battlefield, with you.

Round One: We argue.

Round Two: You break up with me.

Round Three: Bells ring. It's a knock out!

It never fails.

EVERY SATURDAY.

No hesitation.

No contemplation.

I get slapped with "I don't want to be with you anymore", followed with an uppercut from "You are just like all the other girls I have dated."

I really need to take a long look in the mirror. Although I seemingly preplanned my life very carefully. There are times when I snuck and whispered in God's ear: "God, if you have someone in mind for me...have your way." I secretly wanted love. I secretly prayed for love.

NOTE TO SELF: Be careful what you ask God for. He answers prayers. But are you sure that's what you want?

It is what I wanted...or at least I thought.

But I never wanted to get in the ring...Love vs. Saturdays.

I never wanted to wake up scared to see Saturdays.

I never wanted to cry on Saturdays.

I never wanted to feel low on Saturdays.

I never wanted to get knocked out on Saturdays.

I never wanted heartache because of Saturdays.

26.

At the peak of my life.

In love.

Scared of Saturdays.

Scared of love.

What's next?

A Dream Sequence

I woke up this morning out of breath.

I needed to write. To speak life into the thoughts in my head and heart.

For once I was allowing my dreams to push me through the day.

Not my love for you.

I have dreams. Visions. My plan to attain the desires of my heart: a blueprint in its final editing stages.

I wanna write.

Sing a lullaby with a pen.

End war by going on active duty with the rhetoric of resolution.

Mend a broken heart with the song in my prose.

It's who I am. It's who I'm destined to be.

I woke up this morning.

Couldn't breathe.

You left me.

I needed to write.

Couldn't find a pen.

I needed to write.

Couldn't find the joy within.

When did I let loving you dictate my dreams?

I woke up this morning.

Couldn't breathe.

Out of breath from chasing you and not my dreams.

Held your hand while you chased your dreams.

You woke up this morning

Told me you didn't love me.

Packed your dreams and mine in your suitcase.

And left.

I woke up this morning.

I started write.

Made love to my heart.

Liberated my stolen dreams.

Gave voice to the voice inside of me.

She breathes.

Jury Duty: A "Civic Responsibility"

For the last week I have been on Jury Duty in D.C. Superior Court. I don't no which one is worse having Jury Duty or the D.C. Superior Court building. Both very well might be equally tragic.

The Selection Process: I arrived, was given a juror number, and placed in a room they called the "juror's lounge". From this point on the number became my name, my identity. The "juror's lounge" was complete with about 60 metal chairs in rows throughout the entire room. There were television screens hanging from the ceiling. The walls were bare and there were no windows to provide any natural light. There was nothing lounge related about this room. No water or juice, nothing. Just 75-100 people crammed into this one room waiting to hear their assigned number called. I definitely felt a Trans-Atlantic slave trade moment coming on.

On the television screen appeared a welcome video. The video gave us instructions on the jury selection process and reminded us that our presence here today was in fact our "civic responsibility". The narrating voice on the video was a man, a D.C. native. How do you know he's from D.C. you might ask? Well, he replaced all of the "Th" sounds with "F", his voice was monotonous and dry, and I was waiting for him to yell out "Sursum Corda(s)" at any moment. All that was missing was the bounce beat in the background and Big G yelling out "Lynch M0b". These are all DC isms by the way folks. Go-Go+Neighborhood Reppin'+Distinct Colloquialisms=Washington, DC. They probably should have shown a "beat your feet" tutorial, it would have been way more interesting.

After hours of waiting, my number along with 50 other jurors numbers were called. We were all escorted to the courtroom. When we entered the courtroom we were given a questionnaire and a pencil. "Good Morning Ladies and Gentleman" the judge said. The replies were muddled with frustration. "Ladies and Gentleman", he said "We just signed Donovan McNabb, we are the greatest city in the world, and all of you are here today honoring your civic responsibility so let's try this again, GOOD MORNING LADIES AND GENTLEMAN." This time everyone replied a little more livelier with a few side conversations on their like or disdain for the Washington Redskins's signing of McNabb. Fourteen potential jurors sat in the juror box, while the rest of us sat in the seats in the audience section of the courtroom. Individually we were to approach the judge's bench with our answers to the questionnaire. The prosecution and defense attorneys along with the defendant would be present at the bench as we stated our answers. Out of the 40 of us present only 14 of us would be selected as jurors on this trial.

So that the conversations at the judge's bench aren't heard by everyone the judge puts on what is called "The Husher". "The Husher" is a sound of air that is controlled by the judge with a button behind his bench. I must admit "The Husher" fascinated me. You could hear the air but you couldn't feel it. I can't tell you how many times I just wanted to run up behind the judge's bench and press "The Husher" button.

After the long drawn out elimination process yours truly was selected as one of 14 jurors to listen this trial, take notes, and deliberate on the facts of this case and come to a unanimous verdict beyond a reasonable doubt.

The Trial: Criminal Case. United States vs. let's just call him Mr. Brown Eyes. There were three charges brought against Mr. Brown Eyes. Count I: Assault with intensive injury, Count II: Threat, Count III: Obstruction of Justice.

Here is the story:

Mr. Brown Eyes was having an affair with an Italian woman. The Italian woman is married with a child and lives in an apartment in close proximity to Mr. Brown Eyes. The neighbors of The Italian Woman, Mr. & Mrs. Alcoholic find out about the affair between Mr. Brown Eyes and The Italian Woman. One evening on the back stoop of the apartment building Mr. & Mrs. Alcoholic were drunk as skunks. Mrs. Alcoholic had fallen down in her drunken state and hurt herself. Hearing the commotion of Mr. & Mrs. Alcoholic, The Italian woman and her husband (let's call him Soft & Dry) came outside to see what was going on. The Italian woman saw Mrs. Alcoholic's state and suggested that Mr. Alcoholic call the ambulance immediately. Mr. Alcoholic in his drunken state was infuriated by this request and spit on The Italian woman. Mr. Alcoholic then told her husband, Soft & Dry, "your wife is a hoe and she's f-ing Mr. Brown Eyes". Soft & Dry did not react to the spitting or the accusation that his wife was having an affair. He just simply said "ssh everyone let's all just calm down". The Italian woman upset that she had just been spit on and outed to her husband about her affair decided to call Mr. Brown Eyes. She calls Mr. Brown Eyes and tells him that Mr. Alcoholic spit on her and told her husband about their affair. Enraged, Mr. Brown Eyes gets in his car, drives to their apartment, gets out of his car, walks up to Mr. Alcoholic and punches him in the face. Mr. Alcoholic falls to the ground and Mr. Brown Eyes stands over him and continues to punch him 2-3 more times. After he finishes he gets in his car and goes home. As a result of the punching Mr. Alcoholic had to have reconstructive surgery on his eye and pieces of fractured bone removed from his nostril.

The witnesses called by the prosecution were Soft & Dry, an ambulance EMT that had arrived to the scene prior to Mr. Brown Eye's arrival, the doctor who operated on Mr. Alcoholic, and the detective assigned to the case.

When Soft & Dry took the stand, he in his passive aggressive nature said he didn't see Mr. Brown Eyes punch Mr. Alcoholic, but did see him standing over Mr. Alcoholic while he was on the ground. Soft & Dry also said that after the events of that night occurred Mr. Brown Eyes called him and asked him to lie to the police about what he saw.

The ambulance EMT whom we will call Sinus Condition said she saw Mr. Brown Eyes, pull up, get out of his car, and yell, "M-f-er I told you to keep your mouth shut! I'm going to kill you!". Sinus Condition also testified that she saw Mr. Brown Eyes punch Mr. Alcoholic in his face.

The prosecution never called the complaining witness, Mr. Alcoholic.

The defense called only one witness, Mr. Brown Eyes. Mr. Brown Eyes admitted to being there for 5 minutes on the night of the crime. He says he didn't punch Mr. Alcoholic and never even came in close proximity to him. He was only there checking on his lover The Italian woman. He testified when he saw she was OK, he left.

After the closing arguments. The jury deliberated for almost 3 days. As I was discussing the case with my fellow jurors I began to question the validity in the American judicial system. We as Americans suffer from what is called the "God Complex". We feel that it is our responsibility to decide the fate of another person's life. Our "civic responsibility". We are not God. We did not give life, we should not tamper with another person's life, and we should not take any one's life away from them. I do believe if you commit a crime you should have to face the consequences however, I believe the verdict should be left solely up to the judge who has studied the law and fully understands it. Why is it that we are summoned to tear down civilians and not summoned to do community service projects to uplift civilians?

As I walked back out into the courtroom after days of deliberation. I looked at Mr. Brown Eyes. I looked out in the audience of the courtroom. There was an elderly woman watching and waiting. Was that his mother? His grandmother? As the foreman read the verdict Mr. Brown Eyes turned red, and his eyes were glazed over with tears full of fear and hurt. The woman in the audience wept and trembled.

At night all I hear is that woman's weeping. When I close my eyes all I see is Mr. Brown Eyes, whose eyes weren't so brown anymore.

And, this is my "civic responsibility"? Is this another burden added to my purse? What have I done?

Case Closed.

My Sleeping Angel

I watch you sleep. Listen to you breathe. Deep sighs of moments gone by. You've been hurt but you've hurt...me. I steal kisses as you sleep.

Have you ever kissed an angel?

My angel at rest. I smile at the way you wrinkle your forehead in confusion of your dreams.

I wonder what an angel dreams about?

I'm lost in you. Nothing to hold on to but you. *kiss*

You taste of cocoa and peppermint...and menthol. I wish you'd stop smoking. *kiss*

I want to protect you, your heart. I need you to protect me, my heart. *kiss*

Your skin, God painted perfectly. Every shade, every hue...he made you for me. I wish you believed. *kiss*

I bury my head in your chest just to be closer to your heart.

Have you ever listened to an angel's heart?

She cries. She sings. I love her song. I let go of all worry and doubt in her rhythm. She's calling me. I'm scared. I've never been in love like this before. *kiss*

My tears find rest on your halo.

You wrap me up in your wings.

I watch you sleep. My angel.

I watch you dream.

I talk with you.

I love you.

I steal kisses. Have you ever kissed an angel?

I...need...you.

There is so much I want to say....

If only I could tell you while you're awake.

Dear Artist: "A Why Did I Get Married Too Review"

DISCLAIMER: If you have not seen Tyler Perry's "Why Did I Get Married, Too" you might want to wait to read this post as it might ruin the outcome of the story for you. No worries this post will be waiting for your return.

Now, if you are continuing to read this do you hereby solemnly swear that you have seen this film? Do you agree that I am not responsible for the information disclosed in this post as it relates your movie going experience? OK I seriously have been on Jury Duty for too long! :)

______________________________________________________________

Dear Artist,

This is a letter to you. The actors, writers, directors, and filmmakers. The ones who went so far as to study their craft in college and have heard often at family dinners "what are you going to do with a degree in that?" Yes, you the rare breed. One who can't go to the movies, get their kids meal with a strawberry and raspberry slushy (shameless plug) sit down, and enjoy the movie like a regular civilian. No. We can't watch the film without examining the cinematography, challenging an actor's emotional recall, or pointing out the discrepancies in the script. WE HAVE BEEN CURSED! Yet, we have a responsibility...

Before I proceed I must say how much respect I have for Mr. Tyler Perry. He is a man that has built his empire from the ground up, knows who his audience is and remains faithful to them. He has created a body of work that has not only broken box office numbers but will continue to unite generational divides. He has brought families back to the movies and the theatre. I will continue to support his projects.

With that being said, I saw "Why Did i get Married, Too" yesterday. I went in with high expectations because everyone I had spoken with who had already seen the movie had nothing but great things to say about it. I strategically went during the day around 1:00 p.m. because I figured LaVanjunaye and 'nem would be at work or school and I would be able to watch the movie in an almost empty theatre. Remind me never to strategically plan to avoid LaVanjunaye and 'nem again. I failed miserably. They were all the way present and "all the way turned up" up in there, you hear me? Nevertheless, I walked in with my Delta bag in hand and one mission in mind...to see Lamman Rucker with his shirt off! Baaaaybeeee! But anyway, I digress...

The movie reminded me of a train wreck between Couple's Retreat and Waiting to Exhale colliding into Soul Food. When Janet Jackson took that golf club out and started smashing everything in the apartment I was waiting for her to transform magically into Angela Bassett or the "queen" boy at my high school who could recite the entire Waiting to Exhale movie by heart and then vogue his way to "And...Scene". There were too many themes/emotions crammed into this 2 hour film. Arguing, divorce, infidelity, trust, Cancer, rage, psychological issues, jealousy, self-esteem, regret, revenge and death. I sat there 10 minutes after the movie ended not knowing if I wanted to slit my wrists or take a Valium. Are Black marriages really that draining? If this is the case I don't know why you got married either! And it didn't help that LaVanjunaye and 'nem would lash out at the movie as if they had been through the same situations. "Yea gurl, dats right! Get dat gun gurl! Shoot his Black ass!" Wait a minute Nay-Nay! Have you shot your husband before? And you are sitting in this movie theatre with me? Nay-Nay boo I'm concerned.

Artists we must start creating new stories. This is a challenge, a charge, a call to action. I know it's hard but its needed. Tell a story true to you. Tell a story that can change lives. Its our responsibility. Art is nothing without outreach.

Overall, "Why Did I Get Married, Too" did it's job. It made you laugh. However, there is more impact that must be made in our communities. Laughter can heal but it does not rebuild. The only way to heal a nation is through the artist. Never give up. Keep Art Alive!

Love,

A Purse Carrier

Good Morning Spring

Good Morning Spring,

I love waking up to your breeze across my face. The birds chit chatting outside my window with you about their plans for the day. Friday. I rush to the door to greet you. Sun is shining. Warm embrace. Soft cool caress. You amaze me. Every living creature is awaken from their Winter slumber to see you. You are a Queen. Regal and just. When you smile we smile with you. When you cry their is growth from your tears. "April showers bring May flowers." You've got the girls feeling loose as a goose. Halter tops with no bra on and white linen pants no drawls on. They switch hard down Pennsylvania Avenue hoping you will grant them one of your Spring Flings. Hahahaha. I laugh with you as we stand in line for Rita's Italian Ice. I dance with you in a long flowing dress, a clutch purse, and sandals with bright yellow pedicured toes playing peek-a-boo. I hold hands with you in the park. Listen to the echos of children's laughter while they play in the essence of the sun. Fresh peaches and strawberries at the fruit stand. Two lovers in the distance kissing away the cold and longing for steamy nights. I breathe you. Your frangrance is so sweet. You smell of Pops ribs grilling at the family barbecue, Coconut and Jojoba Oil, and Dandelions. A season of allergies, yet fresh and rejuvenating. A season of finance and "taxation without representation". Cherry Blossoms. A season of colors, of love, of dreams, of change, of transformation, of renewal. I love when you are here. I long for you when you are gone.

Good Morning Spring...Good Morning God.

To be young, gifted, and FAT!

There's always drama when kids get out of school and you happen to be on the train or bus with them. After working a long day the last thing anyone wants to do is sit on the train with loud, hormone induced, cowardly-rude teenagers who are simply trying to assess their man/womanhood after being caged up in a D.C. Public School building all day.

Today was just like any other day. A group of three girls boarded the train making their presence known with vulgar banter, talks of Mr. Parker's Math class, the cutest boy on the basketball team, and who was dating who. The passengers already on board are used to this 4:00 p.m. disturbance of peace and are seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. There is another young lady already on board. She was all dressed in her school uniform. Crisp white polo and khaki pleated skirt. You can tell her Mother (or Grandmother) was from the old school because even her socks looked ironed. She had cornrows at the top of her head that met with Shirley Temple curls in the back. You could see the Vaseline residue on her face that her mother (or Grandmother) shellacked her face with before she left for school this morning. What I found most unique about this girl is that she still had that child-like innocence in her eyes that a lot of her peers seem to have lost.

Approximately 5 minutes into the train ride the "ring leader" of the group of girls noticed the girl sitting across from them. She whispers to her friends and they laugh at the girl. The ring leader the yells, "Aye you ole Precious lookin', ugly, FAT bitch! Your Momma prolly be beating the shit outta you bitch! Your Daddy prolly hittin' dat joint too!" I looked at the girl. She did not turn her face to the "ring leader". She just bit the bottom right corner of her lip, clintched her fist and shook her leg in anxiety. "Aye FAT bitch, I'm talking to you!" the "ring leader" said. The girl kept her face straight forward and never turned around. She closed her eyes and tears began to roll down her cheeks. In her element of pride the "ring leader" fueled by the laughter of her peers, stood up and repeated her previous statement, but this time she yelled: "AYE you ole Precious lookin', ugly, FAT BITCH!" Your Mo'Nique lookin' Momma prolly be beatin' the shit out your FAT ass!" The girl opened her eyes, her whole body was trembling she stood up, turned around, and started punching the "ring leader".

To be young, gifted, and FAT.

• FAT: worse than being sick, or homeless, or jobless, or *dead*.


• FAT: Discriminated against more than a Black person, a Jew, or a Middle Eastern.

But to be FAT, Black, and a woman? Well, you might as well be dead, right? No one is going to love you, right?

19th Century Europe put us on display in a freak show, named us "Hottentot Venus" when our name was Saartjie Baartman. They raped us and in death put our genitals, brain, and skeletal remains on display in a museum. 1920's Harlem had us stereotyped in to the A-sexual caregiver who cooked, cleaned, sang, and watched after her white boss's children. We wore a rag on our head and a smile on our face. 21st Century Hollywood has us on the big screen unkempt, poor, sexually abused, physically abused, mentally abused, illiterate, HIV positive, and an unwed mother due to an incestuous relationship. Running through the streets of NY with a bucket of stolen chicken in our hand and a scowl on our face. We are barbaric, beasts, nasty, and ugly.

Respusha, Big Momma, Precious, A member of the Klump family.

We're not beautiful, right? We don't deserve respect, right?

We are mothers, daughters, sisters and friends. We are in relationships and we do get married. We are talented and educated. We are sexy.

The fact that we can walk down the street in a society/world that continues to belittle our existence speaks measures to our strength.

To be young, gifted, and FAT! Go ahead, it's funny right? I know you want to laugh...

*Exit carrying my purse*

My Interview w/Love

One of my favorite love scenes hands down has got to be from "Dirty Dancing"...

..:Baby sneaks off to Johnny's (Patrick Swayze) cabin and they dance their way into a sexual escapade..: The best part about their exchange is the way he dips her in a swooping motion. The way she releases her upper body and closes her eyes, you watch her surrender herself to him. The song in the background says: "don't you feel like crying"....*sighs*

HELL YEA I FEEL LIKE CRYING!!!!!!!!!! Hollywood had me mentally screwed as a child thinking love was one family vacation/dance lesson away. I begged my mother to take me to Castkill Resort! And guess what? Castkill Resort doesn't even exists!

MESSAGE TO HOLLYWOOD: KILL YOURSELF!

Don't judge me. I'm just saying, why paint the picture that love is easy when clearly its one of the most hardest things to undertake during your lifetime?

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I wanted to interview Love for this blog, so I contacted her publicist and set up a meeting with her at Starbucks Coffee. Our meeting was at 6:00 p.m. I arrived about 15 minutes early to make sure I could find us a table. I found the perfect table facing a painting of a little girl and boy holding hands by a lake (quite symbolic don't you think). Around 5:55 p.m. I went and ordered our drinks. Her publicist informed me that she was very particular about her drink and gave me exact instructions on what to order. Love wanted a Venti Dark Cherry Mocha with two shots of espresso, extra hot, with extra whipped cream. I took our drinks to the table and waited for her to arrive. 6:15 p.m. NO LOVE. 6:45 p.m. STILL NO LOVE. I waited and waited for her and she never showed. At 9:00 p.m. the cashier gently tapped me on my shoulder and said "I'm sorry Ma'am but we are closing for the evening." Disappointed, I got up brushed the Banana Walnut Bread off my dress, gathered my things and left. I didn't hear anything from Love or her publicist.

About a month later, Love called. She apologized for missing the interview and wanted to schedule a time and date to meet. This time we were to meet at her home on a Friday at 10:00 p.m. It was clear that I was waiting, but she was in control and I was on her time. I accepted the invitation. When I arrived at her house her assistant answered the door and led me to the parlor. Her house had simplistic yet thought out decor. There were pictures of captured memories all in black and white strategically placed around the house. I sat down in the parlor and waited for her to join me. As I looked around the room I noticed a framed picture. The only picture in the house that was in color. I was intrigued so I got up to get a closer look...I picked up the frame and in the picture lied my face, my eyes, my smile, my body...me. I took the picture, grabbed MY PURSE...and left.

I realized while I was waiting for Love. Love was right here. Inside of me. All of the broken hearts, lost loved ones, tests, and trials are all faded/fading memories. I am light. I am love.

Confessions of a Purse Carrier: The Introduction

So...I have this theory of sorts. There are several women who are walking around earth (or some other strange place) suffering from "The Purse Carrying Syndrome". Let me explain: In every group of girlfriends there is always at least one girl in the group that is hit with the line: "Hey girl, can you hold my purse?" This occurs mostly in social settings (i.e. clubs, lounges and bars).

She is...

• socially awkward yet is liked by many.



• secretly shy
  
• the comedian of the group
  


• most of the time the money her friends have their purses she gave to them.



• she may very well be a virgin or lack experience with the opposite sex.



• she watches her friends live their lives boldly and when they come crashing down she's there to help them pick up the pieces.



• she hides behind the facade of academia but cant find the appropriate rhetoric to hide loneliness.



• she's the anchor for many except herself.


• she's strong.


• she holds her friends baggage while suppressing her own.



• people say she's "too quiet" at times, but she's used to listening.



• she places the feelings of others before her own.



• she gives just to give and is uncomfortable when someone wants to return the favor.

"Hi, my name is Cyn and I suffer from Purse Carrier Syndrome". I am her and she is me. I guess this started back in high school at the school dances. I had a crush on Kwasi (aaaah memories) but my girls were always one step ahead of me...one lip gloss shade prettier (or so i thought). I have carried my friends purses for over 13 years. I have carried all types of purses big, medium sized, little. Gucci, Louis, and Fendi (all knock offs of course). I've carried the "I'm pregnant, I cant tell my mom" purse, the "I'm cheating on my boyfriend" purse, the "My baby Daddy ain't shit but I still love him purse", and the "I am going to commit suicide" purse.

I have reached a point in my life where I don't want to be that girl anymore. I love my friends but I want live with them not through them. This blog will document my journey towards success, love, and an amazing life. Letting go of my friend's baggage so that I can start to deal with my own....Welcome to "Confessions of a Purse Carrier"...Enjoy!