"Choices" in the "Silver Lining" (Celebrating My Day of Birth)

when i can't express

what i really feel

i practice feeling

what i can express

and none of it is equal

i know

but that's why mankind

alone among the animals

learn to cry.

--Nikki Giovanni "Choices"

It's that time of year again. My birthday! Dirty 30...+2!

A friend of mine reminded me that I hadn't posted my usual birthday blog(s) so I had to get on it ASAP.

This year has truly been an eye-opening year for me.

A year of growth. 

A year of mistakes.

A year of dreams becoming realities. 

A year of disappointment and heartbreak. 

A year of sweat-less victories. 

All of which would not have happened if I wasn't living life to the fullest. And life ain't worth living if GOD ain't the center of it all!

As I enter into a new year of life I am grateful and humble to be afforded another opportunity to continue living the best life I can.

The opportunity to make my parents proud.

The opportunity to learn from my mistakes.

The opportunity to see my dreams come to fruition.

The opportunity to heal from hurt and heartbreak.

The opportunity to glorify the One who moves mountains out of the way so I can be victorious.

Lots of people have asked me what I want for my birthday? Crazy thing is everything I want isn't even materialistic. However, I will share the list with you:

--More of GOD
--Wisdom and discernment
--To continue to see the world
--To always be able to see the silver lining
--Eternal happiness for me, my friends, and my family
--A successful run of my show (baby) L'Africain Saccharine Ballad (get your tickets here...shameless plug)
--To be able to help Ladybug be the best she can be
--The unnecessary police violence against our Black boys/men (and girls/women) to stop.

June 10th is the best day of the year. Gemini is the best sign in the Zodiac. I am attempting to be the best woman I can be.

This week literally goes down in history as the best week ever...my birthday, my kids musical performances, and Season 3 of Orange Is The New Black is back!

What more can a girl ask for?

So if I'm looking up don't mind me
But I can't be, (I just can't be) I can't be down no more
And if you don't know where to find me
I'm out looking
I'm looking for the silver lining
The silver lining, and I don't know where
But I'm hoping I'll find it
I'm looking for the silver lining
--Jazmine Sullivan "Silver Lining"

VENTING FAT GIRL/Southwest Airlines

My sweet sweet blog.

I need to talk to you. More like vent.

My first article on Madame Noire aimed to celebrate those plus sized actresses that are making history in Hollywood. I wanted to acknowledge them and speak on how proud I was of them. After the article posted I made the mistake of reading the comments people wrote.

Out of over twenty comments only one joined me in celebrating these women. The others made sure they gave the women their personal medical diagnosis and threw around the term obesity like fresh $1 bills in a stripper joint. People commented that they cringe when they see Gabourey Sidibe on screen and anticipate hearing she has died from a heart attack. But my favorite one said we need to stop celebrating fat women, these women could die from being so over weight.

I didn't really have it in me to be on the defense about the comments because the fact is: when you are fat, you know you are fat. Period. You know the health risks involved with being fat. You are scared of dying from diseases like diabetes and high blood pressure. Everyday you look into the mirror you can see how fat you are. And I'm pretty sure with all of the reminders we fat girls get from our doctors, family, and friends we don't need an extra reminder from keyboard happy, internet junkies, who spend their lives making useless and insulting comments on blogs. Hell, my own grandmother wrote a letter saying she didn't want a fat granddaughter so these comments are irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Let's clear up some misconceptions, shall we?

• Just because a woman is fat doesn't mean she is lazy.

• Just because a woman is fat doesn't mean she doesn't work out. 

• Just because a woman is fat doesn't mean she is not making strides to live a healthier lifestyle. 

• Just because a woman is fat doesn't mean she spends her days eating all the time. 

• Again, she is perfectly aware that she is fat. She knows her health risks and she doesn't need you to remind her of them.

I am just as irate about this issue as I am about racism across the world and gender inequality. If you are Black, a woman and overweight you might as well be the scum of the earth because that is how we are treated and why?

Since when does a number on a scale determine the type of person you are?

Since when do rolls, muffin tops, and spare tires determine if you would be a good employee or not?

Why is the size of your waist a determining factor of beauty?

I recently took a trip to New Orleans. One of my favorite cities. New Orleans is a city rich in Black history, culture, and southern hospitality. Its one of the few cities I can honestly say I feel free in. Just free to be me...no judgement. I can walk down the street, fat, and not have to worry about whispers, strange looks or sly comments. Most importantly New Orleans reminds me that in spite of a disaster in your life you can rebuild and still be great.

I arrived to the Southwest Airlines terminal at DCA headed to New Orleans and was ready to have a great time! As I was waiting at the gate for my flight to board a Southwest Airlines agent approached me and asked me was I going to New Orleans? I said yes, and she then asked to see my boarding pass. Now with all of this new technology in place you can have your boarding pass on your phone. I pulled my phone out and she looked at it and walked away. They called the flight to board and I was brought over a paper boarding pass and a ticket that said "place this reserved ticket in the seat pocket next to you." I was a bit confused but thought nothing of it.

Preparing to come home from New Orleans I was unable to check-in to my flight the night before as I usually do. When I called I was told that I had been pre-assigned a seat and would have to check-in at the airport. This was strange to me because Southwest has a first come first serve seating arrangement. I get to the airport and I am handed a boarding pass, the same reservation ticket reserving the seat next to me as my departure flight from DCA, and a pre-boarding ticket for "disability" reasons. No one would tell me why this was done.

Then it became clear I had been labeled disabled because of my size and I had to reserve the seat next to me because no one wants to sit next to a fat girl on the plane. I am judged not only because I am Black, not only because I'm a woman, but add being fat to that equation and you have degradation at its finest.

I could use this section to argue how far from disabled I am and how my fat cells aren't spewing over to the plane seats next me but I'll refrain. What I will do is go back to the comment that we need to stop celebrating fat girls that an ignoramus wrote under my article. Ain't nobody celebrating us bruh! We are ridiculed, labeled, demeaned, humiliated, judged, tormented, and the butt of every damn joke.
So if writing articles to uplift and motivate another Black woman who happens to be fat is what I have to do, then that is what I'm going to do! Somebody needs to say hey you are smart, talented, beautiful, motivating, remarkable and your weight won't ever change that! The world may be against you but don't let that stop you!

I am so sick of this consistent attack against difference in humanity by the most inconsistent groups of people!

Do not pass GO, do not collect $200 hundred dollars...just make sure you are dressed appropriately for the heat in hell. 

I SPY: The Woes of Social Media

Dear Confessions of a Purse Carrier,

I know I haven't told you the news but I recently was given the opportunity to write for Madame Noire. An opportunity that was orchestrated by GOD and manifested through you. I realize now that all of the posts I have made on this blog mattered. Though I was just using you as my personal virtual diary not caring really if people read you or not, people were actually reading and clearly liked what they had read. Who knew? I just want to say thank you. Thank you for letting me be me. I have written quite a bit and left it here for you to bare. I've dealt with heartache, successes, epiphanies, and dreams right here on this blog. I even pissed a few people off. Ce la vie. I didn't have to worry about MLA standards or run on sentences I just wrote for love of writing and you sustained that love. I didn't have to worry about an editor tweaking my voice. Every word was all authentically mine and that's why I will always cherish you. I promise I will at least leave a word here every now and then. You are my first love. You gave my soul a voice. Now I get paid for doing what I love and that in itself is a gift. I'm forever indebted to you. 

Love,

Creme

A popular game with Elementary aged children is "I Spy." It's so interesting to see how much of a kick they get out of it while the teacher is only using it as a strategy to keep them cool, calm, and collected. During "I Spy" the designated spy says "I spy with my (insert eye color here) something that's (insert the color or shape of an object that's in the room here)." Those trying to figure out what the spy is talking about begin to call out things around the room that fit the description. Whomever guesses correctly usually becomes the spy and the game repeats itself. Easy enough right? I think this game is great for school aged children it strengthens observation and critical thinking skills. It even in many ways builds confidence. But I have found that adults are playing this game everyday especially on social media and honey, it's driving me bananas. 

Social media is an ingenious way to stay connected with friends and family. It's also a tool you can use to network, share successes, and market your business and/or brand. Remember when Facebook was only for college students and if you didn't have a college email address you couldn't join? I was so happy to find people I went to Elementary school with and was a Student Ambassador with all having gone to college. Then Facebook unlocked it's doors and everybody and they Mama (literally) is on the Book. That to me is still not a bad thing. I have found so many people I have lost contact with over the years and have always wondered about. I am still looking for my Third grade teacher and have faith that Facebook will help me find her. But the trouble is once people have added you and begin posting their life moments the "I Spy" shenanigans begin.

I am a person who pretty much enjoys minding my business. However, I do enjoy some good tea if you are spilling. But for the most part I enjoy staying in my lane. But when you scroll down your timeline and people you follow have posted their business in what they feel is a vague way, you are forced to play "I Spy" with them and the mess of their lives. I don't want to see in my newsfeed you arguing with your man about why his socks and shoes are on the floor of another woman's house. I don't want to see your status where you are clearly reading or cussing somebody out but fail to mention their name. I don't want to see a thousand picture photo album of you and the very same people you say you can't stand. So because our brains are not equipped to just pass this stuff by or ignore it people are forced to discuss it, guess what is going on or decipher what you are talking about. 

We need social media etiquette classes! First class is free but every time you slip up there's a penalty fee. Five or more slip ups you are restricted access for a month. What ya'll think? I have debated for awhile deleting social media sites like Facebook. I noticed a few of my friends leave and come back probably because they got sick of playing "I Spy." I've deleted people, changed settings, blocked and still things manage to pop up. In this day and age and especially as I am in pursuit of my life's goals it is not smart to not have a social media presence. With that being said join me for a brief moment in a social media peace keeping attempt. I compiled a very short list that will help us coincide in a peaceful, non Elementary school game sort of way:

1. Don't argue with your significant other on social media. Save that for home and have the cops on speed dial.

2. If you are cheating on your mate don't post pics, tag, check-in, comment under posts with the one you are cheating with. Please. Trust me it all goes down hill.

3. Stop reading and cussing people out without tagging them. If you feel the urge migrate to Twitter it's great for venting.

4. Stop talking about people if you are going to hang out with them and take pictures documenting your excursions.

5. Post more about your accomplishments, travels, kids, things or moments in time that make you happy. We want to celebrate with you!

6. Lay off the reposts of kids fighting each other and participating in sexual acts. It's despicable and diminishes your character.

7. Stop tagging yourself in locations that would lead us to believe you are in some sort of danger without an explanation (i.e. hospitals, police precincts, prisons, scene of the crime, the trunk of a car).

8. I'm not opposed to you taking pics at funerals. The way in which you document your loved ones funeral is your prerogative. But the moment you decide to post the selfie you took with a corpse please ask GOD to redirect your path.

I hope this helps somebody and we can live happily every after in social media land. 

It's Time (Part II): The Secret Society of the Literary Militia

I often thank God that I didn’t grow up in fear like many children nowadays do. My mother and father had my brother and me late in life so I think they were already in grandparent mode. They didn’t really spank us as a means of discipline either. We occasionally got plucked or even worse guilt tripped. My mother never had to say a word. She would simply ignore us. Her silence stung worse than any belt ever could. Life was easy because my parents made sure we were allowed to be children. We weren’t exposed to adult things. That was a priceless gift they gave us. But in every great story there is a plot twist. Now, before I share this information with you I must forewarn you that everything you hear today is classified information and should not leave this page.

My parents used to drive a silver Ford Taurus. On the outside it seemingly showed their patriotism by supporting an American automotive company but on the inside, it was the dungeon of doom. Whenever we got into the car and the doors closed behind us, my loving parents, who had the temperament of grandparents, transformed into The Literary Militia. And my loving, sweet, mother? Commander-in-Chief! Whenever we rode in the car which, let’s be honest, was the majority of the time, my mother would not put the car into drive until my brother or I led us in prayer. After praying we had to read a passage of scripture, sing a song, read a poem, a story or a play, and read a Black History fact all before we reached our destination. Now you might be wondering where did we get this information that we were commanded to recite? Well, Commander-in-Chief Mommy, compiled notebooks, Literary Militia Codebooks, overflowing with laminated pages of sheet music, poetry, short stories, plays, famous speeches, scripture references, and Black History Facts. Everyday, more than once a day, on the way to church, to violin lessons, to school or the grocery store and don’t forget longer road trips, whenever we were in the car we had to read, recite, and memorize. From the age of 5 until I left for college at the age of 18, not one day went by where I wasn’t reading, reciting, memorizing or singing something from the Literary Militia Codebook. From the dungeon of doom behind the doors of the silver Ford Taurus birthed my passion for creating and telling stories. I grew to love the stories I was commanded to read and found myself in an Alice in Wonderland euphoria guided by prose. 

I want to write. 

I want to liberate words from the page. 

Bring the story to life. 

I am Langston.

Zora. 

Baldwin. 

I am Cynthia. 

Left with a gift to tell stories. 

Left with a gift to bring stories to life.

A gift I will never take for granted. 

The gift I hope to pass down to my children. 

The legacy I want to leave.

It's Time (Part I): "Dream Hoarder"

Awards season.

Golden Globes. SAG. Oscars. 

I enjoy watching the E! Red Carpet coverage and tweeting about my favorite looks of the evening.

Dior Couture. Armani. Christian Sirano. Ellie Saab.

Each gown artistically and aesthetically inspiring.

I rejoiced hearing some of my favorite shows like Orange Is The New Black and Downton Abbey took home wins.

I teared up with Uzo Aduba as she gave her acceptance speech.

I felt a sense of pride when Viola Davis walked the red carpet with her natural hair glowing in the clairvoyance of her crescent moon.

I felt an array of hope seeing Laverne Cox elegantly maneuver through her promise.

(A hope I haven't felt in a long time...)

But I couldn't help but feel an immense pain. Pain that guards the area where my dreams are stored. Packed away. Hidden. Safe.

I've become a dream hoarder.

Acting is my gift. So I'm told. 
I know it is. I know it is.

Somewhere along the way I hid it. Hid from it.

I knew as early as Elementary school that my journey towards realizing my dreams would be harder than most.

My acting teacher in high school told me, "You're gift is rare...you are going to change the face of Broadway and Hollywood both. I see it."

I took her words with me as I stood in line after line at audition after audition in every major city. To no avail.

I remember after I finished my audition at Julliard, I was in the hallway and I heard: "damn she's really good. She's just too fat. What can we do with her?" Those words stuck with me too.
I've hated NYC ever since by the way.

But I still want it. I do.

I still yearn for it. I do.

I still dream...

I...still...

It's time to unpack...

It's time to purge...

It's time to move...

It's time to progress...

It's time to realize...

It's...time...

Anatomy's Philharmonic

Today I had a great day!

Got up early, went to the farmer's market, bought peaches, apples, and raisin walnut bread. Sat on a bench with my Mommy in an artist's cove of sorts, drank fresh squeezed lemonade, and people watched. Later we went Uptown and had brunch accompanied with an iced mocha. I felt like a really earthy, artsy, white woman. I almost made it all the way home without a glitch and then World War 2014 happened. I began hacking and my lungs began to fight, my throat continued its battle with Tourettes, and my nose felt like a really hot summer day in a Black neighborhood, with an open hydrant and all the kids are bare chest and feet drenching in my snot.

For months (more like years) now I have been struggling with the worst "sinus infection" known to mankind. I'm not sure at this point if that's even what it is. I've been to several doctors several times. The diagnosis has ranged from an inner ear infection to walking pneumonia. Most recently, I was told I have acute bronchitis. The symptoms, very irritating to say the least, are violent coughing, isolated migraines, retching, post nasal drip (more like down pour), post nasal drip reflux, sore throat, wheezing, restricted breathing, chest pain, dizziness, and my all time favorite clogged ears. Neti Pots, Z-packs, Claritan D, Albuterol, Fluticasone, and a whole heap of other prescribed pharmaceuticals have invaded my body to no avail.

But there is a silver lining (always).

With my ears being clogged most of the time I find it hard to hear externally. It feels like a barricade blocking the external from the internal. As a result I have been upper respiratory bullied into listening to what's going on internally. Internally I can hear all sorts of things like my heartbeat, calm and steady while I'm relaxing and quick and rhythmic when I run up the stairs. When I take a sip of water I can hear a rippling sound as it travels down the esophagus. But if I drink something with more acidity in it then it sounds like Rice Krispies dancing down my esophagus. I can hear haunted house noises in my stomach when I'm hungry and every creek and crack of my moving joints and bones is amplified. Headaches, though they feel intense, often have an alto lightsaber sound and every deep breath and exhalation fills the inner ear with a zephyr euphony.

If it wasn't for my ears being clogged I may not have ever had these orchestra seats to my anatomy's philharmonic.

That's life and lesson. Siamese twins.

For every block, pause, delay, obstruction, and hinderance there is always something you are meant to receive from it. GOD is a GOD of calculation. He has pre-planned and forethought every millisecond of our being. When things get heavy, when things get hard, when things get out of control…

Block out the external. Find retreat in the internal. He is waiting there.

Meet Celeste

Ah yes. My dear blog. I know, I know. How I've neglected thee. So much has happened since we last dialogued. I've missed the feeling of my fingers appropriately resting in their place at ASDF JKL;. No longer imprisoned by MLA standards. Just me, you, a large bottle of water (or some other spirited beverage) and my thoughts. I've missed the freedom. Nevertheless, here I am. Ready to talk. Did you miss me?

Where oh where should I begin? Personal? Political? Social?

Let me go back a bit. In 2010 I first started my blog out of frustration with my life and how I was not only being perceived but also how I perceived myself. "The Purse Carrier" I called myself. Read more about my theory here: Purse Carrier Theory.

Four years later this theory is still very real. But there have been some changes.

I have been possessed by my 30 year old spirit. Her name is Celeste.

Celeste seemingly has her ish together. She no longer desires to hang out in clubs and bars so she avoids those purse holding nights all together. She works hard, loves GOD, goes to church, volunteers, and is an upstanding citizen. She still lives at home with her Momma, which in the minds of the moronically opinionated is a red flag, but she actually enjoys being with her Mother (most of the time). On the surface and on paper she's a woman headed to greatness. But…there is a but...GOD help her...she's a pistol.

Since I have turned 30, Celeste was born. She rocks a big mean afro underneath her ombre blonde
colored weave. Celeste is a Black Christian-ist, Black feminist, Black womanist, Black Youth-ist, and Black equality-ist. All Black erythang! She's the type to wear her Jesus sandals in the rain and dare you to say one word. Celeste has an extremely low tolerance for nonsense. Someone said something about her, her family, her friends, her OBAMA? She's confronting them, right away! Head on! She always prays for the right words to say but is frank and straight forward. She doesn't entertain "he say, she say." By the end of whatever "they say", you can bet Celeste is headed right to the source. Celeste believes she is Stokley Carmichael and Miriam Makeba's love child. She will stand on top of any furniture…well wait she's a big girl so let's retract that statement. She's not about that "Scarlet takes a tumble" life. She will stand out in the middle of the street yelling "Black Power", "Amandla", "Ready for a revolution", unbothered by your opinion of her. She's a 30 year old activist and she is ready for a change!

I don't know if this is a good trait to have or not but I do know it feels good. Damn good. I've let go of grudges and I am able to say my peace and go about my business. This being 30 thing is beauty marked.

I know the stages of life differ and by the time I'm 60, GOD willing, I will have evolved into an older woman with more idiosyncrasies. As long as I'm not introducing Cruela I will be fine. But I love this journey I'm on and I am proud of the woman I am becoming. As for now…

Viva la 30! Viva la Celeste!