Trembling Heart



I felt the earth shake, yet it didn’t move me like he does. A faulty shift in our dynamic always end with me crouching low to the floor and shaking back and forth.  Nothing is rocking me, it’s my befuddled mind and efficacious sense of confinement I wish to break free from, but I’m trapped. Everything that I treasured is falling down; morals, respect, self-control and tears.  His words are sharp jolts and it takes a minute before his natural disastrous behavior subside. His rumbling sometimes persist, but after it’s over, I clean up the mess and pray for it to never happen again. Afraid to go through another haunting episode of my heart shattering I consider leaving for good. Why risk it all for an unpredictable force that carries only one agenda-destroy. In the meantime, I bask in watching my children smile in his presence, I count on the support he offer and the comfort of knowing what to expect. Why leave home when you know it all too well?

What Makes Her So Much Better Than Me – Part 3

Needless to say, job hunting is mundane and stressing at best, but when there are a plethora of occupations that you aren’t qualified to do or justifiably too good for you have entered a whole new territory of unusual cruelty. When I stumbled over an outline of unreasonable qualifications, my esteem was scraped and bleeding. Each bulleted requirement might as well have been jagged pebbles that I was crossing with bare feet. What field that I was most experienced in shunned me due to a lacking of credentials. I felt sorry. But worthlessness does not afford even a menial lifestyle so I trudged forward carrying a heavy load of pity and desperation, profusely sweating hopelessness, yet holding onto a small bottle filled with motivation.

I hadn’t a choice but to consider what most people in my circle may deem unconventional. I optioned opportunities that were foreign to me and pursued skills that would mold me into something new. My optimism was beginning to wane though and I needed a pick me up. My bedroom was my usual tranquil cove, but the bare walls and bland bedding were making my matters worse. I collected a few lonely souls and we all headed to Milan’s. I was dressed in all black and white; black hairpiece, black dress, black shoes, black accessories and a white smile. Not really feeling it, still I laughed to fill in the gaps but only when it was appropriate refusing to let my wet rag dampen everyone else’s spirits.

Two pair of lovebirds sat next to me and my fellow spinster acquaintances. My friends and I divulged humorous chitchat to pretend that we really didn’t care to talk and sulk over who, what, when, where and why did he have the nerve to and how do I finally be done. Despite the sexy Miami-like atmosphere that Milan’s created just minutes away from the Inner Harbor we still had to pretend that life was good. Because I was the main ingredient in this watered-down gathering of withered hearts I had heard all of the funny stories at least one time before. Inevitably I drowned out their yikkity-yak and tuned in to a different channel.

The foolish foursome ushered a waiter to pour them a glass of wine and toast with them. Excited and unwavering, the fearless four and their plus one glasses clink-clacked to seal the deal. Their toast was generic, phony and cheesy; “no more arguments”, they cheered.  Toasting to more celebratory occasions like an anniversary is one thing, but toasting to no more arguments is simply prolonging a bad situation that is only going to get worse.

I was intrigued. Only four hours before drinks at Milan’s, I had chickened out on the opportunity to relieve myself of all of love’s unworkable aches, but I somehow gave the ball to my opponent and was waiting for him to make the move that I was too wimpy to execute. I needed to know how this dating duo planned to stop the inevitable from ever happening again and so I asked. For many reasons, I was unfairly more interested in what jut one of the men had to say. The two women accompanying the men appeared to be no more than fillers occupying space. Their makeup was applied so heavily that I was convinced that the foundation, colorful shadows and blush had eaten its way to the core of their skull. What opinion could they offer aside from, “Uhhhh…” and the second male was dapper donned in Christian Audigier and True Religion jeans, but his hips might as well read, Caution: Makes wide right turns.  The only thing I wanted to learn from him was where to find the best elliptical machine to tone my jiggle.  I was wishing the cutie on duty was more than a handsome face and a GQ body. I imagined him to be a suit and tie financier Monday thru Friday and a die hard romantic for his leading lady in the evening, weekends, birthdays and for holidays. However, my expectations exceeded his vocabulary. Later in the evening I realized that because he could not comprehend my questions, the cookie-cutter soldier camouflaged in cool sophistication often hid behind the rock of shame shooting funny yet loutish banter. Lieutenant I Am No More Than a Pretty Smile and a Killer Body was all fluff. To avoid my puzzled gaze, the marshmallow laughed at his undignified responses especially at the one that was, “Talk first and then kill the bitch.” His girlfriend, obviously embarrassed succeeded in stroking his male ego by giggling at his indecency. My lady friends gasped; we were stunned.  I am no stranger to white people. I have attended school with them and we worked together side by side. I had even formed a special yet short lived friendship with a white girl who reminded me of Macauley Culkin’s best friend from the movie My Girl, Vada Sultenfuss. I vaguely remember their fearless personalities, but I do recall loud and obnoxious teenage boys and sluttish immature girls. I will truthfully admit that my itty bitty baby b’s were poked out that evening and my head swelled; I led in an entourage that will linger in their memory seeing that edification and class was unmistakable.

‘Enough of the relationship conundrum’, I thought, I have a more intriguing conversation to start up. As the party of four rose to their feet to leave for the evening, I curtly sat them back down when I asked, “What is your perception of black American women?” I would be a fool to let a partisan run free from getting his brain picked.  It was an opportunist market; eye candy and word of mouth. And aside from his obvious provocative body language (licking his lips and leaning back with gapped legs) he was an attention whore that needed to be heard.  Even if his words didn’t amount to anything, watching the expressions roll from his tongue was more than enough for me. I took a quick side ward glance to my right, my friends were fawning and that was confirmation I wasn’t the only one who thought his ignorance was indeed blissful. While I tried to pay attention to just his words alone, there was no hiding what my ladies were focused on; his bulge, his biceps and his bald head. He was Marky Mark circa 2010 and what lady turns away a bad boy?

Tags: Mark Walhberg

What Makes You Queen

Staring at the awful design of the grocery store, my mind began to roam aimlessly. No concrete purposeful thought occupied my head, not until I glanced to the left and noticed my novel flashing an imaginary monogram that read, “READ ME”. I wanted to-badly-but unlike my co-workers who didn’t care enough about their meaningless job to hide the obvious insubordinations ie, reading the latest issue of GLAMOUR in between dry interactions with the corporations loyal customers, I suppressed the wish to read more about the young woman from India who emigrated to America and commenced to looking busy.

Finally, my thoughts took form. I watched women frantically race down the aisles, gathering missing ingredients that completed dinner for the evening that was yet to come; married. Other women paced the shiny beige floor not even knowing why they were in the market at eight o’clock in the morning; they just knew that something was missing- single.

On the “married” women faces there was no sign of happiness or disdain, but their aura translated purpose. On the “single” women faces, there was desperation and weariness. Their was a silent yelp for an S.O.S. from the single crew, but because of their disposition, which screamed from the butchery up to the front where the produce laid,
“BACK the FREAK OFF!!!”, no one helped. I stared admiringly at the “married” bunch, wishing that I could walk the earth with purpose and be glad in it. Instead, I lived like a single and wandered, wondering ‘Why?’ all of the time (I’m sure for very different reasons though).

Indians, Spanish, Asian, and African women all shared the same “married” look, while white and mostly black Americans occupied the single slot on the shelf of love and marriage. It was saddening, but not hard to understand why. The white women seemed despondent, distracted and distant. The black American women, on the other hand seemed self-righteous, aggressive, and unapproachable. They grunted, if that, whenever I greeted them saying “Good morning!” There was not even the courtesy of a “Thank you” extended my way at the end of our interaction.

Too often I hear Black American women regard themselves as a queen, but what does that role really entail? I imagine a woman with presence and appeal. A woman who maintains her strength while possessing great ability to demonstrate humility. An enchanted being that is idolized and modeled by many; she is demanding without even speaking. Her garb is always clean and her hair is coiffed to her liking. Her tongue isn’t dirty at all in a perfect world, but in America she keeps it clean so that she isn’t branded impoverished and uneducated. Her children are respectable and God-fearing and she embeds in them her principles on life. She is unafraid to share her views, controversial or not; she keeps her cool. And all of the men who should ever get the chance to encompass her company would never ever deny her of her obvious abundant knowledge of self and her endless possibilities. That is queen to me.

He Can Afford Me; He Can Afford Me Not

I have a friend who is enduring a rough season. The weather is always rainy, sometimes thunderous in fact. She is rebuilding her career and mourning the loss of the 18 month old relationship that she nursed despite the headaches and the not-knowing-what-to-do times. After being lured into a trick bag that was disguised as a promising future, her dream come true revealed himself as the master of illusion. His lucky charms won my friend over. He was attentive, kind, spontaneous and proud. He threw parties in her honor and flew her across seas just because she deserved it. He held her hand when they walked the beach, the park and the malls. He was a gem from the beginning and in the middle, but at the end of this vivid rainbow there was no pot of gold. Dream Lover has been renamed; we now call him El Cheapo.

My dear friend suffered towards the end of their once desired relationship. After losing almost everything that solidified her independence, she confided in him and expressed her sincere concern with his unwillingness to financially support her during desperate times. Like a jackass, stubborn and wary, he stood his ground and did not dish out more than what he felt she was worth.

This is a recent break up. Both parties wounds are still open. My friend sometimes wonder if she made the right decision, but after conversing, mentation, and more chit chatting we reason that he does not fit the bill. During a recent round of should I or should I not, my friend admitted that she needed to be back on the scene, paint the town red even. She couldn’t waste any more time on wanting something that she ultimately did not need. So she says, “Before I start meeting new men, I want to have something to show for myself?” My brows were raised and my face frowned. I did not understand. I tried to convince her that she had lots to offer; beauty, ambition, intelligence, etc, etc.

“Why do you need money? I wouldn’t want someone that is choosing to love me because I have a little something something in the bank!”

My friend told me that I need to face reality. “That’s what people are looking for; stability, partnership and then love will follow,” she calmly rationalizes.

I was perplexed. I no longer understood the point in our 2 am bash El Cheapo themed conversations that we carried discussing how wrong he was for not understanding.

If my friend knew that women are wanted only if our shit is together, then why did she not understand that Dream Lover (El Cheapo) was just in his decision because her shit did indeed stink?

Since when did we start to equate love with money? I do know that it’s a ubiquitous desire to want to fall in love with someone with money, but when did money and love become one in the same? And, how do you determine if a person is love-worthy based on how much money they have?

What Makes Her So Much Better Than Me – I Smell Fear

While at my very close friend’s celebration, I was entertained and intrigued. My friends were all there. There were colorful drinks that were heavily spirited and mouth-watering foods prepared all in celebration of a matrimonial anniversary. It was indeed a delightful evening. The little kids were teaching the “big kids” how to dougie and how to do the stanky leg. It was fun! There were couples at every table smiling while they were eating, laughing in the middle of light conversation; having a ball! It was all in all comfortable. These were the same people that always gathered to support one another’s festivity. Girl’s night, game night, graduation celebration, and birthday parties or just because-I-want-some-company nights, you would find these same people in attendance.

I had a friend who accompanied me to the celebration. On the surface, this was a great crowd of people. They were clean and loved their partners; a definite plus. However, under the surface, the smiles were usually replaced with gaping mouths that spat obscenities to one another. I knew of infidelities that existed in the heart of this celebration. I listened to sobbing stories about the insecurities that might as well have a room in the home of these couples. I heard it all.

The night air was cool, which was refreshing being that less than an hour before our arrival it was so hot I was convinced that I had witnessed a mirage. After I sat down at the long white card table and ate a few meatballs and sweet beans, drunk one drink too many, I was so tipsy that I thought I had seen a ghost. But I wasn’t the only one who was spooked when the couple joined the party hand in hand.

Before my BFF noticed the invader’s male companion, she  automatically assumed that the “alien” was a co-worker of one of the host. She in fact felt relieved that she too was not the only woman at this party-for-two only without a plus one. It was indeed an unfortunate enlightenment when the truth was revealed. The “alien” was here with a man and he happened to be a Black man.

“So, that’s where they are now running to; Japan.”, BFF texted me in order to hide her displeasure.

“LOL”, I sent back.

Tension was riding deep. The balmy night air turned clammy. People were tiptoeing around the party trying not to step on the hypothetical egg shells like, “What happened to your son’s mother?” (the Black girl). The most people would muster is, “It’s nice to meet you.” Translation: “You are not welcome here now or ever!” This language was a lingo that most women spoke and it wasn’t ebonics or pig latin. It’s called insecurity and we speak it fluently.

The female guest at the party, not excluding myself or my BFF, who were the two that was without a date, felt like they had just experienced a terrorist attack.

Count one: She plotted.

Count two: She invaded.

Count three: She conquered.

The female party goers with great trepidation scanned the area, wondering if her militia was planning to emerge from the shrubbery and rob them of the bitter sweet part of their lives and like a dog, I sensed their fear. The women reacted in ways that most insecure women act when there is a threat lurking. Mission: Sit down close and hold him tight. Pretend you are as happy as the threat seems to be.

To break the proverbial ice, I introduced myself and so did my BFF. We had a great conversation and she was a terrific woman. She exuded confidence, love and concern. She was kind, polite and…curious.

“I am here with X,” she said.

“Ohhhh, I know him.” I respond.

It was obvious that she wished she could have hid her discomfort with me knowing her boyfriend; but she couldn’t. Her eyes widened, her eyebrows were raised, her voice squeaked and her body moved forward in the chair. She needed to know, ‘Is this Black woman a threat?’ ‘Why have I never heard of you?’ But instead she asked, “Did you and X also go to school together?”

I told her no, that I only knew of him through the guests of honor. Her body relaxed, her smile returned and her eyebrows took its place, moving from her forehead, back over the top of her eyes. Her guards were down and she knew that I detected it. Her whole mission had to immediately abort; she had to switch to operation b right away: Help the hostess clean up to concurrently redeem herself and to get out of my face. She knew it and I knew that she could tell; I smelled fear.

What Makes Her So Much Better Than Me

As I approach the monumental 3-0, my mind has been going astray, but not like before when I use to submit to being led astray. Why didn’t I stay in New York and pursue acting, why don’t I have legs that are sky-high and how can I somehow fool the world into believing that I really do? How can I hone the art of loving a man? And what makes her so much better than me?

The man that I am in a relationship with will oftentimes joke about his anticipation for the day that he hook up with a Chinese woman. He perceive them to be patient and kind, submissive and respectful, sexually uninhibited; a dream. All through our relationship, even when I am pissed, I devote all my energy into not zapping out when he has tested my patience. I demonstrate kindness as I’m preparing his dinner or washing his dirty laundry. When I have had enough of his sometimes intolerable parents, brothers and sisters, I put on a happy face at the family functions. Lastly, I ask what he likes at night after the children has gone to sleep and the stars are the only lights illuminating our bedroom; I am a freak! So, what makes her so much better than me? What makes me a nightmare?

After attending a celebration at one of my closest friend’s home, I began to answer why the elusive she is always going to be better than me. I watched a man of my race pour out his affection for his Asian companion. He spilled everything and it was truly touching. And although I was touched by his kind and indisputably sincere words that describe how he feel for his “better than” woman , I felt provoked to ask him how were the women so different in the relationship before her. I didn’t have to pull any teeth to get him to admit that he was not a good boy before, but then he defensively says too that it took a good woman to make him appreciate, love and respect her in the capacity that he does. I smiled on the outside and screamed, ‘BULLSHIT’ on the inside and then inside of my BFF’s car I screamed again,

“Bullshit!”

We replayed, then analyzed and then concluded that we live in a communist-like society when it comes to loving a man.

The men are the dictators and the women are the citizens. We are used and abused to the point of bitterness. Our dreams have been robbed, our mentalities are corrupted and we trust no one because there thoughts are all the same; BULLSHIT!

Without knowing, the fellow party goer admitted to misbehaving while in former relationships, but still pointed the finger at his female mirror image. Black women have been set-up to fail. We are loud-mouthed know-it-alls. When we struggle, our men belittle us as if they forgot our children recognize us as mommy and daddy, cook and mechanic, cheerleader and coach. When another woman from a different ethnicity hits a rough patch, they are consoled, their spirits are reincarnated and they are given wings to fly. We are perceived as lazy and useless, for just a week ago I heard a man say, “These (Black) women don’t cook any more.” And for my ladies, I took a stand and made him feel stupid because he couldn’t count.

All of the Black women that I know and have met all express their desire to have their male counterpart hold them, support them and prove outdated labels to be erroneous. Needless to say, it is an honor to see those Black men who praise their Black women with the highest regards, but we will never be able to kill the stigma because the man who started out playing for our team is a traitor and unfortunately he paints the picture. When he should be using vibrant colors to express what we are to him, he choose to depict us with a dull shade of gray on all white paper. Why wouldn’t she be better than me?

Aunt Toosie Died!!

About a week ago, my BFF got a verbal whooping from her mother complimentary of her cousin who has been corrupted by virtual voodoo. Her cousin who has been placed under the cyber spell, informed her of a family function over FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!

How dare he!

Who does that?!!!!

Ah ya ya! What has the real world come to?!!!!!

Cousin called BFF’s mother (his auntie) saddened because the families famed two-some were a no-show. Mother commenced to wearing BFF out with words.

When BFF and cousin got the chance to talk, cousin and BFF went back and forth regarding receipt of the so-called invitation until the clouds parted and light was shed.

“Cousin, I diiid send you an invitation. About a week ago , while you were on Facebook, I told you all about it!”

Again, I ask, what has our real world come to?!!!!!!!!!!

When did Facebook and Myspace become so relevant that people feel that it is as reliable as UPS or even snail mail!?

It’s not!

So please people stop relying heavily on transmitting important information through Facebook and Myspace!

After a brief hiatus from the land of Facebook and Myspace it would be traumatic in so many ways if one of your many messages is informing you of a funeral because Aunt Toosie died!