You Must Not Know Bout Me

Over the last week or so, I've gotten a whole bunch of emails from people who read this blog (leave comments, it helps me figure out who you are, mmmk)who are jumping down my throat for the extra randomness of my posts lately, or are trying to tell me that what I write about is too young or too old, or telling me that I need to be more lucid with my writing, or hurling some personal insult, or my personal favorite trying to tell me what I'm about and who I really am on the inside. I've got thick skin, this really doesn't bother me, but I'm honestly getting tired of seeing the emails and I'm in rare form today, so allow me...

I write what I want when I want. I don't care if you don't like it. If you're such a non-fan, please help yourself to the X at the top right corner of this window. I don't write to make you happy, I write because I can and because it makes me happy. I don't sit at my computer and ponder over my words to make them amenable to the goings on in your brain. I'm so glad you stop by to read what I've decided to post up here, since more than likely I've read or do read your stuff. But I write about what's on my mind; some days I'm happy, somedays I'm angry, somedays I'm sad. So there are times when my posts go from jubilant to reflective--I'm only human. I think a lot and have strong opinions, but I don't always feel like being on a pro-intellect, pro-black, pro-women, pro-whatever tirade. I like to play and be silly. Sorry if that's not okay with you.

Since there are a handful of you who think you know me better than I know myself, let me help you out and ensure you have the right facts.

I'm 24, I grew up in Albany, NY and moved to the South Bronx when I was five and shuttled between the two places for 12 years, so I claim both as home. I'm a Jamerican--my father was fresh off the boat. He left my mom with two kids when I was three, he raped me violently when I was four. My mom did her damndest to keep my brother and I in line. She sent us to private schools our whole K-12 years, and yeah I'm proud of it--more actually proud of my mom for doing so ALONE. Because of where I went to school, I'm more familiar with the term racial sellout than most of you EVER will be. Yeah, said straight to my face, as I lay on the ground with a foot in my back more than once, more than twice. I don't hate my father, even though since then he's stolen my identity, lied to my life insurance companies, and a whole bunch of other stuff you don't need to know. I'm proud of making it through that, and will discuss when asked or when I feel like it, but I don't broadcast it daily, nor do I let it define the direction of my life. If you knew most of the details, you'd think I lived in a Lifetime Movie.

I know the other side of being poor. Yeah, we were in the fancy school, but child support came when it wanted. So my mom went without more often than not. Lights have been off, no heat, watched her go through bankruptcy, I find out now somedays she didn't know how we were going to eat, but we did every day. Her mom was my rock, and she died four years ago, and I'm still destroyed. Watching her die the way she did wasn't right. She basically starved into a death by dementia. She never wanted to die in a hospital, but at least she's at peace now.

I'm supposed to be a mother, but God didn't want that to happen. I let my virginity go entirely too early, even though I knew what my mom did for a living (delivery room nurse at the time) and I knew just what the result of my actions could be. So I ended up pregnant at 15. Yeah, so when I get teary eyed over a young mom, I understand. I have a sonogram picture left to remind me of how far I've come.

My uncle is a bonafide crackhead. He told me a year ago he wished he would have molested me because I had the shape of a goddess when I was 13. He spent the $17,000 my grandpa left him when he died in four days on a crack binge. He was also left a house in NC. Sold it to buy more crack. Lied to my mom and gramma and managed to almost sell the house that was left to my mom (we didn't have money, but we had land that my grandpa owned yet didn't find that out till he died) to buy more crack. He stole my life savings, he stole my graduation money, he stole my brother's truck. Yeah, he's two shakes from the grave now, but he's sober--at last check.

I got hit by a car and landed on my back. I broke three of my vertebrae. two are fused. I have two hooks, a cage, a chunk of my hip missing to replace back bone all in my spine. But I STILL tap dance. It hurts, and most days I function in pain you couldn't imagine but I'm so used to it, that I'm almost afraid of what pain-free would look like. But you'd never know it. I run and dance in heels at the club, whatever I want. I've been tap dancing for 21 years now, so the only way I'll stop is if I'm pregnant or paralyzed.

I've got hangups about my hair. I admire those who are natural, but I haven't found the courage to do so completely yet. That doesn't make me any less conscious or black than the next person. At least I'm woman enough to admit that I still have those issues.

I have one brother, two half brothers, and ten step siblings. That leaves me a total of 77 nieces and nephews, and a whole rack of other cousins and such. I wasn't always physically alone growing up, but I was many days because I'm the thinker--the "smart" one.

I worked full time through college and still owe Sallie.Mae my soul. I moved here for a chance to live without the shadow of the demons of my life invading my space. I'm in grad school, I work full time in my chosen career. I'm in management and am the youngest manager this organization has ever had. Yes, I'm proud. I'm trying to learn how to be a better woman, better girlfriend, better Christian, but I struggle some days. I'm incredibly sensitive once you figure out what actually bothers me underneath that thick skin I've got. I have strong opinions on a lot of things, some are popular and some aren't. I'm absolutely happy with who I am, and I live everyday unapologetically.

That's me in a nutshell. Too bad if you don't appreciate how hard it is for me to bear so much of me like that. Too bad if you don't like how I think or how I write. It's me, and that's the very best I can do.

Back to regular posting tomorrow.