Though I have been exorcising my ghosts, it should be said that I am a "scab picker" of sorts, and with any scab that's continuously picked, a scar is left in its wake. I'm getting better, fuck it. All this self-improvement gives me a headache. It takes concentration, and like I said, I'm working 11 hour days.
That said, I had a conversation with someone recently - scabby. Tried to smooth it over, but some people can't get past their own pain enough to see the pain they've inflicted in others. After all, hurt people hurt people. I'd be lying if I said that it didn't coat my ego a little bit to know that he's still very much upset* about shit I've said and an ordeal that I, for the most part, let go. So this situation is dangerously close to being a scar and I've been putting bandaids over it to speed the healing. But I'm about to break the stitch and let the poison bleed out once and for all.
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This blog is for public consumption, but not for public interest. I don't say things on this blog to be politically correct, or to indirectly write letters to folks I know personally, explaining myself or making sense of transgressions. I live life in real-time. I blog because I write. I write what I know. I know myself. My self is my life. It's not rocket science; not as deep as some people make it. That said, I knew when I wrote Thought You Had A Friend it would generate speculation. And I knew who would be the folks the speculate, as speculation and instigation ofttimes go hand in hand. But as anyone (friend or foe) can tell you, I have never - ever - had a problem saying how I feel. I don't work from a script. Said plainly: I don't need your help. And the problem is, people tell on themselves. See, this post was written broadly enough (as most posts are) where it can entice a guilty conscience without direct provocation. Then people wanna make that my problem.
I know I said before that I don't like to give shine to those undeserving of it, but so as to minimize speculation in this one instance, I'll give the people what they want: As predicted, this blog is a conversation piece - it's designed to be, after all, because it has a comment section and I get lots of emails from folks giving feedback, which I appreciate immensely. But to guide Anthony to my site under the auspices of me "talking shit" is both reckless and sad. (Especially if no one told him anything, and Anthony needed to create a foil so as not to disclose I'm still bookmarked on his UPenn discounted laptop.) Either way, it's encouraging to know that I/my writing incite(s) enough passion for discussion/review. Now, Anthony did not cite specifically who his informant is, but any and all potential perpetrators lack the proper vantage point for throwing stones or knowing exactly what shit I could be talking about anything. Let me be clear: I am publicist; I don't need one. That said, whoever I need(ed) to speak to, I contact(ed) directly. Although at this point the fact that y'all operate at this level of stupidity and cowardice is its own punishment, and doesn't warrant further discussion.
Quote me on that.
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And since we're talking clarity, I'm going to segue just because I'm writing more, and with more readers comes a broader swath of people who don't know me, but may want to know my premise as an individual and as a writer.
I am a 20-something finding my way. In the middle of a growth spurt, I am somewhere between black Nationalist and buppie, listening to everything from "Sentimental Mood" to "Big Pimpin'." I am from Philadelphia, I wear lots of black and my drinks of choice are Tequila, Cosmos, champagne, Shiraz and Moscato. Keep me away from rum.
I am loud, and probably say things a bit too bluntly. In the interest of clarity, I am direct. It works for some people, to others its abrasive. I let people take the details and do what they want with them. This angers most people, as I've never been one to "clear the record," since usually the things I say are said so explicitly, I don't feel the need to fine-tune others' lack of understanding for basic English.
Initially, I decided to become a reporter when I realized how compelled I felt to listen to Kurt Loder and Serena Alchul. When MTV News still happened at "10 to the hour, every hour," I would change the channel just to see if there were updates from the hour before. I used to envy the way that 6 o'clock commanded the attention of my entire family. I wanted my voice to mean something, too. At this point, my voice means different things to different people. I think I like it that way; it makes me less niched.
I am the real life Joan Carol Clayton. I wear great clothes, I have great friends, my dwelling space is fabulous. But I have the uncanny ability to aid in my own stress. I am a creature of habit. Many of my habits are bad. I am both extroverted and socially awkward at times. My life is chaotic. I have trouble with "goodbyes." I am resistant to "hellos," though secretly I've always been excited at the prospect of new friends. For this reason, I fear marriage and although I love having someone in my life, I am terrified about the idea that it may not work. As such, my plans for children (whose names have already been picked out) will be wholly inspired by the man who is crazy enough to take me on full-time and forever. I have reinstated my rule against dating brothers who date white women.
My family is of utmost importance to me. They all get on my nerves. My biggest fear is when my parents are no longer here. I have grown to understand my siblings as completely different than myself. My niece has taught me that you don't get to choose whether or not you're a role model, it just happens. I think of four people every day: Mom, Daddy, Granny and Gram. Though I know my family cares about me, I feel like those four are the only ones who have ever really loved me like I need to be.
I am a strong advocate for black love and black relationships. As I get older, I am more committed to challenging black women to change the way we see ourselves, and question the trappings of black patriarchy and machismo. I'm critical of interracial relationships, and have caught hellfire for it - specifically, and exclusively, from black men, which I find interesting. That said, I remain unapologetic for it, and am confused that why promoting the interest of black folk makes me an "angry black woman." I don't hate anyone else, but I look out for me and mine. Somewhere, I'm sure, there is a quote of mine where I say directly that I am not amongst the crowd of folks who use White America's standards as the litmus for black success. The approval and acceptance from and into the mainstream means nothing until we as a people find ourselves worthy in-house. Our liberation is not predicated on the approval of others.
I have an aggressive, spiteful temper when my feelings are hurt. I have made grown men cry. I am learning that doesn't make me the winner, but I'm a big believer in reciprocity. I don't like loose ends; I want finales to be tidy and worthy of applause. Most of the gossip I've heard about myself is untrue, though the years have taught me I'm a fascinating topic of conversation. Life has taught me that what feels good and what is good are not always the same things. I am impatient. I hate this quality about myself the most, but don't have the patience to change it.
I believe in 2nd chances, but have the tendency to give them to the wrong people. I love hard; it hurts on impact.
When I'm writing, I listen to The Blueprint. When I'm cleaning the house on Sundays I listen to all things Michael Jackson. I am a cynic who is easily excited. My 1st concert was the "janet." tour in 3rd grade. That was the same year I educated my peers in afterschool about condoms, after a conversation about Left Eye's eye patch. I went to Catholic school. This did not go over well.
I have a wonderful swath of friends. They are my life support. I respect each of them so much. Rarely, do I find people my own age admirable. I'm blessed to know them. I'm better for them.
I've done lots of volunteer work on HIV/AIDS awareness/education. I've had a family member die of the disease. It's a personal practice to get tested annually, and once more if I have a new partner. I believe that HIV/AIDS should be the cause of today's black youth. My passion for AIDS activism is directly to my support of the black family. I fear it could further our demise.
I have a peculiar compassion towards the homeless. Any time I see a homeless older black man, I give what I have. I've never known my grandfathers, but I always feel like they look like we could be related. When I was 6, my Granny gave $5 to a blind, wheelchair-bound, bald, dark, smooth-skinned elder black man downtown on the way to the PSFS. She put the bill into his cup. They exchanged their "God bless you"s. She kissed his forehead. It changed my life.
In my 2nd life, when my pen runs out of ink, I'd like to do create a center for the homeless who have been effected by AIDS. It will happen one day.
I have been sexually assaulted once. It was instant, public, and the club lighting and booming bass made it seem like a hallucination. I followed friends we walked from one room to another, I was the last in the line. A large man steps in front of me, blocks the doorway, and sticks his hand up my skirt, holding my right side with his heavy left arm. He smiles. I push him and run. My yells were lost in the night's soundtrack.
I judge people based on their text messages. I know it's wrong. I hate excessive alphanumeric wording. I also hate when words are dumbed down (ex. "u @ da crib?"). I believe in the power and magnetism of language. It offends me when words are mutilated.
It freaks me out how much other people like my writing. I'm incredibly humbled by it. I revisit letters/notes/comments/edits when I have moments of self-doubt. My entire life I felt like I was looking for a talent. (Computer) keys open doors.
When I was a kid, my dad was my best friend. He taught me everything I know. I have his face. If I could meet any dead person, I'd love to have an hour with my father's mother. She died about 30 years ago, and as a kid, I'd always ask my dad if he thought she'd like me. To this day, his voice softens when we talk about her. "Man, I miss my mom, man," he'll say, then sigh. Sometimes during Christmas, a tear hangs at the edge of his bottom lid.
I'm here. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.
*Ever spit verbatim every insult someone's ever hurled at you? You try to act collected and unaffected, then all the sudden you're re-enraged? Yeah...it means you're not over it. Once you start to forget sequence, it's lost importance and power.
