She was an exquisite kind of fine. The kind of beautiful that makes you look and never break your stare. You wouldn’t care who was watching. But it wasn’t her features that grabbed my attention as I stared at her across the overfilled train. It was the small gold hamsa that hung daintily from her wrist. It initiated our conversation. And me asking for her accompaniment to my favorite restaurant in the West Village on 8^th Ave. And her saying yes while she blushed beneath her perfectly applied make up. Mac. I could tell. It ended with me asking for her number, and her writing the combination of digits on a piece of bright yellow, unlined paper with a baby pink pen in blue ink. She purposely held my hand a little longer than she needed to. I didn’t mind at all.

After our fated encounter, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was it. Everything that I felt like I was missing. And not because I had some repressed fantasy to be with someone that was just like me. Not because I was bi-curious and was using this as an opportunity to find out how it really was to be with one of the same. I had been with many like me before, and many different than me as well. But she had a shyness that rendered her seemingly defenseless. And a ferocity that threatened to swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful.

And consume me she did. After our date to the dimly lit restaurant in the city. After the movie in Queens. After shopping and dinner in Long Island and late night personal sessions in Brooklyn. Those were my favorite. Her always wearing her Hello Kitty boy shorts. Her perfect mix of innocence and enticement. The epitome of her. The embodiment of everything that was so necessary for me during that time and in that space.

But as much as I loved my one in the same, I was that much ashamed of her. Not wanting her to hold my hand in public. Failing to reciprocate her perfectly placed, affectionate kisses in front of our friends. They all were aware. But I was too reluctant to demonstrate what they already knew. I was not her same lover, her same friend, her same partner when her four walls weren’t surrounding us. I cowered in fear when we weren’t protected by the privacy of closed doors and pulled blinds.

Eventually she grew tired of me. Her exceptional kind of fine turned into something I didn’t know how to handle. Into ignored phone calls. Into being stood up. Into boring days and excruciatingly lonely nights. Into a feeling I didn’t think could come from one of the same. Feelings I had reserved for those that were different. But relationships are not so different when the two people involved share the same softness. The same desires. The same vulnerabilities. The same hopes that it wouldn’t end as it always did this time.

She needed me to be different. She needed something constant. Something invariable. A person that was unchanging when she woke up cuddled against them in the morning and when she fell asleep in their arms at night. That would prove to her that not everyone was out to cause her anguish. She needed confirmation. The exception. Her salvation. But I disappointed her. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Because when she needed me to be different, I was more of the same. 

I don’t know why I agreed to meet her in this place. The uneasy corner of Getting Over Her For Good and Trying To Make This Shit Work Again. She conned me into coming when she told me she needed to talk. Just as friends. She needed to vent. And I was the first person to come to her mind. Not her girlfriends. Not that dude she had just broken up with because they couldn’t iron out their kinks. But me. I pretended she was telling the truth about this being a friendly reunion. The love for her that still lived behind my conscious thoughts hoped it would be something more.

I reached the coordinates in space and time that she had given me. Not a tangible place that you can feel and touch, just a point in the universe where both of our beings wanted what they wanted. And at that moment, it was critical that we be with each other. Her body was so far away, but I could still see her in my mind’s eye. She was smiling shyly at me in my imagination, hoping I would make the first move so that time would revert back to when we were together. Before she lost her damn mind. She wanted to take a trip back to our favorite place. Where it was quiet. Where we didn’t have to utter a single word to communicate. Where I gave her the truest, purest form of me.

But she hadn’t known what to do with my vulnerability. It had been fragile and needed to be handled with care. I had given it all to her, and ultimately, had to take it all back. Or at least what was left of it before she destroyed all of its magnificence. That’s the thing about beautiful emotions. They’re so precious, so incredible, you never want to let them go. You want to keep them pressed against the softest parts of you forever. But she didn’t deserve any of it. She wasn’t worthy of my sensitivity.

But I damn sure wanted to bestow the honor upon her once again. I wanted to start over. I wanted us to hit replay and rewrite the parts where she fucked it all up. Make her choose differently. Demand that she see that everything she was looking for in these shallow ass niggas she was using to fill that emptiness was already in me. I wanted to hear her voice again and be hypnotized by her Siren Song. Remind me of the times that she made me feel ecstasy despite the crumbling walls of hell all around us. Take me to before I knew that she was the devil I was running from.

I still wanted to save her from herself. I wanted to run behind her and tell her that she was flawless just as she was. She didn’t need to run away from her insecurities. Her fears no longer needed to cripple her. She was perfect. She still is already perfect. There was no need to destroy everything she touched just because she herself was broken. I wanted nothing more than to fix her. I wanted to take her bruised existence and nurse it back to health. She was worth more than the Rolex I displayed on my wrist. She was worth more than one hundred lifetimes. She was worth more than I could ever offer her. We just needed one eternity together.

I guess that’s why I agreed to meet her at the corner of I Shouldn’t Be Here and I’ll Never Fucking Leave Your Side. Because no matter what direction we take, we would always end up here. Staring at each despite the limitations of time and space. Aware of the fact that we should never try to awaken the sleeping dragon that was once us. But pathetically unable to fight the feeling that this is where we both belonged. There was no place I’d rather be than on the corner of I’m Leaving You Alone and You’ll Always Be My Baby with her.

I was not searching for you when I put on my black maxi, fitted around my waist, gold collar around the neckline. I simply adored how it glittered in the sunlight. I loved how the detailing glowed perfectly against my melanin kissed skin.

I was not thinking about you when I put on my favorite diamond ear rings and pulled my hair into an immaculate school teacher bun. I just thought a lady only lets her husband see her with her hair down. It should be something reserved exclusively for him. The rest of humanity is only worthy of hair pulled up, tucked away, and pinned to perfection. Call me old fashioned.

I couldn’t have cared less about you when I made up my mind to wear my favorite pair of black Steve Madden wedges, gold buckles shining on the sides. I let my femininity devour me as I slipped my perfectly pedicured feet into that beautifully crafted shoe. I was just taking a moment to appreciate how amazing it felt to truly be all dolled up.

I had others on my mind when I set out to run my errands, clearly over dressed and underestimated. The silly little play things that engaged in the cat calling and hand grabbing as I walked past were simply not aware that I could rip their throats out without ever laying a hand on their pretty little heads. I was just sophisticated like that. I didn’t care about your existence because I was too wrapped up in being admired. Being coveted. Being wanted.

I, in my ignorance and self-centered unawareness, did not notice that my forever had been watching me, studying my arrogant gait. As I pretended to be consumed with the nothingness around me, I was oblivious to the fact that you were following me with the most sacred places of your heart. And the most wicked places of your imagination. I did not even deem you worthy enough for my glance. Your dirt stained hands, your oil filled shirt. Your thick, sweaty brown. My mysticism was too great for you. You were not even worthy of my gaze.

It’s funny how sometimes to find exactly what we’re looking for, we simply have to take our eyes off the ground and look up. And that I did. And there you were. And suddenly, someone that I had not even thought to acknowledge, a person that was invisible for all the moments that we had been standing in that place together, a person that longed for me even though I did not care who they were in this lifetime or who they will be in the next, this person had suddenly become the most important person in my entire life.

And he’s still here. Adoring me. Kissing me. Making me laugh. Filling me with the best parts of him and taking away the worst parts of me. He’s still here loving my pretty dresses and heels too high for me to walk it. My made up face and my perfectly manicured nails. He’s still here adulating me. Especially when I’m all dolled up. What a wonderful man. 

"We are the generation of / Not Being In Love /  And Not Being Together"

Umm....hello? Can anything truer every be spoken? Okay, I'm sure that it can, but this statement here is awesome. And let me be clear, 99.89% of the time, I cannot stand Drake and his whiney voice. But I felt him on this. It's like pulling teeth to get someone to claim you exclusively as their boyfriend or girlfriend. We use phrases like "oh we're just talking"  or "she's my friend" or that God awful phrase T-Pain popularized, the "shawty". It's clear that something is going on between you and whoever you are seeking to get romantically involved with, but the titles are absent, along with the expectation that the person remain faithful to you and practice all the behaviors someone courting you and seeking to enter an "adult" relationship with you should engage in. Let me simplify. They can get all the perks of you being their main squeeze without having to actually work for it.

All over Instagram and Facebook, we see people who practice these behaviors. But why? You know I have a theory. We imitate what we see and what we are surrounded by. Think about this. Aside from celebrities, how many Black people do you know that are married and are not separated or divorced? Now I challenge you to get to ten. One for each finger. Can you? If you can, awesome!! Leave a comment below and tell us about those marriages. If you cannot, you are not alone. I can count my dad's marriage, my mom's marriage (before her husband passed away), my fiancé's parents, two of his sisters, his brother, my old boss, and one other lady whom I adore. I got to eight. But half of my eight are people who are part of someone elses family. So you see my point? How are we supposed to get accurate examples of Black Love and marriage when so few real examples exist around us?

Another pit fall is the idea that Black women and men have unique issues standing in their way that inhibit them from practicing traditional marriage as we know it. This article on Centric raises the issue of whether Black marriages are destined for failure and also asks some great questions. One of them being: are Black women too picky? Now a while back, I did a blog post on Black women and their sometimes unrealistic expectations in regards to the Man List. You can check it out here. But I don't think Black women are too picky when it comes to things like wanting a man that can provide for and support her, wanting a man that is honest and doesn't play games, and wanting a man that is going to stick around. These are all things that go into a stable relationship. No one wants to be constantly guessing where they stand with someone they love and care about. And if you have these expectations, there is nothing wrong with you. Keep on pushing honey!

The Centric article also raised the question on whether or not Black men are able to be faithful. This is a can of worms that I will open in another blog post. But it all depends on what you mean by faithful. Do you want him to be with you and only you? And in what regards? Sexually? Mentally? Can a man still be completely faithful to you if he has kids outside of your relationship? Because he has to take into account your feelings, the children's feelings, and the feelings of the baby mother? These are all great questions. And honestly, before you can assess whether a man can be faithful to you, you have to first define what faithful is and what you're willing to accept. The short answer to this question is, yes. Black men can be faithful, no matter who they are. But they will only be faithful to a woman who they deem is worthy, and who makes it clear that this is her expectation. Period.

Let me say this. It is okay to fall in love. The world will not end. It's also okay to have your heart broken. And there's no shame in having your heart broken more than once. The purpose of dating is to see what's out there, find out who and what you like, and go from there. Every relationship is not going to work out. That's why there are so many songs about breaking up, moving on, and finding someone new. It's just the chance that we take when we put ourselves out there. Just like anything new, there's a chance you may fail. Your partner may cheat on you, they may lie to you, they may not live up to your expectations. And you know what you do? You move on and find someone else. There is absolutely no shame in that. You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your price is an old cliché for a reason. There's some truth to it.

And in regards to marriage. It's not for everyone. But even if we don't elect to get married, we have to do a better job at showing our children loving, stable relationships. Why? Read this article on fatherless Black girls their difficulty learning how to love. If you decide that you want to just be physical with people, that's perfectly acceptable. But that doesn't mean that your children need to know every man that comes through your home. And that also doesn't mean that you have to air your dirty laundry for all to see. And if you're having some issues deciding whether the feelings toward your person of interest are Love or Lust, you can read this article to gain some clarity. We are surrounded by plenty of images of booty calls and one night stand. Once we reach that point in our lives where we are ready to settle down and make a home, we must make sure that we provide an alternative to the negative media images about Black families and Black homes so the next generation can see that falling in (Black) love is possible, and it most certainly can work.

Side Note 1: Slut shaming in the Black community is a major contributor to why so many Black women cannot find a man to settle down with. If you don't know what slut shaming is, Wikipedia offers a nice definition here. Slut shaming put in more popular terms is "you can't turn a ho into a housewife". Now I'm here to tell you that statement is so very false. And it's so very sexist. Everyone has a past. We all do wild and crazy things. The difference is that when a man does it and it is publicized, it doesn't hurt his chances of  going out and finding a wife. When a woman does it, no man wants to "wife the ho". To all you Ladies out there doing in like a brother, do you. You will find someone who doesn't care about your past. If you encounter a partner that isn't secure enough in himself to accept the fact that you had a life before him that you don't have to answer for, he's just not the guy for you, no matter how awesome he may be. You don't have to feel guilty about anything you've done. And that's a fact jack. Need some reassurance? Watch the Facebook video below.

 "We Black men have a hard enough time in our own struggle for justice, and already have enough enemies as it is, to make the drastic mistake of attacking each other and adding more weight to an already unbearable load." - Malcolm X

"Blacks ought to help themselves more and stop crying about what they don't get. It's true they don't get much, but stop crying about it and go on and get more." - John Hope Franklin 

Let me start this post by saying I am GUILTY ya'll. Everything that I am about to expose, I am guilty of. Don't judge me.

So the last week or the week before, I can't remember when, I was listening to Roland Martin on The Tom Joyner Morning Show. And Roland usually has some good stuff to say and he's very well spoken so I listened. Well, this particular morning, he was talking about Black people feeling as though anything Black is not as valuable or "less than" anything that is white. You can listen to the full segment here.  Now usually, I can say that when segments like this come on, I can get on my high horse and say that they're not talking to me. I'm so conscious. I'm so pro Black and Black Power and all this and that. But I felt like this morning he was talking directly to me. And I almost passed out and died.

So the gist of the segment was basically talking about how Black people don't feel like Black TV shows, Black awards, Black channels, or anything that is exclusively Black is as good as anything that is exclusively white. Now the history major in me thinks this is just one of the pit falls of desegregation. During Jim Crow, Black people had no choice but to have their own everything. Hospitals. Schools. Clubs. Bars. Housing communities. We were forced to be separate so we had to have our own way to survive. But once Jim Crow came crumbling down and everything had to be integrated, Blacks inherently thought White was better because they had been taught this for so long. So naturally, they would seek out white establishments and the like because they had been forbidden from them. Curiosity surely does kill the cat. But I digress.

Now like I said ya'll, I'm guilty of this. I do not like Black Clubs, apart from this cozy little lounge outside of Atlanta that I just fell in love with. And when I tell you this place is in the hood. it's in the HOOD!! I do not like patronizing stores in Black "urban" neighborhoods. The service is usually subpar and the products grossly overpriced. Not because they staff is not capable or the products they provide are somehow of better quality (it's actually the opposite). But because they were not trained correctly and the standard of service is not upheld. I don't shop in "Black Malls" because I would like to purchase something besides sneakers, tight jeans, weave, Shea Butter, and/or Victoria Secret Perfume. And living in Black neighborhoods? You can forget that. And now because of the crime. But because of the environment. It's so negative, dreary, and hopeless. Your mind just gets dragged down to the pits of a dark place. I've lived in a place like that before. And I certainly don't want to go back.

I had a particular Vendetta against BET. Boy, I used to skip over BET, TV One, and Centric like they didn't even exist. I wanted nothing to do with that. I used to say Black TV was ghetto TV and I didn't live in the ghetto anymore. Until I was forced to watch Being Mary Jane by one of my blog editors. I was hooked from the first episode. A successful Black woman with a tangled up love life (Gabby played the side piece as usual....come on now!), a messed up family, and work struggles? And then dealing with issues like obesity, motherhood, race relations, your own biological clock, homosexuality, and uplifting youth? You couldn't pull me away from that TV if you tried. Then I started seeing the commercials for the other shows on BET. The nightly news. The different mini serious and forums they had when they weren't playing the booty shaking videos I hated so much. I gave them another chance and I must say that I'm impressed. Most of the time.

Ironically, I didn't get what some people would call "bourgeois" until I went away to college and got out of Brooklyn. I never saw a problem with dirty subway trains. It gave the city character. I watched 106 & Park every day after school. I wore Jordans, Nikes, tight jeans, pulled my belt too tight around my waist, and tucked my too small shirt into my pants. I loved what is now characterized as "urban life." So who am I now to think that anyone living that life is less than or not as valuable? Hell, had I not been fortunate enough to have a mother who told me I can do something with myself, I would be there too. It makes no sense that I wear turbans 89% of the time, wear an ankh in my ears and nose, exude Black Power and Black Consciousness and then hate the very people I claim that I represent. Huh? Reality check.

In case you haven't realized, Black life has it's own grade of class and sophistication. Check out the new BET website. Listen to Tom Joyner one day out of the week during your morning commute. Check out my favorite Black news source, Black America Web. Of course they still have their ratchet moments. But nothing like World Star Hip Hop. And I am not linking that website here. You can look that up on your own. I love Unsung on TV One. The stories are pretty much the same. Someone gets famous. Someone rich rips them off. Drugs. Attempt at a come back. Death. But it's nice to see Black faces get recognition for things most of us didn't even know they accomplished. It gives us a platform to tell our stories outside of church and around the Sunday dinner table.

I'm all over the place. Let me get to the point at hand. Now Roland touched on a good point. Without Black support, most entertainers would not be where they are. Black or white. You have to have the support of the poor and working class Blacks in order to get somewhere. Think about Brother Malcolm and Dr. King. They would have gotten nowhere without the support of the masses. Strength is in numbers. And there are a lot of Black and Brown people in America and around the world. Imagine what all those people could do if we decided to join forces and start making some demands. Mother Mary help whoever we're standing against.

Okay, let's wrap this puppy up. I'm still guilty of not shopping in Black neighborhoods. The pickings are scarce and like I said, the service is usually mediocre at best. But I am way more open about Black TV, Black social clubs and especially Black award shows. I am way more open to supporting Black Businesses because if we don't support each other who will? I watch the NAACP awards and think about the heritage and history of the organization and cannot bring myself to think of those awards as less than an Oscar or a Grammy. It's a recognition. From your peers. And that's huge for Black entertainers. It may not flood your Facebook timeline or be trending on Twitter, but it's for us. It's our way of saying to our entertainers, our youth, and the entire world that Black people matter, we are important, and we can hold our own. Take that.

Dear November. I can see you from where I am. Young. Eager. Ready to challenge a system designed to make you work your ass off for an unachievable dream. Like pedaling a bike as hard and as fast as you can and realizing that you’re turning the wheels that will make someone else move forward. But still work hard November. But there is no need to be the best. Greatness has no place in this society. For the greatest achieve nothing but recognition and praises. Two things that do not quell a starving belly or provide warmth when the cold threatens to take you out. Be smart. Know how to play the game. For the greats have to carry the things that the mediocre leave behind. And trust me November, it is too great a burden to bear.

November, do not rush and aspire toward Love. For what you are looking for is companionship to ease the loneliness. You are looking for a feel good to negate the feel bads that you are afflicted with every day. You are not looking for the commitment from each and every man or woman you encounter. You are looking to feel wanted. Desirable. Sexy. Coveted. You want someone to crave you as much as you do them. You want to know that the most unattainable person in The Universe can show some interest in you. And trust me. They will. But don’t you dare let them drag you down to hell with them.

Dear November. You do not need a degree from a place that seeks to chain you with debt and restrictions to validate you. You are good enough already. You came perfectly out of the womb. You were already valuable. Everything to make you great already lives in you. It is up to you to sow the seeds and reap the harvest. You are Greatness Personified.

Dear November. You do not need that man. You never did. Any man that does not make you feel higher than your best self is not for you. You are not his Savior. He is not your Saint. It is okay to leave people broken. We cannot mend every fragmented piece. For we cannot break ourselves in our selfless attempt to fix others. It is okay to take back your sanity. You owe that man nothing but a kiss on his forehead and genuine well wishes. Baby or not.

Dear November. It is okay to chase Love. He is waiting for you to claim him. You will spend your entire life not knowing it in its purest, kindest form. Running from it. Proudly proclaiming that you don’t need it. But it will come for you. And when it does, innocent and trusting, you will distort it beyond recognition. You will beat it and punish it until it becomes ugly and undesirable. And you will realize that it was you that made it this way.

Dear November. It is okay to be you. The real you. The untouchable, unreachable you. Discriminate on who you let in. Not everyone’s intentions are good. They are not all worthy of your time.

November, you are not uppity for wanting something more for yourself. You are not anal because you plan for a future as if it will come in the morning with the rising sun. Because guess what? It will.

Dig deeper. Save money to leave those who will need to survive after you have gone. Forgive easily. Forget nothing. Live every day as if tomorrow will never come. Because you know what November? One day tomorrow will be an entire lifetime away. My dear November.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane. Remember my tiny studio apartment? Cobalt blue walls with hand painted vines reaching toward the ceiling. You laid me flat out on the firmness of my cheaply made Walmart futon and covered my eyes with the Blackness of my silk scarf. Remember running ice over my bare skin? Then syrup? Then your warm pink tongue? How did it feel to taste the very best of heaven on your virgin taste buds?

Now let’s make a left on Nostalgia Avenue. All my love. My peace and happiness. I want to give it to….. You. You sang in the shower and I hummed along. Waiting for you to step out and reveal the greatness that dwelled within you. Body glistening. Branded chocolate skin. You were glowing even though the room was nearly dark. You made love to me on that cold bathroom floor. I dug my fingers deep into that sun-kissed skin. Licked those Greek Letters on your chiseled chest. Tasted the stories that you would forever keep from me. Stories that turned into dark secrets. Secrets that ripped us apart. But I can still taste the majesty of that burn. Still hearing you pledging that allegiance in my small shower.

Make a right on Reminiscent Road. A long hallway. Blue stars and men playing football. Plush couches and countless pictures of children that weren’t yours. I danced for you as you sat in that brown chair. In my purple dress. And my orange heels that you loved. We didn’t make love. You pleasured my body so well no words I put on this page could do you justice. I ain’t never felt nothing like that before. And I still haven’t to this very day.

Memories. Take me back to the places I want to visit repeatedly but can no longer go. Carry me through the recesses of the deepest parts of my mind and let me live there. Let me travel through those alleyways and side streets to the destinations that are forbidden to me outside of my psyche.  

I’m running out of gas.

Recollection Boulevard. And I’ve hit a dead end. Nowhere to go from here. No longer able to remember the small details and the little touches that once tied me to the things I desperately want to remember. Forced to turn around and make my way back through the mish mosh of happenings and occurrences. For some reason I cannot find my way through. I’m stuck on Memory Lane. And left with all the things that live there. Pain. Anger. Regret. Hurt. Love. Hope. Fear. Love. You. It’s all so foreign. But so pleasantly familiar. I can make a home on Memory Lane. Live here forever.

But I won’t. This place, filled with all of the stickiness and filth of emotions, is a place you visit. Not a place of permanence. It’s a place I must come to when I need a vacation. But right now. In this perfect piece of space and time, with this combination of this new you and this old I, I think I have to leave Memory Lane and find a new place to call home.