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.

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.

I just had to sneak away. Parked across the street from your home, nothing but some leggings and a fitted white t-shirt on. Even forgot the shoes. Oh well.

I was waiting for you. Waiting for the silhouette of your car to come into view. Waiting for the fury of you to come into my eyesight. And finally you did.

I was happy to see you were alone. By yourself when you parked your own car. Solitary when walked the pathway to your steps. And I followed you the entire way. Bare feet and all. I pushed you in as you opened the door. You first reaction was to reach out and swing. I caught that arm and forced you against your bare wall. No need for talking. I fiddled with your silver belt buckle. Not caring that there were no greetings shared. Not concerned that my husband was at home asleep. Not giving two damns that your wife was on her way home.

I was nearly set ablaze when your lips covered mine. I couldn’t stop the waterfall from flowing when you pulled my hair and nibbled at my neck. I couldn’t control myself when your hand found all that they were looking for inside those cheap, black leggings. My knees buckled when you gave me what I had come for from inside your overpriced jeans. I missed your passion. I missed the eruption that was set off in the deepest depth of my being when you lifted me up and wrapped my legs around your head. I’d gladly burn in hell forever for this little piece of heaven. For a little slice of you. For this small sample of Love. Of passion. Of this. And I know that despite your weak protests uttered between fiery kisses, you would have gladly gone through hell to be with me. Too bad hell had come in the form of wedding rings and empty promises.

But while we shared this hour of our nirvana, these moments of belonging totally and completely to each other, swimming deep in this ocean of sin, I knew that there must have been a God. Because he made you just for me. And as we dressed again, still not uttering a sound, I knew that The Universe was going to make a way to bring us together again.

Yet as I sat in my car and watched her walk up your stone steps, wedding ring gleaming even in the dark, I also knew that life was never that simple. That when you greeted her at the door, wrapped your arms around her waist, and kissed her like you should only kiss me, I accepted that Heaven was on fire and God was no more. I had to keep these fantasies in my head. Stop hoping for things that would never come.

So with my white tee and my black leggings, I tucked my imagination back into the box from which it came and vowed to leave you alone. No more late night visits. No more fictional adultery. No more butterflies and day dreams. It just had to accept what was there. It’s going to be a long lifetime without you.

I am not flawless. You will not ogle me as you scroll down Instagram while laying on the couch with your hands in your pants. I will not wear spandex shorts and capture the roundness of my behind for you to see. There shall be no topless photos. My chest is a piece of art to be displayed. I will not color my lips with overpriced lipsticks and blow kisses into my smart phone camera. You will not pretend that those kisses are meant for you.

I will not post pictures in a bikini. There shall be no camel toe in too small sweat pants or cheap black leggings. I will not load my face with tons of make up to look like her. Or her. Or her. Straight weaves and long tresses are just not my thing. I’m a tapered afro kind of girl.

I do not have a flat stomach. I will no longer kill myself trying to get one. I do not have a tiny waist. Instead I have a roll and stretch marks where my slim figure used to reside. My breasts do not look perfect all the time. I have bad hair days. I do not shave sometimes. My nails go unpolished and unmanicured a very large majority of my life. My teeth are uneven. I simply do not care. Perfection is not my goal.

But here is that I am. I am fucking sexy. I am soft as you run your hands over bare my skin in bed. I am a wonderful cook. Making you breakfast after a night of putting in that work. I am regal. Above the pettiness of comparisons and put downs. I’m into compliments and self esteem. Believe that. I am modest. Although I know how to be a dirty girl when warranted, my goods are not for all to see. I’ll leave that to your imagination. I am mysterious. Under each layer after silky sweet layer you’ll find a new part of me. A new depth. A new person to get to know. You will never entertain boredom. I am me. What you see is what you get. Thick eyebrows. No relaxer. Little make up, if any. Jeans and a t-shirt. Chucks. Heels on special occasions. Like when you come home from a late night at work and looking for a little you and me time. I like those nights.

I am not perfect. I am transparent. What you see is that you get. I am not the finest wine. I am the sweetest on the tongue. I am not immaculate. But I am elegant. Graceful. Timeless. I am not flawless. I’m better. I’m simple. I’m real. I’m me.

So in case you didn't know, America is in a mini uprising. I can't call it a full fledged protest/revolution yet because of the lack of leadership. Citizens are protesting. Black America and it's supporters are angry, but cannot clearly and assertively articulate what specifically we want. Michael Brown's parents are using their voices to support a bill that would require all police officers to wear cameras on their uniforms while on duty. New York City, home of the Eric Garner tragedy that was caught on video (I mean seriously, how much more proof do you need?), is proposing the same thing. In case you've been living under a rock, get caught up about Michael Brown here and Eric Garner here. But where is the real action? The real leadership? Marching is great. We have the attention of White America and people all around the world. So what are we going to do with it?
Let me first say, I am proud of all of you that are out there fighting. The protests at the University of Pennsylvania. The marches in New York. Bringing traffic to a hault in DC. The organized protests in Chicago. John Legend and his wife, Chrissy Teigen, have shown their support by paying for food trucks to feed the protesters (allegedly). The citizens of Ferguson have voiced their concerns and frustration different ways. Some by peacefully protesting. Some by looting and burning down buildings. I have been paying attention. Reading. Watching videos. Absorbing everything since CNN announced that the decision had been made on whether or not to indict Mike Brown's killer. I waited to write this post because I wanted to see how many of you would still care. How many were still invested. How many of you are really into this and not just trying to keep up with what's going on on social media. 
Of course, the family of Mike Brown has asked us to protest peacefully. And for the most part, that is what is going on. But the night that Officer Darren Wilson was not charged with the crime of killing Michael Brown, or any charges at all, and was allowed to walk free and clear, the city of Ferguson Missouri was a royal mess. Now let me make this clear, I'm all for looting and burning shit down. Not because I believe in destroying property and causing chaos. Those that know me can attest to the fact that I need everything to be organized. But because I desperately hate big business and people who set up shop in Black Neighborhoods and over charge us for goods that are necessary for us to live. Milk. Water. Pampers. Food. Gas. The basics.
And two, White America is quick to judge us for burning down business and running out of stores with TV's and liquor bottles, calling us savage and criminals. But was it not them who burned down Black Churches? Black Schools? Did they not successfully burn down the Black Wall Street? Did they not lynch and burn Black men, women, and children in a riot like fashion? Are they not stealing from Blacks every day by nickel and diming us for things like internet, cable, over priced smart phones, and other materialisitc goods? Do they not profit from our ignorance and need for more? So please do not tell a people who have fought to get what they have and where they are how they should react to hundreds of years of struggle and fighting. It's a set back. People are mad. Let them grieve.*
In case you haven't picked up on this yet, yes, I am emotionally attached. Not because I have a son. Not because I am engaged to a man that looks like a thug 98% of the time he walks out the door (but he's as sweet as candy). Not because I'm some radical, revolutionary hippie that likes to rant (ahem). But because I know what this moment in history means for our future. We hashtag #blacklivesmatter, but do you really understand what that means? Let me explain it to you. The purpose of the protests, the riots, the global movement, is to make it clear that it is not okay to kill Black People, whether they be men, women, children, teenagers, WHOEVER, and get away with it. It is not okay to gun us down in the street and get away with it. We will not taking that sitting down. Our lives matter. We love our children, our spouses, our nieces, nephews, aunts, cousins, etc. and we will not sit by while they are killed by anyone, not just Law Enforcement. Think about that next time you're trying to be cool with the hash tags. Is that what you stand for?
Now, the true weight of the situation didn't hit me until I saw that trending topic on Twitter. #crimingwhilewhite That mess pissed me off to no end! White people blatantly offering up altercations with the cops that they got away with. And will continue to get away with. Some things Blacks would be jailed for. But that was the point. To start the conversation. To make it clear that there is a racial problem in America and Blacks got the short end of the stick. If you have a Twitter account, I strongly suggest you go on there and read some of the things that people wrote. It's a doozy.
So let me wrap this up here. I think my best friend summed it up so beautifully. Check out what she said:

*Of course I feel for those whose business were burned down that are not part of Corporate America and have worked from the ground up. But like so many innocent people who lose homes, lose businesses, even get caught in the cross fire and lose their lives, they are the exception, not the rule. Those are the people who should be helped. 

Tell me if this sounds familiar. You (or a friend) are dating a guy, and you place no rules or regulations on him. He's a friend with benefits or just a cool guy you hang out with (and happen to have feelings for) and he views you the same way, minus the romantic feelings. You guys go to the movies, but it's not a date. You invite him over for game night, drink, laugh, have a good time, maybe even fornicate a little bit, but there is still no relationship. He sometimes says you're like his "homegirl" or his "little sister". He likes you because you're low maintenance, like to watch football, don't demand to talk about feelings or define your relationship. He doesn't contact you for days at a time but you're always there when he needs you to be. Congratulations. You (or your friend) are officially the chill girl.
Now my issue is not with girls that are genuinely fine with playing this role. Sometimes we have guy friends that are just that, friends. We don't sleep with them. We don't secretly want to be with them. They're just cool. What I do have a problem with is the fakers. The girls that pretend they like sports just to please their crush. The girls that pretend that they don't care about him coming over and getting some and then leaving two hours later. The girls that say they're not like other girls because they don't need to be in a relationship or don't need him to call you his girlfriend. You pretend that the confusing little dance that you and him are doing is just fine although you don't know where you stand or what the future holds. Stop that.
The truth is, this is just another way that we as women try to please men that really aren't worth much of anything. We want to be with them. We want to be in relationships. We want him all to ourselves. But we suppress these feelings and pretend that we're emotionless little robots just so that he'll stay around. But what does that get you? Disappointment. Confusion. Anger. Hurt. You can keep all that too. I don't need any. Thank you. And you have no one to blame but yourself. You made him think you were something that you're not. And don't think he's going to pick up on the signs that you're unhappy or pretending. Men are simple creatures. What you tell them is what they believe. And it gets no deeper than that. Trust me.
Now let's flip this coin here. Say that you actually start talking to a guy and you, GASP!, be yourself?!?! What if when you feel that he's disrespected you or made you feel some type of way, you actually say something? What if after you guys have hung out for a while, you tell him you want something more serious? You actually call him out when he doesn't honor the commitment that you guys made to each other? You let him know that you like to wear heels through the mall? What if you want him to pay for a date and not go dutch? How different would your interactions with this man be? How much happier would you feel when you know what the hell is going on and you don't have to guess and tip toe around his feelings and your own?
Let me warn you. Most guys that are happy to have you as the "chill girl" are not going to like when you start making demands. They're going to high tail it out of there and say that you're too clingy and needy. You'll be characterized as the girl who was trying to tie him down and make him put a ring on it. Be prepared. The men that are not ready for a commitment are going to think you are possessed and avoid you like the plague. And that's fine. At least you know now. Instead of you pretending to be someone you're not to please him and wasting everyone's time anyway. You're not going to die if he stops contacting you.* You might actually start to live a little. You actually have a chance to learn who you are outside of him and use that to attract a man that is ready to take things where you want to take them. Oh happy day!! 
Let me validate you for a second. It's okay to be a girl. It's okay to wear heels and make up for a guy and not be afraid that he's going to think you're high maintenance. It's okay to want to cuddle on the couch while watching a movie. If he's into you, he's going to want to cuddle too. Or not. Maybe he's not a cuddler. But he'll want to be close. It's okay for you to shriek when you see a spider. Being feminine and fitting into the box when it comes to certain things "girly" is okay. It doesn't make you weak or vulnerable. You can be the girliest girl in the world and still kick some ass. You don't have to negate your femininity in order to please a man. Tell him that this is what the package comes with. He can take it or leave it. That simple.
Okay, let's close this puppy out. If you're really a chill girl, go ahead and chill out. But don't pretend to be something you're not. Don't fake the funk when he forgets your birthday or orders food and doesn't get you anything. Your feelings are allowed. Don't believe me? Read it again here. Again, men are simple creatures. How is he supposed to know what you want if you don't tell him, or even worse, if you pretend to be fine with whatever he does. Girl bye. At some point, when you're done playing around and sowing your wild oats, you're going to want to be in a relationship on your own terms. And you should have that right. Just make sure you're you, you don't play those childish games, you make it clear what you want as you go along, and you remain true to you. The only person that can truly keep you in the chill girl zone is you.
*Although you may not die, you may feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest. You will feel like you did everything in the world for this man and he doesn't appreciate you. You will feel like you want to punch him in the chest. You will cry. You may eat excessive amount of chocolate. It's okay. Let it out. And then pick up the pieces and move on. His loss.

I stole her wedding ring. On purpose. From right under her pretty little nose. While she slept, I snuck into her husband’s head and danced his favorite dance. As she worked to tie ends that he wasn’t man enough to make meet, he layed in my bed, buried by blue cotton sheets. I made sure he always had white pillow cases. He said they made him feel like a king. I liked dating royalty.

As she cut chicken and boiled pasta, he snuck away to enjoy my lips in the back of his car. My ass at our favorite gas station. Other parts of me in the Burger King parking lot. I slipped into her home when the lights were out, through hushed phone calls and late night text messages. I was there in the pocket of his size 34 waist dress pants, wearing only his favorite blue and white neck tie. I crept in on their anniversary dinner. Him saying he had to get to work. Something urgent had come up.

That’s when she suspected that someone had invaded her home. She started to smell the perfume on his collared shirts. She started to time his meetings. His golf games. His trips to the grocery store. She waited up for him one night. And asked him about the pink socks in his car that weren’t hers. Confronted him about the smell on his chin. He liked when I sat on his face. Naughty. She yelled that she never wore glitter, but there it was on the crotch of his pants.

And just like that I had slithered into her home and stole her wedding ring. She yanked it off her finger and tossed it at his head. And it was mine. To have and to hold. Until death do us part. Sneaky. Cunning. Clever. I wouldn’t say I was a thief, but I sure did have the ability to steal. Her life. Her sanity. Her peace of mind. I have it all. And she never saw it coming.

Now as I admire her platinum setting diamond ring on my left ring finger, it’s all so bitter sweet. I love this man. I’ve worked hard to make him mine. Plotted. Schemed. Waited patiently as the walls came crumbling down around her perfect like head. I had played my part and came out victorious. There was no better feeling. Until I began to wonder, who would be the bandit to come and make the walls fall in my own castle. When would my burglar come? Who is going to come and steal my wedding ring from me?

"Here is a man who loves me, and I love him, but he doesn't want to marry me. Here I am, a person that doesn't care about marriage, but I'm heartbroken that he doesn't want me as his wife............I should have just left him a long time ago when I saw the signs that he would never marry me." - The Girl Who Played With Men (Mielech)