Pink Sprinkles

Pink Sprinkle #6 

Listen to your favorite love song and dedicate it to yourself. 

My love song is One and Only by Adele. 

This song reveberates through my soul. When I hear sing this song, I imagine its my soul speaking to me (I know, my soul has a voice given by the Gods). 

Reminding me that I am enough. That I can walk the mile with myself. 

When I feel the most scared, and then pull through I think of the words “God only knows why it’s taken me so long to let my doubts go.”

I doubt myself so much. I question my moves. 

I do it less now (thanks to therapy), but I still do it. 

I am currently undergoing a lot of change, and I’ve been scared because there are so many unknowns, and when things are uncertain for me old wounds come to the surface. 

When things become uncertain, I direct criticism toward myself. I pick at old wounds (usually the ones that are fresh, but sometimes I rip at the ones that have scabbed over and are just about healed). 

It’s as if since I’m uncertain about things in my life, I go to the things I know that are certain; my wounds; my imperfections. 

So I pick. I critique. 

I doubt my existence. I doubt if I ever have done anything right. I doubt if I am doing enough. I doubt if I have ever done enough. I doubt if I am worthy of happiness or joy. I doubt if happiness or joy even exist. 

I just doubt. 

“God only knows why it’s taken me so long to let my doubts go... you never know if you never try to forgive your past and simply be mine.”

So as I doubt profusely about my next steps, I am belting out these lyrics. 

Reminding myself that I can forgive past and give me all of me; that I do not have to attack me in my time of fear. But that I can nurture me. 

I sing this song knowing that “it ain’t easy giving up your heart,” but I am so worth giving my heart to myself. I sing this song trusting this time around that I am worth it. 

 You ever caught yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Not their shoe, though.

Yours.

Waiting, anxiously to hear that small thud.

Knowing in the back of your mind,

you’re going to do something to fuck up a good thing.

Because in the past you used to blame others, but now you’re “woke” enough to know its you.

Damn.

You ever just been watching,

Begging yourself to drop old ass habits for new, good ones.

Reminding yourself that happiness is something you deserve and not something to be afraid of.

But you’ve learn to survive with disappointment and chaos

So you meditate with all your might that you don’t go

All Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

And fuck up a good thing.

I used to stare at the other person’s foot.

Thinking it was their shoe

That was going to drop

Examining each of their flaws, hoping to find the reason.

But every time I looked down, I found myself

Barefoot.

Shit.

I did my best to Hyde from Jekyll

Now, I am

Looking to turn new, good habits into ones that are considered old habits.

Begging myself to remember that I am allowed to know joy.

That happiness is not the enemy or the threat.

That I don’t need to Hyde to protect myself.

That I can wear both slippers and take them both off willing

That where I am

With the love I have

The thing that is most perverse about oppression and white supremacy is that it always makes the one oppressed responsible for their oppression and healing. It never lands on the ones who cause the pillage 

As we enter into Day 7 of rebellion of systematic, state sanction violence and transformation of this country, I think about the black lives that have faced and experienced violence.

I think about the black organizers who where putting their lives on the line before this all began, who are doing it now, and who will continue to do so after this moment in history has passed.

I think about how black folks, in the middle of a pandemic with a deadly virus where they are 3x times more likely to contract the virus, would march in the streets because the reality is that black lives will be taken either way. 

I think about the guilt I hear in the voices of myself and friends who question if we are doing enough. Who frightened by the idea that black people’s lives continue to be at risk: during a pandemic or not. 

We are always facing threat and we are always responsible for it. 

White supremacy and systematic oppressive structures in the US always start with the notion that black people are responsible for the pillage that occurs in our lives. 

We feel forced to clean up what’s left the from pillage although we aren’t the ones who caused the  pillaged in the first place. 

We are forced to fix something that we did not break so that we can live. 

It is perverse that black people should feel any guilt at this time for how active they are. 

It is perverse that white people have choice if they feel anything at all. 

It is perverse that while I write hashtags for the names of black men who have been murdered this weekend, I feel at odds for calling out that #BreonnaTaylor and #TonyMcdade have only become slip in hashtags during this time of police abolition. 

Fuck that. This is not a fucking competition. 

It’s fucked up that white supremacy and sexism makes us choose. 

I’m stuck like a dagger on a bulls eye. 

I can’t take my eyes away from the screen. 

I can’t move. 

And even when I do, I feel heavy. 

I tell myself I should stop looking at my feeds (instagram, facebook, twitter). 

But I can’t bring myself to look away. 

Because when I do. I feel empty. 

If I keep looking, at the very least I can find people who agree with me. I feel a spark in my body when I read someone who says “this shit is fucked up!” 

When I look away. When I try to feed my dog. When I just try to walk. Eating is just a task. I feel empty. I feel alone. 

I feel insane. 

Like there’s no way this shit is right. 

There is no way that CNN reported the autopsy came back blaming #GeorgeFloyd for his own death by saying he had “underlying conditions.”

Are our lives that worthless that “underlying conditions” is all they could come up with? 

They didn’t even try. They never try.

 They don’t have to. 

A murdered man was just blame for his own death. 

So I look at the screens. ALL of them. 

Even if means seeing shit I don’t want to see like police officers in NYC brutalizing black people in Brooklyn as they protest for the right to exist. 

I keep staring at the screen(s).

I stare. 

I scroll. 

I read post after post

after post

after post

after post

after post

like 

after like

after like

after like

after like 

after like

about why this shit is FUCKED UP and why

#blacklivesmatter. 

At least I feel then. 

I can’t move. 

I’m stuck at the screen. 

eyes piercing at the fact that a white woman was stabbing black people for looting a Target. 

I can’t move once it sinks into my being that 

white people care more about a Target store than human life. 

This thing feels like a layer of film on my skin. It feels heavy. 

I try to create spurts of joy, but my country, this country won’t let me 

I just want to leave.

But I can’t move away. 

From the screen or the country?

Both. 

I light incense hoping I can cleanse away the fact that my people will be murdered, at no cost to the people who want them dead.

The president said “once the looting starts, the shooting starts.”

Money over matter. 

Human matter. 

It’s heavy. 

I’ve read we are going through a reckoning.

I just feel wrecked. 

It’s 8:16pm. 

Central Park rings in my head.  

Central Park. 

Central Park. 

Central Park. 

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

The nasty taste in my mouth is familiar

It’s a taste that lingers and even the sweetest of bakes won’t erase it. 

It was 1989, 5 black and brown youth (they were not men) were charged for an assault of a white woman they did not commit. 

Kevin Richardson, 14, Raymond Santana, 14, Antron McCray, 15, Yusef Salaam, 15, and 16-year-old Korey Wise. 

They lost their youth, precious memories, time with family and friends.

“I’m going to call the police and tell them you are an African American man threatening me.”

Central Park. 

Not 1989. 

2020. 

A white woman stands in front of Christian Cooper, a black man, and threatens his life with a call to the police because he asked her to put her dog on the lease. 

The black community exhales ever so slightly that he is alive, that there is a video, but the exhale last but a minute as the questions pour inward and outward. 

What would have happen if the police showed up? Would another black man’s life had been taken to serve years in jail for a falsely accused assault? Would he had made it jail or place in a grave?

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

We can’t even go to Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Would he had been murdered in Central Park?

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Would he had gone to jail for being at Central Park?

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

Central Park

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter 

in

Central Park

#blacklivesmatter 

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

always

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

#blacklivesmatter

Our tears are the water that submerges our loss (loved) ones and sends them to the other side. 

Water. 

We hope our tears cleanse the bodies of our fallen and melt our sorrows. 

Have you ever heard a mother wail after she has lossed her child. That is our collective cry. 

Wailing 

Wading

in the

Water. 

Our tears can feel suffocating if we never get chance to stop crying. We never get a chance to stop crying. When we will get a chance to stop crying?

Your fake tears are suffocating us. 

Water.

The joke is black people can’t swim, but all we know is water. Drowning in the depths of our sorrow. All we know are tear drops. We tattoo them on our faces and in our hears because we never get a chance to stop grieving. Permanent.

Water. 

I thought my body was dried up. I thought I had no more tears to cry after Trayvon. I meant Tamir. My bad, Mike. Oops no, Philando. No, no I mean Eric. I mean Rekiya. Wait shit no, Laquan. 

I lost track of what I was saying. That sometimes happens under water. I thought I was dried up. 

But here I am in 2020 submerged yet again, preparing to teach another generation how to survive, in

“My heart feels overwhelmed.” “My heart feels so full.

I’ve said these two words more in the last two weeks than I have in the 29-years that I’ve been alive. 

I’ve baked with my students online. I watch my Goddaughter become a preteen. I participated in a panel, a wedding, and a graduation ceremony of students I worked with 7-years ago all in one night. 

My heart feels overwhelmed. 

This pandemic by no means has been easy. Most days I feel anxious. Some days I feel annoyed. Many days I feel like I’m escaping reality with social media. 

One thing I can say though is that this situation as caused me to slow down. A LOT. 

It has caused me to reflect on what’s important. I can admit with regret that I’ve missed the special moments mention above of people I love dearly in previous years. 

I prioritized shit that wasn’t nearly as important as celebrating the people who brought joy to my heart, who I nurtured, and has nurtured me.

Witnessing these special moments virtually lets me know that I will never again take these moments for granted in person. 

My heart is overwhelmed because I can take it in, like fully experience the moments. 

Embrace the shit the sprinkles sit on. 

So Venus is in retrograde. My Venus is in Leo which means my love language is adoration, and I am feeling it. And I bet the question is what the hell does a retrograde in Venus have to do with in embracing your shit. 

A LOT!

I’ve always felt like my Venus was in retrograde. A perpetual retrograde because as much I love adoration and songs of praise,

I’ve always backed away from it because I thought it was wrong. That I wasn’t good enough to share what was inside of me. 

As long as I can remember (let’s say 5), I wanted to be in the spotlight. (Meet Baby Parker below). I used to sing and dance on the subways after 116 st (this was before Harlem was gentrified) when most people got off the train. I mean full show tune, kicking legs in the air, swinging arms, singing loud and proud. One time someone offered my mom some cash. Told her I was talented.

I used to beg my mom to call her friend who was a talent agent, because I wanted to perform. Yes, I wished I was Oscar Meyer Weiner kid. But as soon as I got in front her, I sunk deep into myself and wouldn’t say a word. For years, she begged my mom to sign me for commercials, but I refused, although deep down it was what I really wanted.

To be noticed. To perform.

That feeling never went away. This constant battle between wanting to be noticed and feeling like it was wrong still exists today.

I’ve felt so much anxiety being on social media. It’s a popularity contest and my biggest fear is that I am losing. That in the midst of it all, I will be unnoticed lost.

But instead of trying to stuff it. I am embracing the shit the sprinkle sits on. Yes, I want to be noticed. Yes, I want to be adored. Yes, I want people sing loud and kick my legs high in the air again.

Dance in the rain. Like legit choreo. 

This morning I danced in the rain. It actually wasn’t intentional. It was raining outside and I love the rain. So before walking my dog, I decided to walk myself. 

I really wanted to hear tobi lou’s “Lounar” (can’t even call it my favorite song because they are all my favorite). I woke up singing it and the rain outside made me think of it, so I decided to vibe out to it. 

And just like that I was dancing. This wasn’t my first time dancing in the rain.  The beauty of this time  was that barely anyone was outside. It was just me and tobi lou blaring through my head phones. 

I sung as loud as I wanted. I twirled around. I popped my booty. I climbed over tree trunks and I just vibed. 

Take nudes of yourself FOR YOURSELF!

Until quarantine happened, I had never taken a nude photograph of myself, accept for that one time I had to check on something and only a camera could help. Lol. That is a whole another story. Hahahah. 

Seriously though, I had never taken a nude photograph of my body just because I could. 

So when I was asked to send a nude to someone that I was involved with, my first thought was “hell no!” My thinking was there was no way I was going to send another person a photograph of my naked body to land somewhere in the ethernet in the near future. 

I didn’t actually think the person would share my body in that way, but it was a HARD NO for me.

Until one day I was laying in bed reflecting on why I felt so uncomfortable photographing my body. I realized that I didn’t feel uncomfortable with sending the picture as much as I had been taught that photographs of naked bodies are inappropriate (how Adam and Eve of our society). 

For a week straight, I took photographs of my body. What started out as sexy poses for the viewer, slowly turned into poses that made me feel powerful, strong, sexy and beautiful. 

I was enamored by body. By my shape, by my curves, and the contours that my body made. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of my body. I had never been more in love with myself and thought myself more beautiful than after taking those photographs. In times when I feel low, I look back on them. 

Your body is not inappropriate. Taking pictures of your body is not inappropriate. It’s not naughty. It’s not dirty. It’s an act of self love.  If you choose to share it with another or others, know that is your choice to make. If the person you share with doesn’t appreciate that you are sharing your body with them, call them out or cut them off. But if you take photographs and they just sit in your device because you just wanted to photograph your body in all its glory that’s beautiful as well. 

Don’t stuff yourself (with anything at all).

It was back in March, when I started going to therapy, that I realized that I was a stuffer. 

The Gif below is pretty accurate. To replace the emotions I was not allowing myself to experience I would stuff myself with food. But what I didn’t know was that I was  also stuffing myself with emotion. 

I believe that emotion is just energy. And like all energy, it must be transformed and used. It is the Law of Energy Conversion.

But I wasn’t doing that. 

I wasn’t converting anything. I was stuffing and stuffing which often led to explosions at others or in my own body or both. 

So I’m learning not to stuff. I name my emotion and greet the emotion (yes, even the hard ones like guilt) instead of eating a yummy donut. 

And just to be clear, if I am still feigning for a donut after I converted that energy (emotion) by allowing it to exist, BEST BELIEVE I am eating one, and you should, too.

But I am not stuffing. 

Instead I am making space. If you can, if you know how to, don’t stuff, convert, and make room for you to be just a little bit more free. 

And what I’ve learned is that after I convert and make space for my emotions to exist, everything not just food, taste that much better.