So, Fall finally showed up. A lot of people find Fall very draining to dress for, because you are dressing for two different temperatures in one day. Most likely it’s freezing in the morning when you leave your house for work, and by the time you head out for lunch, it’s hot. This is why it’s important to step up your layering game. You just add and take away layers as the temperature changes throughout the day (more on this in a later post). An essential layering piece for the season is a leather jacket. You’re welcome to get a faux leather jacket, but for the love of God please don’t choose faux leather that looks like a trash bag. Unless you want to look like Missy Elliot circa 1997. In which case, go right on ahead. You should also choose a leather jacket that is sufficiently lined. We like to dress for both function and fashion over here, so please don’t waste your money on a thin leather jacket that you’ll only be able to wear twice. Real or fake, a good leather jacket should have some weight to it so you don’t freeze when the sun goes down.  I also love to layer a fur vest over my leather jacket.  Fur and leather together is almost always a good idea. Here are some tips for buying a good faux leather jacket if that’s the route you want to take.

I stumbled into my dark house with tears welling up in my eyes.  My purse dropped to the floor like there was an actual brick inside.  I stripped off every piece of clothing I had on.  My makeup stained sweatshirt was the first to go, and the tears were falling faster than I could wipe them away.  By the time I made the short walk to the bathroom, there was a trail of personal effects that I couldn’t be bothered to clean up.  Not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow.  I turned on my shower and leaned against the tile until I saw the steam form.  I tilted my head back, and stood there naked and exposed for the second time today while my makeup, my tears, my anxiety, my fear, my sadness, my everything ran down my body and down the drain.  I looked at my white ceiling, and I wondered why can’t it be this simple?  Today I faced my fear.  I stood nose to nose with my fear, and I said take your best fucking shot.  The fear of the not knowing is worse than the knowing, I thought.  And so rejection came out and kicked my ass like Diamond in the conclusion of Player’s Club.  Rejection tossed me around like a rag doll, and left me feeling insecure and alone.  I tried to fight back.  I will not go silently into the darkness.  Not today bitch.  But rejection said that’s cute girl and tossed me right back on the floor.

 

A photo posted by Rasheeda (@rasheedadabosschick) on Oct 18, 2016 at 6:50pm PDT

I have been style crushing on Rasheeda Frost (of Love and Hip Hop Atlanta) for a while now. I love anyone who can mix the high end with the low end, and she does so flawlessly. There’s something very alluring about a person who isn’t dressed in one designer from head to toe. I find that very lazy for some reason, especially when that designer has not cosigned you as their muse. For example, it makes perfect sense for Rihanna to wear Dior from head to toe, because she is the face of Dior, and I can only assume they are footing the bill for her looks. I am still annoyed; however, that Young Dro professes his affinity for Ralph Lauren often, yet Ralph will never acknowledge his existence. Rasheeda wears pieces from her own store Pressed, and pairs them with designer pieces. I have not visited her store, so I cannot attest to the quality of her products, but I love her Instagram style posts. I typically find the whole “I’m really into fashion” story line on reality television very played out. Every season of every reality show you can count on someone having a trash ass “clothing line” or opening a poor excuse for a boutique. Can we credit Sheree Whitfield as the pioneer of this now common farce? I can buy into Rasheeda’s plot line though, because the proof is in the post.

This week I came across two stories on two very different people, from two different industries who shared a huge commonality in their success stories. One that I’m sure most successful people can attest to: greatness in your career is determined by the things you do behind the scenes when no one is watching.

The first piece was Letter to My Younger Self written by former NBA star (and my crush when I was little) Ray Allen.  The second piece was a feature at the Business of Fashion discussing Miroslava Duma’s career in fashion media.  I had been following her street style photos for months not knowing who the petite Russian fashion enthusiast actually was, only to learn shortly thereafter that she’s a freakin’ boss.

If you couldn’t already tell, this is the same dress in two different colors, and actually two different sizes. Which brings me to one of my many shopping rules:  when it comes to building your wardrobe, if you come across a great piece, at a great price that fits you well, get at least two of them in different colors.  Those items become your uniform pieces. Meaning these are the pieces you can pull out the back of your closet when you run smooth out of things to wear. They should go well with your existing wardrobe so that you can mix and match, and get the hell to work on time.

Self care is one of those buzz words that just won’t go away, and for good reason. Most of us don’t do enough self care, because we’ve all mindlessly submitted to the belief that if you aren’t constantly tired, you’re not working hard enough. It’s like you feel guilty for spending all Saturday in your underwear watching Netflix and ordering takeout. Unlike most people, I will never see getting my nails done as a form of self care. Nail shops are a mind phuck resulting in anxiety and constant questioning of social norms. I don’t look forward to the process of getting my nails done at all. I almost equate it to getting a Pap smear in that it’s terribly uncomfortable, the person performing the task is talking at an awkward time, and I just want it to be over. Here’s a list of things I hate that nail shop.

1. Choosing  a nail color.  This shouldn’t be that hard, yet I feel like it’s a race against time to choose a color I’ll be okay with for two whole ass weeks.  As soon as you walk in the nail tech tells you to choose a color, and if you take too long they judge you.  BUT, if you choose a color you don’t like and ask them to change it, they judge you.  I always want to say, “Hey I have commitment issues, so can I have some time and space to really get to know this color?”
2. The up charge math. Moment of honesty, I suck at math.  I am convinced the nail tech knows this, and lures me into all of these up-charges that she knows I’m going to lose track of.  One minute I’m at a total of $25 for a fill in, and by the time I leave I need to take out a small loan, because they’ve charged me to take off my old polish, cut down my nails, add a quick dry top coat, and somehow a massage got thrown in there.  In your mind you’re thinking it’s only an extra $3, then an extra $6, and next thing you know you’re washing towels in the back to cover your debt.
3. The stare down.  Have you ever gotten stared down by the other nail techs in the salon who aren’t doing anyone’s nails?  They stare at your nails during the entire process, and you don’t know if you should be flattered or concerned.  Then other techs start coming out the back to gawk at you too.  What the hell is happening here?
4. Cuticle cutting. I cannot look while they cut my cuticles.  I just don’t understand how they know where to stop, and I am terrified they are going to strike blood.  It literally makes my palms sweat to watch that, so I casually look away.
5. The tip Nazis. Until I moved to New York, I had never been shamed into tipping.  These salon owners play no games.  They will tell you, you didn’t tip enough, to which I say bull shit!  I always over tip, because I know they expect for me not to tip at all.  A friend of mine was literally told she couldn’t leave a salon until she tipped more.  Crazy right?!
6. Angry patrons.  I hate it when hood and/or entitled people show out in the nail shop.  It’s so embarrassing.  Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it really is.  You sit there and cringe while they curse the nail tech out for reasons no one understands, and then you end up over tipping and being overly nice to compensate for the actions of the women you don’t even know.
7. The emergency shop.  Going to a new salon, because you can’t get to your regular place, and realizing shortly thereafter that you’ve made a terrible mistake is one of the worst experiences in womanhood.  You realize really quickly that this place is not up to par, but you’re in too deep to tell them to stop, and really you just want to run out of there screaming like a busty white chick in a horror film.
8. The Questionnaire.  I have left the nail shop before in a state of existential crisis, because my nail tech has started asking me questions about life that I can’t answer.  It starts off so harmless.

Nail Tech: You’re not married?

Me: No.

Nail Tech: Why not?  You’re such a pretty girl.  Do you have a boyfriend?

Me: Who sent you?  Did my mom put you up to this?  I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SINGLE!!! *Flips table and knocks everything off shelves, then turns into She Hulk and renders entire city                 destitute.

 

If you are new here, welcome!  You should probably stop now, and go to my About Me page so that you’re not completely lost.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.  Promise.

If you are returning, heeeeeyyyyy!!

Welcome back.  I missed you.  Hope you like the new digs.  Continue reading below.  We have some catching up to do.

Have you ever noticed that in life we tend to accept the things we feel we deserve? We only go after the things we know we will excel in, because we are afraid to fail. We subconsciously seek out partners we are comfortable with even if they aren’t good for us, because we don’t want to face rejection from someone better. BTW, it takes far too many heartbreaks to learn that comfort doesn’t always equal happiness. We settle for jobs that don’t feed our passion, because we would rather have the safety of guaranteed cash than to risk the unknown. We will accept mediocrity and unhappiness simply because we are afraid. That fear manifests itself into self-sabotage, as a means to avoid having to face possible disappointment. The thing is that when we play it safe, we deny ourselves the opportunity to experience the fullness of our capabilities. I have done that my entire life without realizing it.

Apparently at some point very early on (I can’t recall exactly when because I’m no spring chicken) I experienced a rejection so troubling that I ran to that feeling every time I wanted to go after something greater than what I had. Whatever that pivotal rejection was wounded me so deeply, and shattered my self-confidence so immensely, that even as a 29 year old woman I still lean on that hurt as an excuse to settle.

Here’s an example.  Allow me to take you back. Insert 90’s era sitcom dream sequence here. There was a guy who I formed an amazing friendship with when I was an 18 year old freshman at Georgia Southern University. I thought so highly of him, and so low of myself that despite his constant professions of love for me over the course of our friendship, I never fully allowed myself to believe him. I thought how can this amazing guy really feel this way about me, when he can have anyone he wants? I rejected the idea of him loving me so vehemently that I did the most destructive things to shut down any chance he and I would’ve ever had of being together. I completely sabotaged myself. In my mind it was better for him to not know he was the only person I wanted than to face him telling me he didn’t feel the same way. This man came to my literal rescue time and time again, and talked me down off a few figurative ledges for years. But, my complete lack of self-confidence made me overly sensitive to everything he would say and do, causing us to mutually push each other away. For years, I was haunted with thoughts of what if? In retrospect, the unknowing was far worse than what it would’ve felt like for him to reject me.

So I sit here now older and wiser, yet I’m doing the same thing again with my career. I thought that I was such a risk-taker, especially because so many other people regard me as such.  I thought that making the big move to the big city meant I was showing this huge act of faith, and that alone should be enough to carry me through to the next level.  I didn’t realize until a few months ago that I wasn’t really doing as much as I should/could.  I got so comfortable that I started to feel antsy.  I started to feel discontent and restless in my spirit, because something in me knew that I wasn’t doing enough.  I have wanted to put more into this site and into my brand for a while, but I was so afraid to fail in front of everyone. Like, could you imagine being Meek Mill and taking L after L with everyone watching? The horror! I kept thinking I’m not good enough yet, give it a few months. Lose a little weight, then try it out. Save up some money, and then do it. I made excuse after excuse, until I finally ran out.  I did that thing we all do when we run out of answers: pray.  It’s actually the first thing we should do, but hey I’m human.  One night in my bed I cried so hard that I started to pray, and then I started to cry because I was praying so hard. I kept asking God to help me to see what was wrong with me. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t able to be disciplined enough to commit to consistently taking steps to create a better life for myself. I didn’t realize I was just fighting against myself. We always think to fight the external enemy (whatever yours is) but sometimes you are actually your own enemy. Sometimes the voice you keep hearing telling you that you can’t do something is actually your own, and that’s some scary shit to realize. Why would you speak against yourself? Why would you tell yourself you couldn’t be better? It’s because on some level you are just trying to protect yourself from potential failure, and/or disappointment. I saw that by hiding behind fear, I was holding myself back from so much.

So I promise you, my readers that you will get more from me more consistently. I won’t be afraid anymore. I am out of my own head, and out of my own way to make this site better. Let’s grow and laugh together for a while, shall we?

Let’s just jump right in. I basically consider myself the spokesperson for single black women who haven’t given up on love, but who aren’t pressed about finding it either. We are a unique breed often spotted in the wild minding our own damn business and flourishing. It burns my biscuits when I see those Instagram accounts devoted solely to telling black women how they should deal with being single and/or what they should do to find a man. They have those nonsensical captions that say shit like, “Keep your head up, your king may be watching from afar.”  How about you keep your head up just because you’re supposed to keep your damn head up? But I digress.

On to the point here.  Non-single people mean well I’m sure. You approach conversations with your single friends about single life and dating with the best of intentions, yet you seem to end up being kind of a dick about the whole thing. Somehow you end up saying some very problematic things  in an effort to “comfort” your single friends. So, as the self proclaimed spokesperson let me just tell you, you have to chill with the following statements:

1) “You have to stop looking for a fine ass dude. I wasn’t attracted to my husband at first, but look at us now.”

First of all sis, stop telling people you low key think your dude is ugly. Even if your husband now looks like Boris Kodjoe to you, as opposed to him looking like a gremlin initially, stop telling people that. Moreover, some of you who say that actually have attractive husbands to begin with. So why should you get to walk around married to Idris Elba, and because I’m single I should just take whatever I can find? What kind of shit is that to tell someone? We all know that a person can become better looking to you as you get to know them (if you like what you’re getting to know) but don’t tell me that I should settle for a dude who looks like Flavor Flav in the face off rip.  Second, I consider my children. Won’t someone think of the children?! Life is hard for unattractive kids. I know, because I was one. Lastly, unattractive dudes don’t know they’re unattractive.  Why?  Because there are sooooooo many chicks who genuinely don’t care about looks (good for you guys).  Those girls are willing to date Sloth from the Goonies, and treat those guys like royalty, so those guys really don’t know they aren’t attractive. In fact, they have women lined up for the opportunity to be with someone, anyone.   So they too walk around treating the Ciara’s of the world like Future, not knowing they look like burned bacon. In summation, an unattractive guy can be just as trash as a fine guy. It’s a vicious lie that ugly guys treat women better. Have you seen Peter Gunz? He’s a failed rapper who looks like a thumb, yet look at how he’s treated the women in his life. What I need you guys to know is that we aren’t looking for Ralph Angel (although it would be nice) we just wanna be attracted to our significant other, and that’s not too much to ask for. It’s insanely offensive to tell your homegirl to settle for someone she’s not attracted to, just so she won’t be alone. Hard pass bro. Hard pass.

2) “You should read this (insert shitty book filled with shitty dating advice written by shitty person).”

From what I can gather, the happiest marriages are the ones in which two people commit because they want to.  There are no romantic comedy like antics.  There are no tricks, or rules, or handbooks, or worksheets.  If it’s meant to be, it should just happen without us having to use Jedi mind tricks.  I don’t want to trick someone into being with me.  Those books are trash. Next.

3) “Maybe your standards are too high.”

Rubs temples. Most of us are not asking for much I swear. Why are we always asked to adjust our expectations, but no one is telling guys to step up? We are not viewed as whole to you people unless we are attached to a guy, yet no one is telling these guys to be good guys. You’re comfortable telling women to think like men, but you’re not telling men how to be men? How does that make sense Steve? Believe me when I tell you, most of our standards are really reasonable, so this perpetual desire you people have to fault us for guys not wanting to commit has to stop. At some point, you have to consider that maybe a guy is responsible for his penis, and not me. Just a thought.

4) “Women these days don’t cook and clean like their grandmothers did, that’s why they can’t find a man.”

You gotta stop comparing us to our grandmothers, whom you’ve never met. You cannot expect for women today to behave like the women of yesteryear when you are not the men of that era yourself. I have literally had guys try to explain to me why a woman should offer to pay for the first date, yet those same guys will argue that women should be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen. Where the hell do you expect for this mystical woman to get the damn money from to pay for the date then? If you can’t change a flat tire, fix a broken pipe, or qualify for a home loan, then how is it fair that you want a full turkey dinner by 6:00 PM when I have to work just like you do? If you aren’t providing a life that lends itself to a woman being able to stay home, and be the domestic home maker of your dreams, then how about you shut the hell up? And newsflash, no amount of expertly fried chicken, and meticulously cleaned baseboards is going to make a guy put a ring on it if he doesn’t want to.  Will I cook, and clean?  Sure, because I too am hungry (constantly) and I too enjoy a clean house.  If I am tired from working a 60 hour work week; however, can’t we just order some take out and chill?

 

Attending: Atlanta

Photo: FX
The love I bear for my hometown knows no bounds; hence, I cannot begin to express to you the excitement I felt watching a show that so closely depicts what I consider to be the real Atlanta, but I’ll try. I was first introduced to Atlanta’s creator and protagonist Donald Glover as a stand up comedian, and actor (I will admit I have never listened to his music) but I feel a certain amount of pride seeing someone who came from such a mainstream sitcom (Community) go on to create a comedy that’s so true to my experience as a black person from Atlanta. The authenticity of the accents, the jargon, the references, even the J.R. Crickets scene…my soul cried out hallelujah.

Photo: FX
Earnest “Earn” Marks (played by Donald Glover) is struggling to get through life and maintain a relationship with the mother of his child, and comes up with the idea to manage his cousin Alfred “Paper Boi” Miles’ burgeoning rap career. Growing up in Atlanta, we have all witnessed (and continue to witness) the struggle rapper life. Alfred “Paper Boi” Miles (played by Morehouse and Yale graduate Brian Tyree Henry) has to cope with unexpected fame, and unwanted attention.  Meanwhile, Earn has to figure out how to adult (supes relate-able because hello I still haven’t figured it out). I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Paper Boi’s roommate Darius (played by Keith Stanfield).  He is the lovable weed head who randomly drops gems of knowledge. Hi-jinks ensue with perfectly timed, and well written comedy. The show also touches on so many relevant issues, but without being “preachy.” People like to be tricked into assessing real life issues especially those we consider to be uniquely black for some reason, and Atlanta slides those right on into your psyche. Issues like the treatment of prisoners with mental disabilities, gun violence and its impact on kids in underprivileged communities, relationships, familial obligations, the fragility of black male sexuality, and finding your way as a 20 something are all explored…in just the first two episodes.

Photo: FX
The ever-conflicting ideals of Martin and Malcolm, Du Bois and Washington, Buckhead and Bankhead are the underlying themes I find most intriguing here. I attribute the non existent division of wealth in black communities in Atlanta to what made my friends and I such well rounded people. We have ninja-like code switching skills, because those of us who had were brought up right alongside those of us who didn’t. By the time we reached adulthood, most of us developed a very healthy blend of the totality of the black spectrum. I’m really excited to see Atlanta explore that. Lastly, I have a new life goal: lemon pepper wet wings.

Photo: FX

Not Attending: Lena Dunham’s Pity Party

Photo: Netflix
I’ve always felt very indifferent towards Lena Dunham, especially after I realized what her game is. She’s made a career of being self deprecating under the guise of body positivism (but only when it’s convenient) and everyone praises her for her “bravery” and labels her a feminist hero. White women being praised for mediocrity isn’t new, so that in and of itself doesn’t bother me; however, her latest stunt involving the beautiful specimen that is Odell Beckham Jr. takes her from irrelevant to intolerable. Dunham interviewed her friend Amy Schumer (another draining story for another day) in her newsletter Lenny Letter. Dunham is recalling her experience at the Met Gala (which hello, she was invited and I wasn’t?  Maybe I’m just bitter) and unleashed a fury of assumptions and insecurities with the following excerpt:

“I was sitting next to Odell Beckham Jr., and it was so amazing because it was like he looked at me and he determined I was not the shape of a woman by his standards. He was like, ‘That’s a marshmallow. That’s a child. That’s a dog.’ It wasn’t mean — he just seemed confused. The vibe was very much like, ‘Do I want to f— it? Is it wearing a … yep, it’s wearing a tuxedo. I’m going to go back to my cell phone.’ It was like we were forced to be together, and he literally was scrolling Instagram rather than have to look at a woman in a bow tie. I was like, ‘This should be called the Metropolitan Museum of Getting Rejected by Athletes.’”

Deep sigh. She reminds me of that girl in high school who would criticize herself openly in hopes that someone would validate her with a compliment, only with Lena, when that validation doesn’t come, then it’s an issue. As someone who speaks openly about how problematic the objectification of women is, Dunhman seemed awfully troubled that Beckham didn’t objectify her in that moment. The most annoying thing about this was her “apology” once the internet ripped her a new one for being draining.

 

I owe Odell Beckham Jr an apology. Despite my moments of bravado, I struggle at industry events (and in life) with the sense that I don’t rep a certain standard of beauty and so when I show up to the Met Ball surrounded by models and swan-like actresses it’s hard not to feel like a sack of flaming garbage. This felt especially intense with a handsome athlete as my dinner companion and a bunch of women I was sure he’d rather be seated with. But I went ahead and projected these insecurities and made totally narcissistic assumptions about what he was thinking, then presented those assumptions as facts. I feel terrible about it. Because after listening to lots of valid criticism, I see how unfair it is to ascribe misogynistic thoughts to someone I don’t know AT ALL. Like, we have never met, I have no idea the kind of day he’s having or what his truth is. But most importantly, I would never intentionally contribute to a long and often violent history of the over-sexualization of black male bodies- as well as false accusations by white women towards black men. I’m so sorry, particularly to OBJ, who has every right to be on his cell phone. The fact is I don’t know about his state of mind (I don’t know a lot of things) and I shouldn’t have acted like I did. Much love and thanks, Lena

A photo posted by Lena Dunham (@lenadunham) on Sep 3, 2016 at 11:12am PDT

Girl, we don’t care, and we are not attending your “I’m ‘fat’ and unattractive by the world’s standards so please accept, praise, and compliment me for being regular as hell” pity party.  Leave us alone.

Okay, where do I begin?  First off my mom worked really hard to keep my brother and I hella fresh.  Style, fashion, and appearance are a big thing on my mom’s side of the family.  So much so that my grandmother will legit shade you if you are a woman not wearing earrings, or “something on your lips.”  I cannot tell you how many times I have heard her shade the hell out of my mom with a casual, “Oh I guess you ain’t gon’ put nothing on yo lips, huh?”  This is followed by a sincere stare over her glasses until you comply with her passive aggressive suggestion to put some manner of lipstick on.  My dad’s side of the family, not so much.  My dad doesn’t place much value on materialistic things at all.  I almost think it was a form of silent protest against my mom for him to not give a shit how we looked when we walked out of the house.  Hence, when my brother and I would spend summers with him in South Carolina, it was a fashion free for all.  My style was at the mercy of whatever the good Lord put on my spirit to wear that day.  This was my time to be experimental with my look.  Yeah, we’ll go with that.

99.9% of my family lives in South Carolina.  So summers with my dad meant summers with my whole family too.  My dad’s family meant well.  They truly did.  I didn’t realize until I was much older that they just didn’t have a lot.  At my dad’s mom’s house we would eat mayonnaise sandwiches, hot dogs, and generic corn flakes with canned milk.  We would run around the yard all day playing with bow and arrows my great grandmother made out of sticks and twine.  “Now whatever you kill, you have to eat,” she would say.  Hence, we never killed anything.  At night, my brother would catch fire flies for me, and put them in a mason jar.  I begged my grandmother to poke holes in the top so my fire flies could breathe, and she obliged.  Before bed, I would lay in the bed with my great grandmother and watch the black and white version of the Beverly Hill Billy’s, because they didn’t have cable.  I would always try to get her to admit that she was secretly the granny from the show.  I don’t think I realized that woman was white for a long time, but in my defense they looked an awful lot alike.  My mom’s parents spoiled us rotten.  When we went to their house, we had all the good snacks, trips to the mall, my Big Ma’s cooking, and I could watch music videos all freaking day.  Now this was the 90’s.  The heyday of music videos.  This is when I realized that Lil Kim was the shit.  Her persona, and image were everything to me.  I never fully understood her lyrics (thank God, I was a child for crying out loud) but I knew I wanted to command respect like she did.  All little black girls who grew up in the 90’s wanted to look like Aaliyah (if you didn’t, I don’t trust you) but I wanted to be a boss like Lil Kim.  I watched the video for “Crush on You” like it was Shakespearean theater.  I mean I was tuned in.  I knew the choreography, decided that the blue scene was my favorite, and inadvertently knew all of the lyrics.  I never wanted to be overtly sexual like her, but based on what I saw, no one effed with Lil Kim.  That’s what I wanted to be: un-fuck-with-able.

Now let me explain to you what I looked like during the summers of my youth.  I had a lot of hair.  A whole lot.  I would’ve been natural hair goals if social media were a thing, and it was cool to be natural back then.  I had big dreams of being on a Just For Me relaxer box, but alas my day in the sun never came.  There was no edge control, or curl puddings, or YouTube tutorials, or things of that nature back then.  I either got box braids, or my grandmother’s best friend would press my hair using Vaseline and a hot comb off the stove.  To this day, nothing has ever gotten my hair as straight as good ole Mama Carrie and that Vaseline.  I got my first relaxer at 15, and still I swear that Vaseline press out was the straightest my hair ever was, but once that humidity hit it, it was over.  Anyway, there would always be about a two week lag between the time I arrived in South Carolina, and when I got my obligatory summer braids.  Mind you, I was living with my dad who knew nothing about doing hair, let alone natural hair.  Hence, my big head of hair was at the mercy of the sun and humidity of Spartanburg, South Carolina.  I was a…interesting looking kid.  My brother swears this isn’t true, but you always look better to the people who love you most.  Just to add insult to injury, I woke up one day and had boobs.  They came out of nowhere, and I wanted nothing more than to hide them from the world and myself.  As soon as my grandmother saw that I needed bras, we went to JC Penny’s and bought all of the training bra sets.  It should be noted that I grew out of them almost instantly.  She made me swear that from that day forward I would wear a bra every day for the rest of my life.  Bras were continue to be deathly uncomfortable for me.

Now that you have a good idea of how unfortunate looking I was, let me set the scene for you.  My dad would put us in this summer camp at the same church every year.  The cool girls of the camp were the girls who attended the church, and knew everybody.  They weren’t particularly pretty, it’s just that I didn’t go there, so I was automatically wrong.

Each morning there was a praise and worship hour.  This entailed the pastor of the church making you recite a scripture, and what it means to you.  Let me just tell you that as a kid, no scripture meant very much to me.  Life hadn’t fully kicked me in the balls yet, so I didn’t have a real understanding of the word of God.  I could recite a scripture, but I couldn’t give you a testimony about how it changed my life, because I had only been living for like ten years. After this embarrassing show of what I didn’t know about God, we would sing hymns, and then it was off to the gym before class started.  I am irritated right now thinking about the fact that we had full on school in the summer.  Why couldn’t we catch a break?  Anyway, during this intermission we would all gather on the stage of the gym, and sing the latest songs, do dances, share gossip, and get roasted.  Mostly I always got roasted.  But guess why?  They roasted me for being flat chested!  If you know me now you know how insanely funny that is, because I am faaaaarrrrr from flat chested.  I was like dude I’m developing over here, but how was I gonna prove that in church?  So I just endured this relentless teasing every day.  There I was with puffy hair, spaced out teeth, in the finest biker shorts Wal Mart had to offer, being joned for no good reason.  Why didn’t I wear any of the cute stuff my mom packed for me for the summer?  I don’t know.  Again, this was my experimental phase.  I think I enjoyed the freedom that came with my dad not giving a shit about appearance, and when in Rome, right?  So one day we were on a field trip, and my size 28B training bra was ruining my life.  So I dipped off to take it off and hide it in my backpack purse (totally breaking my vow to Big Ma.  Sorry Big Ma).  For some stupid reason I later left my purse out unattended, and one of the popular girls saw my bra hanging out.  I will never forget that bra.  It was green plaid, and had a front clasp.  So this evil whore pulls my little bra out and starts tossing it around to everybody.  And their overriding question was, “You don’t have boobs, so why do you have this?”  My thing was that many of them were overweight, and therefore had boobs by default, so how did we arrive there in the conversation?  My shade game wasn’t up to par back then, so I just sauntered away and cried somewhere.  So you see, camp for me was some real bull shit.  ‘Twas a cruel, cruel summer.

Fast forward, and there we were in the gym once again singing all the hits of the 90’s.  The popular girls of course ruled this too.  They always sang the good parts of the songs.  Let me put it like this, there was no way you could be Monica in the “Boy is Mine” if you wanted to join in.  You were Brandy, or you didn’t get to play honey.  So they finally got to “Crush on You” in this unspoken playlist, but they didn’t know the words.  “This is my chance, but am I ready?!” I thought to myself.  I whispered to one of the popular girls that I knew the words, but I wasn’t fully prepared to perform.  They had just made fun of my bra, so I knew it was a tough crowd.  Being the little angel that she was, she yelled to everyone, “Jessica knows it!”

Everyone crowded around waiting for me to embarrass myself.  “Go ahead, rap it, since you know it so well,” they taunted me.  “Okay, but someone has to start off the chorus, so I know when to come in,” I said, and they obliged.  This was my moment to finally shine and prove to them all that I too was cool.  I got into character, prepared to wow them all, and so I began,“Ayo shorty won’t you go get a bag of the lethal.”  I had her cadence, mannerisms, inflections, and moves down.  I nailed it.  They were floored.  I had redeemed myself to the cool kids, and as long as I was willing to perform Lil Kim’s verses of “Crush on You” in a church gym, nobody really made fun of me anymore.  So there you have it.  That is how Lil Kim saved an awkward little black girl’s confidence at a bible summer camp.