It’ s official.  New York has kicked my ass for the last time and I give up. How soon can I get back to Atlanta, and how much will it cost to have all of my clothes shipped?  How much am I getting back from my security deposit on my place?  I wonder if my sister will let me live with her for a while.  These were all of my thoughts from last week.  It all started when I got the heads up from my friend in my old  department to apply for a full-time role that had just opened up.  I jumped at the chance to get out of my temporary role in HR to move to something full time that would mean I can really establish some roots in New York.  This didn’t go over well with my then manager, because when I got to my desk the next day I received an email that my assignment was prematurely ended.  Putting a positive spin on it, I figured hey no biggie I should be a shoe in for the new position since they know me and specifically requested that I apply.

I woke up really early on the day of the interview to review my notes and get my head together.  I even allowed myself to indulge in an iced coffee to get myself hyped up.  After two hours of group exercises, icebreakers, and an assessment, I was pulled to the side to get the news that I hadn’t gotten the job.  So here I am jobless with no prospects, and I get home to learn that my roommates/landlords are raising my rent.  What a great day this turned out to be.

I lost it, and just instantly felt like, ok this is it.  This is the sign that I’ve done everything I can do here.  I gave it my best and my dreams have died here on this day.  I called my friend Lauren from the hallway of the building only for her to get me smooth together and let me know that I’m not allowed to quit yet.  She referred me to the temp service that got her placed at a great company making great money.  I met with them, and was promptly told to give up on fashion and move to another industry.  They got me an interview at an investment company the following week for a role that had a competitive salary and full benefits.

The interview went well enough that they requested I come in to temp for a few days so they could get a feel for me.  On the second day of my trial period at the investment company I got a call saying there was an opening for a temporary role at Christian Dior as a PR Assistant.  My excitement went to disappointment the instant I learned the compensation was trash.  Who the hell can afford to live off of $14 an hour with no benefits in New York? Who?!  

I went to the Dior interview anyway, which only made me want the job even more.  Here I was in the LVMH Tower interviewing for a dream job with a top fashion house that I can’t even afford to take.  Why would the Lord dangle this in front of me like this?  Is it a test to see which I’m more dedicated to, the dream or the money?  I finished my week long assignment at the investment company hoping I made a good impression and headed to Le Bain that Friday for drinks with Lauren.  I gave her the rundown as we looked out over the Hudson and the Meatpacking District from the rooftop of the Standard and asked what she would do.  “Jessica, do you want to wear Dior or work at Dior?  At this point you need to be able to take care of yourself and Dior isn’t gonna do that for you.”  

The harsh reality is that she spoke nothing but the truth.  I’ve been struggling here as a starving artist for two years.  Living check to check down to the last penny, unable to do much of anything but work and this isn’t the life for me.  I live in what is arguably the greatest city in the world and I can’t even fully enjoy it, because I’m trying to stay in an industry that won’t even pay me what I’m worth.  The thing about fashion is that entry level jobs pay nothing, because there are so many people lined up to snatch those jobs and they are able to take whatever they can get salary wise.  But for someone like me who struggles to pay her own rent every month and falls behind on bills because of it, I can’t.  I can’t be fashion’s bitch and take pennies when I know I deserve more.  I have to find another way in, because that’s not it.  All I want to do is write and talk about fashion and life.  This isn’t what I thought my life would be at 28, and I just need things to get better, because I’m dangerously close to giving up.  And I’m wondering if I’m just not one of the people who can make it here.  How do you know when it’s time to give up and when it’s time to fight harder?

A good day in New York is better than a good day anywhere else in the world.  I say that blindly, because well I haven’t been everywhere else in the world.  However, based on my limited experience I stand by my statement.  I had a pretty amazing Sunday a couple of weeks ago.

I had some extra coins in my pocket (a rarity) and decided that since my edges were perfectly laid, and my brows were evenly filled I would treat myself to a buttermilk biscuit from this cute cafe near my house.  Cafe Madeline is typically overrun with hipster families that reassure me I’m not ready for motherhood albeit in a gentrified neighborhood in Brooklyn.  As soon as I stepped in the door to place my order, my theme song Spottieottiedopalicious blared out of the speakers and I just knew it was going to be a good day.  I headed to church and was actually able to sit in the front which is odd because my church stays packed for all services at every location.  Again, this is shaping up to be an amazing day.

Following church I had some time to kill before meeting up with some friends for bruch.  Their brunch, not mine.  I  was just tagging along for decoration and for the music.  I heard a lot of commotion and being the nosey inquisitive girl that I am I followed it and stumbled upon the Pride parade.  It was such an amazing sight.  All of these families and people of different races gathered together to celebrate not only being out and proud, but that they can now legally be married.  I danced with some strangers to Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody and collected a souvenir of anal lubricant (it was the only thing I could catch in the crowd so relax) until I got the call from my friends to head to the brunch spot.

I arrived at the brunch spot first as usual, and next thing I know there were bottomless mimosas and bellini’s, lots of dancing, and plans were made to hit the next spot.  We made our way to the rooftop of a hotel that I don’t recall the name of and partied more while looking out over the skyline.  The night was warm but breezy and the air was light and fun, filled with laughter, friends, and celebration.  After getting more food to soak up the abundance of champagne, I parted ways with my friends and headed back to Brooklyn on the Q train.  For some reason I started to feel sad.  It was like coming down from a high.  I thought about the fact that I had to go home to an empty studio apartment with no one to drunk text.  Then I remembered that it was Sunday and I had to go back to a job that I didn’t even know if I would still have in a week’s time, and I started to sink.  The reality of my stage in life hit me like a ton of bricks and suddenly the day didn’t feel that great anymore.  I count myself lucky that I have a lot of friends.  I mean truly I do.  I have at least two people that I can call for any kind of situation I may find myself in, yet I often find myself alone with my thoughts.  Despite their numbers, those people cannot be with me 24/7 and after all of the distractions are gone, we are often left to face ourselves.  The true us.  The us we may inadvertently hide from everyone else.

I turned my music off because in my impending sadness there was nothing I wanted to hear really.  All of a sudden the man sitting next to me started to whistle the most beautiful tune. I found myself rocking to it and as we crossed the Manhattan Bridge, I asked him what song it was.  “Oh this is a very old German love song,” he said with a heavy accent and a kind smile.  “What are the words?  It’s so pretty?” I asked.  His boyfriend encouraged him to sing it for me, so he did.  His voice was surprisingly like Frank Sinatra’s.  I would’ve been a bit embarrassed had it not been for the overindulgence of champagne from earlier.  He told me what the song meant and I was overwhelmed by the sentiment of the lyrics.  We exchanged pleasantries of where are you from, are you guys visiting, how do you like the city?  “New York is really something.  Everything is here.”  His boyfriend wrote the lyrics in German on a receipt and handed them to me.  “It’s been a very long time since someone has said anything like this to me,” I said letting out a nervous laugh which probably revealed the truth in my statement.  Just as the train slowed down for their stop, he put his hand on mine and said,”you’re a beautiful girl, someone will feel this way about you soon.  When you meet him teach him this song and he will sing it to you.”  We waved goodbye.  I rushed home to google the song and the words are still so captivating to me even in my sober mind.  Maybe that was God’s way of saying “chin up girl.”

“You are my heart’s delight,
And where you are, I long to be
You make my darkness bright,
When like a star you shine on me
Shine, then, my whole life through
Your life divine bids me hope anew
That dreams of mine may at last come true
And I shall hear you whisper,
“I love you.”

So I kind of left you hanging a bit with regard to that fine ass dude I met.  You may be wondering what became of that whole thing.  Well I’ll tell you.

My whole point in leaving the VIP section that night was to go to the restroom when I was approached by the finest man I’ve ever seen in real life.  We’ll call hime Baby Drake.  I was literally taken aback by his presence.  He was so tall (not something I typically care about) and personable, and confident, without being cocky.  To be fair, I had participated in some heavy shot taking and over indulged in quite a few flutes of champagne prior to this encounter, but that man was fine.  Anyway, after we exchanged numbers, I never made it to the bathroom because my friends were famished and ready to go.

After making a mad dash on foot through traffic in Times Square to use the bathroom at a hotel, I had some tasty ass Thai food from one of my favorite places here called Qi, and then I made the homage back to Brooklyn.  Pro tip: if you are ever in the city of New York, and need to use the restroom, go to a hotel.  No one is ever going to stop you as there are lots of people in hotels, and there’s never anyone in the lobby restroom because most people have a room.  Back to the story.  As I was wrapping my hair after a long day of partying, I got a text from Baby Drake saying he hoped that I made it home safely and to give him a call the next day.

We chatted via text for the next two weeks.  Through these chats he gained my sincere interest in a few ways.  I will list them here:

1. He asked for my Instagram name instead of asking me to send him a pic.
2. His Instagram pics were captioned with some of my favorite Drake lyrics.  The kind that only a real fan would know, and if you can’t tell by now, I freaking love Drake.
3. He asked if he could come to church with me.
4. He wasn’t able to make our church date but let me know in advance with sincere apologies.
5. I got a call around 9:00 PM a few days later (yes an actual phone call) asking if he could come over.  “I don’t need to come in or anything, I just want to see you because we haven’t had a chance to hang out since we met,” he said.

I do not allow anyone into my house.  Not because I’m a prude but because my place is not cute and visitor friendly.  I would liken it to Holly Golightly’s apartment in Breakfast at Tiffany’s but that would be too generous of a comparison.  There’s random furniture and nowhere to really store my clothes so there wasn’t a chance in hell that Baby Drake would see the inside of my house on this day or any day in the foreseeable future.

He asked for my address and I sent it via text.  He called and said, “Wow you’re like an hour and a half away.”  My heart instantly sank before he followed up with, “Nah I’m joking you’re literally like five minutes away see you soon.”  I took the flexi rods out of my weave, and groomed my brows quicker than anyone ever has.

I’m a bit of a creep so I actually have chill outfits that I find flattering.  Not lingerie.  Let me explain.  I think that I look really good in all white but I don’t like to look like I’m trying too hard when chilling.  So I threw on some white sweat pants, and my new favorite white t-shirt from Banana Republic.  (I have an obscene amount of white shirts).  So, I emerged from my driveway looking leisurely chic as far as I’m concerned, and there he was.  I shit you not, the man somehow got better looking from the time we first met.  He was wearing my version of male lingerie: Nike Tach gear and dope sneakers…plus a fresh haircut.  Let’s also take a moment to reflect and thirst over his body.  He was built like a running back.  You know, slim but just muscular enough in the right places (arms, chest, and back).  Quick, someone come change this chair cushion.  I swooned in my head, but kept my cool.

We stood outside of my house and talked for like two hours.  It reminded me of high school or college, when you’d sit in someone’s car talking about any and everything, and time doesn’t even exist.  You’re just thriving off of each other’s vibes.  A warm breeze came through every now and again to give my weave that Beyoncé effect.  We talked about his mom’s passing, his absentee father and how that made him want to be a better father to his son, where he went to college, and why he dropped out, his many, many tattoos (I love tattoos), and everything that came to mind.  He didn’t compliment me too much, because I said how I hate that.  He was genuinely curious about me and my life, where I grew up, and what brought me here.  His touches were light and flirtatious, a little inviting even, but never aggressive.  It was a perfect Summer night.  The kind you long for when you don’t even know you’re longing.

“When can I see you again?” he asked while holding my hands.  I encouraged him to plan something fun, since he seems to know where the fun is.

“You know we go together now, right?” he asked before giving me a hug and leaving.  I giggled like a child, and blushed profusely, and floated back to my thrift shop of a basement apartment.

About half an hour later he text me kissing emojis.  I typically hate that kind of thing but he’s so fine that I let it slide.

“Thank for stopping by,” I replied.

“Thanks for letting me.”

And I never heard from him again.

I hate flying.  My mother has worked for Delta Airlines almost as long as I’ve been alive; hence, I’ve been flying almost as long as I’ve been alive.  Yet, every time I do it, it never feels right to me.  I cannot from my limited understanding of physics as it relates to air travel conceptualize why we are able to fly in airplanes.  I’m sure there’s a book, a blog, an article somewhere that could break it down into Layman’s terms for me, but I remain in my willing ignorance about it. Last Friday I flew home for my monthly visit (there’s a joke in there somewhere) using my flight privileges which means standby.  Standby is trash and never let anyone tell you different.  I somehow made a 5:30 PM flight home when I had been number 72 on the standby list on the previous flights.  “There’s no way I’m getting out of here today,” I thought to myself.  I started mentally sending texts to friends to let them know I wouldn’t be able to make it this weekend, and I looked up and saw that I had been assigned a seat.  I now know that I inexplicably made that flight because God wanted me to meet the woman I sat next to.

I inched my way toward my seat in the very back of the plane still tired from the work day and the commute to LaGuardia.  Finally I made it to my row of three and there was Mindy and her son.  We exchanged the usual pleasantries of “hello, can I squeeze by?  Sure, let me just.”  My desperate attempt to sleep failed miserably and of course we hit “some rough air” and there was turbulence.  Anxiety level now at 10.  Mindy and I shot each other a look “I hate flying,” she said to me with a nervous smile.  I forced a quick head nod and awkward smile back.  And there was the beginning of our hour and a half friendship.  Mindy told me all about how she’s a stay at home soccer mom and that she and her family lived in London for four years.  “It was such a tough decision to move back to the states because we really loved it over there,” she said with her eyes welling up with tears.  “We prayed on it profusely and asked God to lead us.  I felt in my spirit we should head back to the states and a month later I found out I had breast cancer,” she confessed with tears rolling down her face.  I listened intently to her story, wondering if there is a voice in my head that I’m ignoring.  We talked the remainder of the flight and she introduced me to the rest of her family who were seated elsewhere once we landed.  “Isn’t she beautiful?” she asked her young son.  “She’s too old for me mom,” he quipped back in that super honest adorable way that children do.  She asked if she could hug me and we did and went our separate ways.

Mindy’s words about trusting that voice really stuck with me, because I wonder so often if I’m doing the right thing by staying in New York.  I expected to struggle and to be challenged, but for how long?  How do we know when it’s time to fight harder, or to pull out?  I’m scooting in closer to myself so that I can hear that voice that will tell me.  I believe that at this moment I am exactly where I should be, but I wonder how long I’m supposed to go without and struggle in the name of a dream that sometimes feels like a nightmare because of the burden of money.  Odd isn’t it that I can trust a pilot whom I don’t know at all to fly me to and from home, but I struggle to trust God who I know intimately to lead me to my purpose?  Fear of flying.

Shirt: I wish I could identify the brand by the tag, but alas I cannot.
Pants: Forever 21
Shoes: Guess

Why do I keep coming to this place alone?  I asked myself as I sat at the bar of my favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Greenwhich Village.  I have a weird addiction to pho and this was the first place in New York that I tried it so I call it my favorite.  Which I suppose isn’t fair since I haven’t tried any others.  But anyway.  I come here at least once a week because a tasty bowl of pho is only $8 and that’s a steal here.  There is no wifi, cell strength is hella weak, and it is always crowded.  I should also mention that I truly hate eating by myself, but I love the food so I come alone anyway.  In this weird solitude where I am ironically surrounded by other people, I have a lot of time to think.  A couple of weeks ago during my lonely ass lunch as my podcast was going off, I had this epiphany about my life.  And every week since then, I kept getting these little signs reinforcing that message.

I don’t know what’s up with this waiting for you at the door pose.

Is the suspense killing you?  Ok here it is.  I realized that I focus so much on getting to the next level in my career and in my life that I treat the space I’m in with total disregard.  We are taught to always aim high, the best is yet to come, your greater is ahead, but we never acknowledge the place we’re actually in.  We go through all of these tiny storms that are pretty much called your 20’s and we trudge through them reluctantly without paying attention to the lessons that come from these seemingly horrible experiences.

The first sign I received that I was on to something here was from a podcast.  If you can’t tell, I love podcasts.  You don’t need cell service or wifi to listen to them once they’re downloaded.  They’re free and you can learn a lot while being entertained.  The latest one I tried out was called The Psychology of Eating.  This therapist was helping a 20 something year old girl with her life issues (which I will spare you) but what he said resonated with me so much.  He told her that “our 20’s are rough waters but you still have to honor whatever stage of life you’re in.”  My face lit up as I listened to him speak my life while I crossed the Manhattan bridge on the Q train.  Of course the person across from me noticed my enthusiasm and gave me a puzzled look.

Shirt: Banana Republic
Skirt: BCBG
Shoes: Guess
Glasses: Celine

Sign number two came from the pastor of the church I attend here.  I am so in love with this church, but that’s another post for another day.  In the midst of his emotional sermon, he said that when you are well with your soul, no matter where you are in life you are content.  Once again I was filled with enthusiasm that my epiphany was real.

The third and final sign came from my daddy.  My dad and I have had a strained relationship the past couple of years, but he’s been communicating a lot with me lately.  He is the smartest person I know and I am so thankful for him.  My daddy isn’t just well read or “book smart” he has the ability to think critically in the most interesting way about concepts that most people are unable to grasp.  It’s hard for me to even put into words the level of intelligence my dad has but maybe this will help.  Today he sent me an email of food for thought.  At the end he said: take it easy, don’t judge yourself, be patient with yourself for in your patience you possess your soul.  Normally I would say ‘wow dad heavy much?’  But given the context of my life recently, this made perfect sense to me.

I say all of that to say that you may be struggling right now.  You may be broke, unemployed, alone, afraid, anxious, etc.  But you are in that place for a reason and you have to honor it before you can move ahead.  By honor it I mean seek understanding for why you’re there, try to learn something about yourself from the experience, and stop kicking your own ass for not being where you feel you should be.  Don’t let the storm defeat you.  Our 20’s are the time for us to make mistakes, to be confused, to figure things out, and to grow to the next phase.  So relax.  You’re doing fine.  You are exactly where you should be right now.  And while you should always be striving for more, you have to honor what you have.  Being patient during this confusing time is where you find peace and how you quiet the storm that’s raging inside of you.  Consider this, the work you put in is nothing compared to the work you’ll have to do once you reach your goal.  Do you really want to be there unprepared for what comes with it?

Following my sit com blind date, I headed home to do a new look for my bestie’s birthday party.  Of course she changed the time we were meeting up as she always does, so I took a little nap.  Before I do almost anything provided that there’s enough time, I will nap or eat.  Terrible I know, but I love both of those things passionately.

I headed out to the DL (again I know that’s a dreadful name for a venue but I promise it’s fun).  We went to the section and the turn up began.  My really good friend, we’ll call her Lindsay, came to partake in the fun as well.  As we danced to Trap Queen Lindsay spotted a guy from way across the room.  “I just spotted bae,” she said.  That’s our code for there’s a really cute guy that I’m choosing on who I hope chooses on me.  I looked briefly and agreed that he was definitely bae material and we agreed to do a lap around the party to see if he was interested.  However, we were having so much fun in the section that we never took that lap.  It wasn’t until the end of the night that we spotted her potential bae talking with some friends by the bar.  We did our usual huddle trying to decide what she should say to him.  A stroke of drunk genius came and I walked up to the group of guys and asked if they knew what time the party ends.  Let me just say this.  I am horrible at flirting especially if it’s a guy I’m interested in.  It is literally the only time I am socially awkward.  But I didn’t have a dog in this fight so there was no anxiety.  Lindsay then pulled me to the side to tell me that her potential bae was actually choosing on me and being the great friend she is she demanded that I talk to him.

Once I actually looked at him I realized this dude is fine.  Like strikingly fine.  Tall, handsome, charming with tattoos and nice shoes.  I was taken aback.  I gave hime my number, but had to quickly go tend to my drunk bestie as she was ready to go and blowing up my phone.  We left and headed to get post club food.  Lindsay and I have an unnatural addiction to Thai food so we headed to Qi and then home.  As I washed off my makeup and put in my flexi rods, I got a text from the guy asking if I made it home safely.  I blushed through our brief text convo and it ended with him telling me to call him the next day.

Sometimes life is fair and just as the universe gives you a weird blind date with Puck from the Real World, hours later you meet a really hot guy that you want to get to know.

A few weeks ago my bestie and I went to a day party that included bottomless champagne for $20.  The boozy brunch/day party as it is known is one of the greatest things the city of New York has to offer once the weather become less than tragic.  After drinking a ridiculous amount of cheap champagne we were naturally starving and went for sushi where we met up with an old work associate of mine who we will call Christian.  Apparently at the end of this booze-filled sushi outing I agreed to be set up with Christian’s friend.  Imagine my surprise when Monday came and he text me saying that his friend wanted to take me out that weekend.  Further imagine my disdain when Christian sent a very unflattering picture of this guy.  However, following the advice of my friends I agreed to go on this blind date.  I didn’t even know people went on blind dates in real life, but here I was in a typical 90’s sitcom plot.

I was really looking forward to that Saturday because my bestie’s fiancé was getting her a section at another day party in the Lower East Side being held at the DL.  I know it’s a very unfortunate name for a venue but it is a great time.  I thought to myself all I have to do is get through the date and then the rest of the day will be  great.  I always have a great time partying with my bestie and her fiancé.  They’re like my own personal Jay and Bey because they’re doing much better at adult life than I.

So Saturday came and I told the guy to meet me at Coffee Shop.  That is the actual name of one of my favorite restaurants in Union Square.  It is written out on a huge neon sign right in the middle of Union Square, but guess where the guy went anyway.  He went to a Starbucks.  After texting back and forth trying to explain to him that I wasn’t saying “a coffee shop” but that, that is the name of the place, we finally met up.  He came sauntering across the street looking like he just rolled out of the bed from an intense hangover.  Shirt wrinkled, hair and beard unkempt, bad posture, pale, and all around unappealing he smiled a gap toothed smile as he greeted me.

I may be a tad shallow, but I’m not a monster so I went ahead with the date anyway.  We sat down as the live band played loudly and shared bland pleasantries.  The only way that I can explain the conversation is to equate it to the type of small talk you would have with a stranger at a bar after you’ve both had one too many drinks.  The really weird thing is that I kept randomly catching him staring at me.  To add even more awkwardness to this date, black families kept looking at me with glaring eyes judging me for having brunch with a white man.  I looked at them with an expression that said “no it’s not what you think.  This isn’t the kind of guy I would switch teams for.”  I ordered a drink and then learned that he doesn’t drink.  The waitress asked if we would be ordering food and I almost yelled no before she completed the question.  He then proposed that we go somewhere more quiet and I wondered why in the world he would want to do that.  I told him that I had to make my way back to Brooklyn to get ready for a friend’s party so we could just walk around for a bit.  I thought I was home free until I realized he had to ride the train with me too, where he stared at me the whole time.  “You look like you’re in really deep thought.  What are you thinking about?” he asked.  “Oh I’m just trying to remember some Drake lyrics I heard earlier,” I replied.  I cannot explain to you the relief I felt when he got off at the second stop and it was finally over.

I put in my earphones and blasted some PND to relax me, and hoped that the second part of my day would be much better.

I truly mean that.  I hate money.  I hate that I never seem to have enough of it.  I hate the joy I feel when my direct deposit hits (I know that’s confusing but stay with me).  I hate that everyone on social media seems to be so very wealthy and that I am apparently the only person struggling out here.  I hate that every time I get a little check, it goes almost as quickly as it comes.  I also hate that life constantly takes money.  Life is just expensive for no good reason.  I find myself spending some amount of money every damn day and I am just over it.

Each month I make a list of goals and things to do.  Kind of like a new years resolution check in each month.  Each time I tell myself I’m going to spend less and eat better, and each month I fail miserably.  I look at my debit account in horror and disbelief and ask myself why? Like how did this happen again?  If I didn’t know any better I could swear I have an alter ego like in the book Addicted by Zane, and this other person just comes out and spends all of my damn money on food.  In my defense cooking here is such a hassle, but that’s another topic for another post.

I am in a constant state of “I need to get my shit together.”  This becomes increasingly more difficult because I have people from all angles telling me that I should just give up and some days I think those people are right.  Some days I wonder: is this how a 27 year old woman should be living?  Shouldn’t things be better and more in order?  Shouldn’t things be more stable?  I just have these moments where I feel like I suck at this whole adult thing.  I feel so much pressure to be financially stable, in a relationship, and just have things figured out in general.  Everyone says these are the years where you figure all that stuff out, just relax blah blah blah.  But it’s hard to relax when you want so much and feel like you have so little. I hate feeling that way, because despite my hardships I have much more than most of the people I pass by everyday.  How dare I complain when at least I have a home to go to at night and a job to go to everyday?  I feel silly for complaining when I pass by these mothers panhandling to feed their children.  How dare I not be thankful?

But even still when I get to Brooklyn every evening and I lay in my bed alone I am haunted by my goals.  They keep me up.  They give me anxiety.  They bring me to tears, because I am fighting for them everyday, yet it seems like they’re running from me, and I don’t know how to catch up.  My goals and I are like unrequited lovers.  I want them so bad but it’s like they don’t think I’m worthy yet, and this feeling gets overwhelming and consuming.  What brought about this latest series of anxious thoughts?  Well I’ll tell you…

I cannot think of a single soul that was not moved upon hearing excerpts from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s speech on Beyonce’s ‘Flawless.’  If you were curious like me you YouTube’d the speech to hear it in its entirety, and if you haven’t I encourage you to do so.  She speaks on so many things that need to be addressed in the conversation on feminism and how society grooms women from childhood to act and speak a certain way.  I will admit that it is not until I listened to this speech that I began to consider myself a feminist, but only in the purest form of the word.  Meaning I fully support equality for women.  There are two things that I have noticed since making this discovery about myself.

1. Some mainstream feminists are more oppressive than men in their standards for how women should act.  For example, if a woman wants to be a stay at home mom then she is somehow bringing down the whole gender.  To which I say, no.  She has the right to choose whatever kind of life she wants.
2. When some of these women speak about equal rights for women, they are speaking only about women that fit within the confines of what they think a woman should be.  They are not including women of different races, women with disabilities, women that are gay, etc.

Hence, I am not surprised by Patricia Arquette’s absent minded comments following her speech at the Academy Awards.

“It’s inexcusable we go around the world talking about equal rights for women in other countries … and we don’t have equal rights for women in America.The truth is even though we sort of feel like we have equal rights in America, there are huge issues that are at play that really do affect women. It’s time for all … the gay people and people of color that we’ve all fought for to fight for us now.”

Who is the us that she’s referring to?  This begs the question: which do you identify as first?  Do you label yourself a woman first, or an African American first?  With regard to society as a whole, I think that we are regarded as African American first and foremost.  As a result, we have an entirely different set of barriers to overcome before we even begin to talk about the inequality we face as women.  My message to mainstream feminists is that you cannot pick and choose the kind of woman you want to be treated equally.  When you seek to achieve equality for women, that should include all women.  Even those that don’t look like you or or practice your same religion or share your same lifestyle. It troubles me that we as black women aren’t viewed as “real women.”  If you don’t believe me look back at when we were sold as slaves.  No one said “hey those are women.  That’s someone’s mother.”  We were regarded as blacks first, and women second.  Our womanhood was used against us in that we were raped or forced to bare children that were taken away from us in one form or another.  Never were we treated as the damsel in distress.  And over time we have learned self sufficiency and independence, which we are now criticized for.  We have an incredible amount of strength and resilience out of necessity, and because of this the world looks at us as cold, angry, or harsh.  The truth is there is both power and weakness in the perceived strength of black women.  The world may not see us as vulnerable, innocent, in need of protection, etc.  But that makes me wonder if we need the world.  I don’t have the answers Sway.  Just thinking/writing out loud I suppose. “If we wait for some people to become agreeable or attractive before we begin to love them, we will never begin. If we are content to give them a cold impersonal ‘charity’ that is merely a matter of obligation, we will not trouble to understand them or to sympathize with them at all.” -Thomas Merton

Once again it is Spring time in New York circa 2013.  We endure these hellish winters to get to these amazing warm months, and trust me it is worth it.  I am on vacation in Harlem from my line sister who I love dearly, but who was driving me insane.

It was a Thursday and Scandal was coming on that night.  I rushed out of my last class to get to Harlem in time to stop at Jacob’s.  When I discovered this restaurant a single tear fell from my left eye.  They had oxtails buffet style.  Gasp!  The joy.  I can’t even explain it to you.   I got my food and happily trailed down the street ready for Olivia Pope to give me life.  Now my dear friend from Georgia Southern whose place I was staying at obviously had roommates.  One of them was a singer/actor/dancer blah blah blah.  Very nice girl from what I could tell.  I genuinely have no recollection of what this girl’s name is.  Like I cannot even tell you what her name starts with.  However, there are two things I will always remember about this girl for as long as I live.

1. She woke me up one morning singing old gospel music to the top of her lungs.
2. I know what she sounds like when she’s having sex.  I haven’t a clue what her name is or what it starts with, but I know this very intimate detail about her because it is New York and the walls are thin.

Here I am camped out in front of their television with my oxtails and I am ready for Scandal.  There is a knock at the door, and roommate girl gingerly walks out to answer it.  Let me pause here.  Oxtails, peel and eat shrimp, neck bones, and crab legs are not things that you want to be seen eating by people other than your very close friends and family.  So I look up from my food kind of annoyed.  In walks this very attractive guy.  Roommate girl introduces him, and I say hi blushing and embarrassed.  They go into her room and close the door.  Fine.  This is perfectly normal.  After about 30 minutes Scandal is getting good.  You know that Scandal is getting good when Cyrus has an emotional meltdown, Olivia has gotten read by at least two other characters and she has done that intense lip tremble.  I am on the edge of my seat when all of a sudden I hear roommate girl and sexy getting it in.  When I say I heard everything, I mean I heard everything.  I wanted to crawl out of my skin and just die.  I cannot ever recall being that uncomfortable.

I lose complete focus on the show and want to just run out of the apartment, because if they had come out of that room I was going to spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.  Like I know that you know that I heard EVERYTHING you just did.  Why didn’t you just leave the room and go to your friend’s room you ask?  Because Scandal is the shit that’s why and I didn’t want to miss the conclusion and she didn’t have a television in her room.  Don’t you dare judge me!

Somehow I went to sleep traumatized that night and lo and behold she woke me up the next morning singing gospel music to the top of her lungs.