June 21, 2008
The Ride Home From Chelsea-I apologize in advance...
After a rather disappointing evening, and 50 dollar cab ride- I've come to learn a few important things that must be taken care of immediately.
I have GOT to quit my job.
I have GOT to get a life.
I have GOT to make some real friends.
I was about to do what I always do and I'm sick of: write some long mellowdramatic peice about how I've seen the error of my ways.
Fuck it-I'm going to make this short and sweet.
I was gonna tell a story. About how cruel my so-called friends are- I'm appalled and ashamed that people I consider friends could play me like they did. I'm proud of myself for not submerging myself into the slime and getting out with some dignity in tact. It made for an expensive cab ride. But it was well worth it.At first I was angry, but now I'm at peace. Believe me, things are going to change.
Background:
A bunch of friends (well they call themselves that) went out to dinner to celebrate the other friends birthday. One friend went out of her way to help split the cost of an expensive birthday celebration and was not even acknowledged by a simple thank you. Not that she was expecting a full blown out parade thrown or anything but when one of your guests keep fawning over one host, telling them how much they out did themselves and how amazing you they are without acknowledging that the host didn't do it by themself. Iv'e noticed that said host likes to bask in her own glory-to be honest, I"ve never experienced anyting like this with any of my other friends-Iand I feel it was done on purpose. I used to think I was paranoid, but that was what people who wanted to use me as a punching bag to make themselves look better told me. As a matter of fact, I had someone tell me tonight that I have major issues (she's not even my friend-and I know right now, those bitches who are supposed to be my friend are sitting around agreeing with her) whom I dont' even know. I felt centered out. I felt exposed. I felt naked and demeaned. I've been feeling like this a lot lately. And I know I'm not crazy. Another chick in the group she feels the same way-I tried to ignore it, and laugh it off but I have noticed her being disrespected all in the name of fun, but since she is in love with the idea of this powerful friendship and notoriety it brings, allows herself to be abused and made to feel guilty for feeling this way. I felt it tonight in the worst way and I realize I have got to fucking stand up for myself at some point or I am gonna go crazy. People have taken their liberties with me for the last time. I mean it this time. I've been saying it and going back on my word, but I know that's my problem. I know what I'm feeling. They know what they are projecting. My God it was like a fucking suck ass party-everyone kissing everyone's ass except for mine of course. NO one gives a fuck about me. Why do they bother with me? Why do they want me around? OH I know-they know if I come it's an extra wallet-and this hand always digs in for extra cash. It's like Eleanor Roosevelt said-God, I hope it was her-NO one can make you feel inferior unless you let them.
i've been allowing it. even those so-called friends are telling me they think their is something wrong with me-they claim to be my friend and want to help but once they diagnose me they turn back around to their bullshit talk about cellulite cream, pilates and all this shit I have no idea about-ignoring me. The question is why do they want me around?
This is the last time I ask that question. I'm really not supposed to care.
I don't know if they will ever see what I've written. Probably not-because they don't give enough of a shit about me to think that I could ever be doing something worthwhile, something other than kissing their asses and envying their so-called-lives
Yet still I want it to be known that this June 20, 2008-is the last time I'm told I'm too sensitive while I'm being insulted. This is the last time I become cut out of conversations that I'm in the room for.
This is the last time I come home and stare in the mirror-looking at this beautiful creature of God's design and ask what the fuck is wrong with me.
This is the last time I allow myself to be ostracized (sp?) made to feel like I felt when I was a 12 year old kid, new to the school, waiting on the tarmac for someone to come along and take my hand as a friend. A confidant, a partner, a savior. This is the last time I think about my past, and NIkki and Paula and Soni and my sister. The only true girlf friends I've ever had. They loved me, for me-not because they need an audience to show off itheir things to-or a fan club to admire them. We were all equals. But that's the past. That was a long time ago and I know I've got to leave it alone, and leave it behind. Yup, it's true-you never know what you have until it's gone.
I must have looked like an idiot-wannabe loser. Yeah. I guess I am a little sensitive, but that's o.k. I'll be that way-and if you don't like it-you can get the fuck behind me. Stay out of my way.
No time for fake ones...as my girl Li'l Kim would say...
I've learned that expensive packages wrapped in pretty paper with all the trimmings do not indicate the value of what's inside the package. It's how I treat what's in the package that gives it it's worth...
And last but not least-always listen to your man. He really does love you-and he really does know best.
Sorry about the short and sweet thing. Gotta go-the man's coming and I don't want to hear I told you so.
Posted by renee at 12:10 AM | Comments (0)
June 15, 2008
Lessons from My Father
Well...It's been over a year, maybe even two since I've contributed anything to this blog...or my life even. I don't even remember where I left off, or where to begin for that matter. Is anyone still out there???
I have been thinking about my father a lot over the last six years since he passed away.I think about him every day in fact. The untimely death of Tim Russert, a man I greatly admire triggered it. I was watching the special tribute that NBC was doing for him, and they showed a clip of Tim and his father with a voice over of Tim reading a letter to his son about his own father's greatness and how he would be there for his own son, the way his father was there for him. One thing that struck me was when Tim said that his father left high-school to fight for his country-and when he came home from the war, he worked two jobs and didn't complain, so that Tim could pursue his dreams. Then Tim told his own son, Luke to reach his goals, because they are reachable...that's when the dam broke...
I haven't done my dad's memory justice. I must admit. In fact, I think he's quite upset with me. My mother told my sister that she had been dreaming him recently and he was very angry-he didn't say a word, she said. He was ripping their bedroom apart, whipping papers, throwing objects and banging things around. It was a turbulent scene, and she took it to mean that he was desperately trying to get her attention. My father had a bad temper and whenever he felt he wasn't being heard, he would often react violently. Not physically towards his family, but he would have outbursts, like the one he displayed in their bedroom. That dream translates to my father being worried. My mother has no idea which one of her daughters is the one that has her father so enraged, but she knows enough about her daughters lives to know they are both struggling and unhappy witth the way their lives are unfolding now. One sister lives at home and the other lives in NYC-yours truly.
My sister has been driving herself (literally) insane-back and forth between Toronto and Buffalo to complete a Master's degree in Education part-time, while working two jpart-time jobs, that even when the salaries are combined barely pay her enough to put enough gas in her car to take her to Buffalo. Not to mention she must make time for her auditions-she refuses to give up on her passion, which is acting.
As for me, everyone has pretty much heard my story-I'm a writer, who has never been published-currently trying to complete a book I've been working on for six years. I started it the year I moved to this city- and now, here I am. Living in the Bronx, (the Bronx!!!????)hating my job and the direction my life has taken. My job as a paralegal (a job I had no desire to do-yet fell into-I mean people go to school to become paralegals right?) Anyway, I would say my feelings can best be summed up in this brief scenario:
The day that I was hired to work where I'm working now-I felt that I had been saved. I thought that my talents had been recognized and I was destined for glory. I received a badge at this new job, and I was going to be sworn in, like a head of state. I was to be sworn in with another young lady who was hired at the same time I was. I noticed her badge had different lettering. Everything else on the badge was the same, except where our titles were displayed, hers was embossed in Big Black Bold Capital letters, stressing the importance of her title. My title simply said "Staff" in plain regular typeface. Not to mention the fact that the next morning as we arrived for work, I realized that she didn't have to "swipe in." I did. I felt demeaned and demoralized. Like this was to be my caste in life. Just another anonymous rank and file worker. To add insult to injury, I am employed in a department that is entirely staffed by women. I need not tell you that between moodiness, ego's and PMS, I'm just about ready to stab myself in the eye with a plastic fork. It's highschool all over again, and of course-I'm not in the "in crowd." As I mentioned earlier, it seems to me that this is my destiny-always a bridesmaid, never a bride. I apologize for the analogy. I haven't written in months so whatever comes to mind, I'm forced to use, or I'll never get anyting done.
So, what it boils down to is this-I'm confused. I followed the rules. I did as my parents told me. Go to college. Get your bachelors. Go to grad school, get your Masters...Everything you want in life will be waiting for you when you get out...well she was right, but now I'm 34, finally entered what I believe is a stable relationship (knock on wood) and am now being pressured to have babies-I barely make enough to take care of myself! I'm still behind...I feel like that Sloane chick--she wrote a book called "I Was Told There'd Be Cake." My sentiments exaclty, I was told there'd be money, a fabulous wedding, a car, a house...
And that's when it hit me. This morning-this Father's day. The day after Tim Russert's death, and also at a time when significant changes are on the horizon for us as a country. Barack Obama is our democratic nominee for President of these great United States-and he's Black! A few years back I congratulated him on this blog when he won the Illinois Senate seat...my how time flies...I remember when I was so enthusastic about politics and about my own possibilities and opportunities back then.
And now, here I sit at age 33 typing away at my computer in my basement apartment with not even single one of my goals-realized, when it hit me that I had been unclear in making them.
When I moved to New York City, I just wanted to come to New York-to party, to meet gorgeous Yankee men, and in the meantime get a degree or two to make my parents happy. This is me- directionless. Then, I figured out that writing was my passion, after all, I had been doing it my entire life. It should be easy enough. It could be glamorous. So that was it. I decided I was going to write...well, here I am, writing, again-no clear purpose in sight...
So, I realized, after listening to Tim Russert's homage to his father, who he said, "worked two jobs and never complained," and was able to show his son what hard work and determination and clearly set goals can accomplish and then was able to give his own son the same opportunities to pursue his dreams because they are reachable-with hard work, integrity and purpose. I think that's the part that I never quite got, which is the lesson I'm painfully learning now, as I struggle to retain the creativity that I let slip away from me all those years of being angry, bitter and complaining about what should have been mine...
My father didn't owe me anything, the world doesn't owe me anything-and God surely doesn't owe me anything...I was blessed to have a talent. That was the hardest thing for me to realize. I have a passion-and I have to accept it with all of it's responsibilities. I can't run from it because it doesn't wrap itself up all neatly in a bright pink box with a big blue ribbon and drop itself in my lap.
Journalism, writing, separating fact from fiction, inspiring people to DO SOMETHING-is what will fullfill me-it's not about money, or houses, or cars-because if it were, I would feel some sort of fulfillment right now-I have money, I have a beautiful home-it's just not in the Hamptons-yet)
I will finish my book because I have important things to say, and I owe it to myself. Also, I'm through kissing ass. Your probably thinking to yourself- where the hell that come from? Surely someone like me would never stoop so low...well, your right, but I never said I was perfect. Perhaps I eluded to it, and mislead you, and I'm sorry. So hear this: Kissing ass never got me a damn thing except what I have right now, and that's the bare minimum. I'm worth a lot more. The ass kisser should know that he is doing the ass kissee no service, because ass-kissees know when their asses are being kissed. You may think it makes them feel superior but it only complicates their inferiority complex. It's true. Look closely into the eyes of a person who's ass has been constantly kissed-I bet they can't look you square in the eye. Besides, there's too much ass for me to kick right now, although let me be perfectly clear, this is not my only motivation. I've recognized that to be another fallacy of my methodology...my mission right now is not to be concerned about the inferiority or superiority or mediocrity of anybody else on this planet besides me at the moment. So the only ass kissing or kicking that's going to be done around here is mine! (That's quotable.)
Finally-Daddy, I'm sorry. It took me six years to realize that it's not your fault. You have given me so much-we share the same blood, fire, passion and rage. We share a love of knowledge and learning but we are not the same person. I am not you. I can' t hold you responsible for my shortcomings and I know that I am not destined to re-live your life to redeem you-and me.
My shortcomings are my own, just as yours were your own. I know you know what I'm talking about and so, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Trust you to go to mommy before you came to me. By the way, I knew it was me you were trying to reach all along with that dream nd I love you for that. I am grateful for the bond we share. I just hope that next visit will not be so volatile.
While this entry has been long over due, it has also come at just the right time.
Tim Russert-in this short time that I have come to know you and your work you have inspired me in more ways that you can imagine. You and my father have much in common as well. I know you will both have much to discuss-look out for us down here here trying to carry on where you left off . Both of you left big shoes to fill.
Yet still, we walk...
Happy Father's day to both of you and may you both rest in peace.
Posted by renee at 10:14 AM | Comments (0)
September 11, 2007
And So It Begins
As every aspiring writer must do at some point during their career-I finally attended a writers workshop, facilitated by a real life editor. It was fucking brutal. Honestly, it was the most painful thing I've ever gone through. Tonight's workshop was the reason I don't like to read my work (or have other's read my work) in public.
I suppose I know why I've never been published. Apparantly, I'm a racist. Oh wait, before I begin, let me tell you how I ended up in the workshop in the first place.
It is a well known fact that I want to be published. Obviously, there's a reason I'm not being published so I decided to take the bull by the horns, bite the bullet-and do the thing I feared the most-attend some kind of workshop (preferably free) that would tell me what I was doing wrong. I've sent stuff out, most of which I consider to be pretty profound and provocative. Controversy sells and I thought I was pretty good at selling controversy...Hmm...not so much.
Anyway-I was asked to submit a piece of writing for a workshop being held by mediabistro-for those of you who don't know, mediabistro is a "bistro" a smorgasboard of jouranalists and media professionals offering courses, seminars, parties and networking and learning opportunities for those who want to embark upon a career in writing. Well, of course I do and you know I want to be a successful writer. So, I notice this one day workshop on personal essay writing being offered in New York City, for 125 bucks-and I'm thinking-SWEET! It's one day for like three hours-I can dig that.
Now, in order to get into the class-which only admits 10 people, you have to submit a writing sample and say a few words about why you want to be in the course. I figured that my peice, entitled "Testimonial of an Ascended Black Woman,"which is also on this blog- must have been half-way decent because I was accepted into the class. So, I got a nice little ego boost, which is good because so far, the only people to be truly impressed by my writing are my friends and family-not that their opinions don't matter but I need some brutal honesty.
And that is exactly what I got. It was a little embarrassing because every other members of the group received encouragement, praise and "nice" constructive criticis. When it came time to read my peice-the instructor basically called me a racist and nary a person wanted to touch my topic. My intial reaction was to become defensive. I wasn't comfortable with this white woman telling me-a Black woman-that I was racist against Black people. I didn't know how my peice could be construed as racism when I'm a black person writing about other black people.
I understand that I need constructive criticism but I felt like she was attacking my personal opinion. After all, this was a personal essay writing course.
After I picked my pride off the floor and dusted it off- I realized what she was trying to tell me. I need to write with less emotion and rage but talk more about my personal experience-i.e. the conflict I feel about being a Black woman forced to deal with the not so nice representations of "Blackness" I see around me and have to deal with. For example, when I'm in criminal court dealing with young Black defendants who are so far removed from where I come from and what I stand for, it enrages me. I need to focus on why I become enraged-instead of attacking the source of my rage.
As I continue to examine my feelings about being "Black" (and this is all coming to me as I write through my emotions) I realized that maybe I need to look into my own biases. Maybe I am a little bit racist. Why is that? Why do I feel so responsible for the bad apples in the Black bunch? When, as I've said before whites don't feel responsible for theirs? Is it simply a matter of racism? Or is there some self loathing going on here?
I just spoke to a good friend of mine-who happens to be Italian. She is also an Assistant District Attorney. We were having a conversation about racism and I started ragging on Black people-which as of last night, and re-reading my peice, I notice I tend to do a lot. I mentioned in the piece that other races do not address one another by derogatory terms in public-and she told me that it wasn't true-Italians do refer to themselves by offensive terms as well-and then when I was going to talk about my experience in criminal court and the fact that most of the defendants are young Black men-she quietly reminded me that if we go to a different court part-let's say Rackets for example-a majority of the defendants there are white.
Touche. I obviously have some issues to work through-which I'm going to do now.
All in all the workshop was helpful-even though the instructor didn't give me the props I expected to hear-but it did give me the kick in the ass that I needed, besides-I know I'm a good writer. I just need to keep writing. Now-if only I could find the strength to read the comments made by the class...
I'll keep you posted. One day I'll be published. You'll see!
Posted by renee at 12:24 AM | Comments (1)
April 13, 2007
I'M SICK OF THIS IMUS SHIT!!!
If I hear his name one more time, my nappy hair will turn straight. Of course, I couldn't put this issue to rest without speaking on it. I'm sure there are a billions of oppinions on this subject. I offer mine humbly...
Continue reading "I'M SICK OF THIS IMUS SHIT!!!"
Posted by renee at 2:28 PM | Comments (1)
January 11, 2007
Testimonial of an Ascended Black Woman
I wrote this piece in response to an article entitled "The Manifesto of Ascendancy for the Modern American Nigger" written by John Ridley in the December 2006, Volume 146, issue 6 edition of Esquire Magazine.
Continue reading "Testimonial of an Ascended Black Woman"
Posted by renee at 1:21 PM | Comments (1)